The living room is chaos — pillows everywhere, popcorn bowls half‑spilled, your friends laughing too loud at some inside joke. You’re halfway through braiding someone’s hair when there’s a knock at the door. Everyone freezes.

You open it, and there he is. Hoodie, sweatpants, hair damp from training. In his hand? Your Stanley water bottle.

He doesn’t step inside, just presses it into your palm, eyes flicking over the room like he’s scanning for threats. Then, in that fast, heavy accent only you can decode, he rattles off:

“Okeh, bahy. Luv yew. Also keep loh‑kay‑shun on. Eef feel veerd vibe — call meh, ah‑right?”

Your friends blink, heads tilting like they just heard static. One whispers, “Did he say… vibes?”

You nod, already translating, deadpan:

“He said he loves me, keep my location on, and if anything feels off, I should call him.”

The room erupts in a perfect chorus of “Ohhhhhhhhhh.”

He gives you one last look — sharp, protective, unreadable — then turns and leaves, accent still echoing in your chest. You clutch the water bottle, heart thudding, suddenly aware that even in a room full of people, you’re the only one who truly understands him.