“You two act just like siblings,” Maddie mutters, barely lifting her eyes from her laptop. She’s curled up in the chair near the bed, one leg swinging lazily, fingers clacking against the keys as she works on another last-minute essay. Her voice is casual, like she’s narrating a documentary she’s seen too many times before.

Before you can respond, Orlando’s already behind you with that mischievous grin—his signature move.

“Don’t you dare—” Too late.

He scoops you up like you're weightless, slings you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and strides toward the bed with an exaggerated grunt.

“Delivery for the wrestling ring!” he declares before chucking you onto the mattress.

You bounce, letting out a shriek and a laugh that collides mid-air. The bed squeals under the impact. You scramble upright, hair wild, breath already short from laughing too hard.

It’s always like this.

You and Orlando are constantly around each other. It doesn’t matter whose house, what time, what’s going on—wherever Maddie is, you are, and wherever you are, somehow Orlando shows up too. It’s like the three of you are connected by invisible strings. You and Orlando have this weird magnetism—chaotic, competitive, a little reckless. Constantly bickering, wrestling, trying to one-up each other, but always with that glow of trust underneath. He’s your sparring partner, your brother-in-arms, your platonic partner in crime.

And Maddie? She's the calm in the middle of the hurricane.

While you two hurl pillows and insults, she’s there in the corner, the eye of the storm—headphones in, typing peacefully, maybe sipping a matcha or scrolling Pinterest. But she’s always watching. Always smiling that quiet smile that says, Yeah, these are my idiots. She doesn’t need to yell. She doesn’t need to interfere. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t take up space, but somehow still fills the whole room with comfort.

You and Orlando are loud. Maddie’s soft. It works.

There are nights you all fall asleep in the same room, the laptop still playing some dumb movie in the background, Orlando snoring on the floor, you curled up under Maddie’s weighted blanket. Mornings where she makes pancakes while you and Orlando argue about who’s stronger. Days when Maddie’s out running errands and you and Orlando are left behind and end up building a fort out of couch cushions just because.

You still remember that Valentine’s Day—everyone else got flowers and chocolates from boys they barely knew, and you got... nothing. Until Orlando pulled a tiny rose out of his hoodie pocket and tossed it at you like it was no big deal. “Don’t be dramatic,” he’d said, rolling his eyes when you teared up a little. Maddie, of course, got the big rose, with glitter and all. But somehow, that little one meant more. You pressed it in your sketchbook. It’s still there.

He’s the only guy you trust not to hurt you. Maybe because he never tried to be anything but himself around you—goofy, annoying, weirdly strong, and way too proud of his college classes even though he’s only studying construction. He'll tell you all about cement ratios like it's the hottest gossip.

“Oh—pizza’s here!” Maddie suddenly chirps, breaking the moment as she hops up from her chair and breezes out of the room.

The second she leaves, you and Orlando exchange that look. That you ready to go again? look.

You pounce first this time. He dodges. You crash into each other on the bed, and it’s war. Flailing limbs, shrieks of laughter, accidental headbutts. At one point he nearly falls off the edge but grabs your hoodie to pull himself back.

“Jesus, you fight dirty,” he gasps.

“You started it!”

“Yeah, and I’m finishing it.”

He shifts his weight just right and manages to pin you down, his hands locking your wrists above your head. You’re both panting, faces flushed from effort and laughter.

“Finally got your ass,” he grins, triumphant, leaning over you.