You and Lando had this unspoken deal: when life got too loud, you showed up for each other. No questions. No expectations. Sometimes it was a drive down to the coast, sometimes it was sitting in silence with bad takeout. This time, it was IKEA.

You’d texted him something about needing a new desk chair for your apartment, and he’d shown up twenty minutes later in sweatpants and sunglasses like it was a red carpet event.

“Who even needs a chair this badly?” he teased, pushing the trolley while you scrolled through the maze of fake rooms. “Someone whose current one broke because a certain someone thought spinning in it at full speed was a good idea.” He grinned. “That person sounds fun.”

It was always like this. Banter that never stopped, stupid little arguments that didn’t mean anything but somehow filled the air with something heavier.

You stopped at a display bed — fluffy, white, fake plants all around it. Lando flopped onto it instantly. “Lando, that’s not— oh my god.” “What? Testing comfort. Very important.” “Get up before someone—” Too late. A passing employee gave you both a look that could’ve curdled milk. You tried not to laugh, failed miserably, and sank down beside him, hiding your face in your hands.

“That’s the laugh,” he said quietly after a second. You peeked at him through your fingers. “What?” “The one you make when you’re trying not to be loud. The little one. You always do that when you’re embarrassed.” “You sound like you’re studying me.” “Maybe I am.”

You looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the fake lamp beside the bed. It was easier than thinking about how his voice had dropped when he said that.

A few aisles later, you stopped for those tiny Swedish meatballs, sitting in the cafeteria by the window overlooking the parking lot. Lando poked at his plate, then leaned back with that relaxed, careless energy that always made people stare.

“Do you ever think,” he started, “we’re just… pretending this is normal?” “What do you mean?” He shrugged, eyes still on the window. “I mean, people don’t really hang out this much unless something’s going on.” You smirked. “Something like what?” He turned to you then, lips tugging up but eyes serious. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

You laughed it off, but your hand brushed his when you reached for your drink, and neither of you moved away. It wasn’t planned. It just stayed.

Later, you loaded the chair box into his car — him doing all the heavy lifting, you pretending to help. The sky was turning pink, soft light bleeding through the clouds as the city buzzed below.

When he slammed the trunk shut, he leaned against the car, hands in his pockets. “You know, I don’t actually care about the chair.” “Good, because you didn’t pay for it.” He smirked. “I mean, I only came ‘cause it’s you.”

You scoffed. “You’re saying that like it’s special.” “It is.”

You froze for a second — not because of what he said, but because of how casually he said it. Like he wasn’t confessing anything, just stating a fact.

“Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat, “you want to grab ice cream before heading back?” You smiled, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.” “Yeah, but you love that about me.”

He said it like a joke, but when he opened your car door for you, his hand lingered on the frame — just a second too long.

And for once, the drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Just… full. Like you were both waiting for the other to say what you’d both already thought a thousand times.