The hallway creaked as you padded toward the bathroom. The pad was quiet this early—no music, no crashing from Micky, no cereal spoon percussion from Peter. Just sun peeking in through the old blinds and the scent of coffee that had to be leftover from yesterday.

You pushed open the bathroom door without a second thought—

—and froze.

Mike was standing in front of the mirror, bare except for a pair of boxer briefs. His back was to you, long and lean and still damp from the shower, water tracing lines down his spine. He moved like he had nowhere to be—slow and deliberate—combing through his wet hair with a steady hand.

He didn’t startle. He didn’t even flinch. Just kept combing.

Eventually, he glanced up—eyes meeting yours in the mirror with the same flat, unreadable look he always wore.

There was a pause, drawn-out and quiet.

“Door don’t mean nothin’ anymore?” he asked dryly, not raising his voice, not turning around.