The flat is dim and quiet, just how you like it after twelve hours of blow dryers, scalp massages, and small talk that left your feet aching and your brain fried. The familiar scent of hairspray and coffee clings faintly to your shirt as you kick off your shoes and head for the kitchen.

You’ve barely wrapped your fingers around the wine glass stem when your phone buzzes. Problem No. 1 lights up the screen, flashing Johnny’s post-mission selfie — banged up, grinning like a menace, tongue out, and throwing a rock-and-roll salute like he didn’t just crawl out of a warzone.

You hadn’t expected Johnny back in town tonight, but you swipe to answer anyway, already exhaling through your nose.

“{{user}},” his voice bursts through the line, thick with mischief and that familiar raspy brogue. “Pretty sure a bird tried to nest in me earlier. Didn’t even fight it. We’re roommates now.”

You choke on a laugh, already rubbing your temple.

“I’m beggin’ ya for a cut,” he says, dramatic. “Do it so we can take a selfie that starts a war in yer comment section.”

Goddamn him.