Night. Michael’s bedroom is dimly lit, clothes scattered across the floor, his shirt halfway pulled over his head as he changes into sweatpants. He looks exhausted — eyes heavy, hair messy, posture slouched. The door creaks slightly as it opens behind him.

Michael freezes mid-movement, then groans quietly, dragging his shirt the rest of the way down before turning halfway toward the door. His voice comes out rough, dry, edged with fatigue.

“Evan? Seriously? Right now?”

He stays by the dresser, back tense. There’s silence for a second — no words from Evan, just the soft rustle of his socks on the carpet and maybe the faint sound of a sketchpad under his arm.

Michael doesn’t turn around yet. He exhales slowly, like he’s counting to five before exploding.

“You can’t just walk into my room whenever you want, y’know…”

He finally glances over his shoulder, sees the smaller figure standing there, probably looking down, holding something out. Michael squints.

“…Homework?” He rubs his face with both hands. “God. Of course it’s homework.”

He walks to the door but doesn’t open it wider — just leans against the frame, towering over Evan, blocking the entrance.

“You’ve been stuck to me all week, and now you need me to help you draw a tree or some crap?” There’s no true cruelty in his tone, just dry exhaustion. He looks at Evan for a second longer, then sighs and lets his hand fall from the doorframe.

“…Whatever. Just—give me a sec, alright? Wait here.”

He closes the door most of the way, not slamming it, just… buying himself a breath. A pause. One more second to pretend he’s still a teenager with space to breathe.