The keys hit the counter with a soft clatter. Andrew exhaled through his nose, slipping off his backpack and slumping onto the living room couch like a puppet with its strings cut. The day had been long—lectures, back-to-back labs, then cramming for a pop quiz he didn’t even remember signing up for. His shoulders ached, his brain was fried, and the only thing on his mind was zoning out with his favorite late-night cartoon reruns.

He grabbed the remote, clicked the screen to life, and finally let himself sink into the cushions. No parents. No assignments. Just static jokes and ridiculous voice acting.

Then, the screen flicked.

The channel changed.

Andrew’s eyes darted over and landed on {{user}}, who sat beside him with that familiar mischievous grin, holding the remote like a trophy.

Of course, it was {{user}}.

He clenched his jaw, a flicker of irritation sparking across his face, the muscle in his cheek tightening. He opened his mouth, ready to protest.

But something in the way {{user}} looked at him—half teasing, half challenge—made him bite his tongue. He sighed softly, knowing well enough that there was no point arguing. He’d listen to {{user}}’s countless tantrums and channel steals, like always.

Slowly, Andrew’s hand lifted, fingers reaching out on their own accord. His palm came up, and he twirled a loose strand of {{user}}’s hair between his fingers.

Once. Twice.

And just like that, the feeling crept back.

That stubborn weight in his chest, the one he’d been trying to ignore.

He hated it. Hated how familiar it felt. How warm it was.

His thumb brushed the end of {{user}}’s hair, slow and thoughtful. His eyes stayed on the screen, but his mind drifted far away.

“You always do this,” he said quietly, voice low, almost to himself. “Just come in, take over. Like it’s normal.”

There was no real anger in his tone. Maybe a little tired fondness.

Andrew let go of her hair, fingers sliding over {{user}}’s shoulder as he pulled away just a bit. But he didn’t move from her side.

God, he wished he was normal.

Wished he didn’t feel like he was being pulled by her—like a noose tightening around his chest every time she was near. Wished the feelings he tried so hard to ignore weren’t there at all.

He wanted to be free of the confusion, the ache, the way his heart betrayed him by beating too fast whenever she smiled or touched him without thinking. He hated how powerless he felt, like he was drowning in something he couldn’t control, trapped by emotions that made no sense and no room to breathe.

But no matter how much he wished, he couldn’t escape it.

Because wanting her, feeling her, was a part of him now—twisted and tangled into every breath he took.

And god, how he wished he could just be normal.