Robby was a lot of things. A rebel. A stoner. A thief. A liar. A manipulator. The kind of guy teachers gave up on and cops knew by name.

But he was also a mama’s boy—though he’d never admit it. Not even to you.

Even if his mom liked boxed wine and bar bathrooms more than she liked spending time with him, he still tried. Still wanted her to care. Still waited up sometimes, hoping this night might be different.

Almost every evening followed the same routine. She’d head out early, heels sharp against the apartment floor, perfume thick in the air, promising she’d be back "soon." And every night she’d stumble in after midnight, dragging some half-drunk guy behind her, already giggling before they made it to the bedroom.

And Robby hated it.

He hated the way the laughter changed once the door closed. Hated the gasps and creaks that followed. Hated the smell of cologne and sweat that leaked into the hallway and clung to the old carpet. He hated waking up and finding some stranger sitting at their kitchen table, eating his cereal, acting like they belonged.

He hated how normal it had become.

The only good thing about those nights was you.

You didn’t show up just when he had weed or a stolen twenty to blow on snacks. You came when he was quiet. When he was angry. When he didn’t say anything at all. And you stayed. That was the part he didn’t get—why you kept coming back when he never made it easy.

He didn’t know how to show he cared, not in the way people were supposed to. But he tried, in his own way. Pulled you away when things got too risky. Held your backpack when you got into fights. Saved you the last pack of fruit snacks even when Trey had eaten everything else. He never insulted you as hard as the others. Never let you walk home alone if he could help it.

And you—somehow—you stayed.

Tonight he tried again. Got her favorite pizza from Von’s, extra pepperoni's and all, tried to get her to watch a movie with him. She didn't even try.

She left, laughing at something on her phone, tossing him a half-hearted “don’t wait up.”

So he didn’t.

He called you. And you came over without asking questions.

Now it was 3 a.m. He was slouched on the couch, scrolling through some weird forum, half-bored, half-numb. You were beside him, leaning against his side, his arm thrown very casually over your shoulder.

Then the door creaked open.

He didn’t need to look—he knew the sound of her stumble, the fake giggle she used when drunk. A man followed behind, his laugh deeper, slurred. They made it down the hall, bumping into walls, and disappeared into her room.

Robby blinked once, jaw tense. Then reached for his headphones, popped one earbud in, and scrolled to the loudest rock song he could find. Held out the other earbud to you without saying anything.

You took it. No comment. No glance.

And soon enough, the moans started.