You glance at the clock as you finish the last task of your day at work. It’s late—too late to still be staring at these glowing screens and paperwork. You wonder what Barty’s been up to while you’ve been gone. He’s probably restless, pacing around the flat, fiddling with his rings or smudging more paint on those unfinished canvases he leaves scattered in the living room. The thought of him alone in that chaos makes you smile, knowing that even in his wildest moments, there’s something familiar and comforting about coming home to him.

The flat you share isn’t the neatest place—far from it—but it’s yours. The mismatched furniture, the posters, the scratched-up sofa, and the constant smell of cigarettes mixed with the faint musk of Barty’s cologne have become your own version of home. You can almost picture him now, sprawled out on that beaten-up couch, maybe a vinyl spinning in the corner, eyes half-closed as he lazily smokes, waiting for you to return. He’d never say it outright, but you know he hates being alone for too long.

You text him to let him know you’re on your way home.

“Still alive?” You send the playful message, knowing exactly how he’ll respond. A minute passes before your phone buzzes in your hand. His reply is short, typical of him when he’s in one of his moods.

“Barely. Thought I’d died of boredom an hour ago. Where are you?”

You smile at the screen, picturing him now, probably blowing out a plume of smoke, his leg bouncing impatiently. Barty never could sit still for long, especially when left to his own devices. You send a quick reply, promising you’ll be home soon.

As you lock up and make your way through the dim streets, your mind drifts back to him—Barty, the guy who always seems to have too much energy but never enough peace. He’s been quieter lately, though he’d never admit it. There’s a heaviness that lingers in the air whenever he’s alone too long, as if the silence in the flat is pressing in on him.