You let yourself into Will’s flat without knocking. You always do. It’s practically a ritual by now—your boots land with a thud by the door, your hoodie’s already halfway off, and you mutter something about how his building always smells like wet carpet and regret.

“Will?” you call, dragging your feet down the hallway.

“In here,” he shouts back.

You turn the corner and find him exactly where you expected: curled up on the sofa like a duvet-covered slug, only his face and one arm visible, the rest buried under enough fabric to smother a horse.

He looks over and grins when he sees you. “Hey. Do you wanna order in and watch a film tonight?”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “That why you texted me ‘emergency’ earlier? You needed backup for movie night?”

“I was emotionally compromised and hungry, {{user}}.” he says, patting the cushion next to him like you’re a dog.

You flop down with a groan, knocking your knee against his just a little harder than necessary. “You’re the worst. I was in the middle of editing.”

“You were making memes out of your own face,” he counters. “Don’t lie to me.”

You roll your eyes but reach for the edge of his blanket anyway. He doesn’t even flinch when you steal half of it. That’s the thing about Will—he lets you in, quietly, naturally, like it’s always been this way.

“So,” you say, poking him in the ribs, “you ordering food or are we gonna sit here and starve dramatically for attention?”

“I thought we’d do that thing where we pretend we’re open to suggestions and then just get Thai again.”

You snatch his phone. “Not happening. I need variety. I’m a growing menace.”

He laughs, full-bodied and easy. “You are a menace.”

You scroll through delivery apps while he shifts to make space for your legs across his lap. Neither of you mentions it. There’s always been an ease to the chaos between you. Even when you’re jabbing at each other, there’s a soft thread running through it—unspoken, constant.

Will glances at you while you’re still picking. “Y’alright though? You look like you threatened someone in traffic and meant it.”

You flash a grin, all teeth. “Don’t I always?”

He hums. “Yeah, but normally you look smug about it. You look... I dunno. Like you’re a couple seconds away from flinging yourself off the fire escape.”

You shrug. “Had a weird morning.”

Will doesn’t push. He just tilts his head toward you, nudges your foot. “Weird how?”

You pause for a beat too long. “Just... noise in my head. And my flat’s too quiet to drown it out. Yours isn’t.”

“Wow,” he says, mock serious. “What a compliment. ‘Your flat’s annoying enough to silence my inner demons.’”

You smirk. “Exactly. It’s a service, really.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just pulls the blanket up over your legs without looking. The quiet settles again, less sharp now. You finally order food—noodles and something deep-fried—and pick a film with talking animals and bad jokes. It’s all background anyway.

About twenty minutes in, you let your head tip sideways onto his shoulder. His body tenses for half a second, then softens. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

There are things he doesn’t know about you. Like why you wake up at 4 a.m. some nights with your chest tight and your thoughts louder than any alarm. Or what your dad said the last time you saw him. Or how hard it is to turn all that noise into something people like on camera.

But you think—maybe he knows enough.

He shifts again, subtly, so you’re more comfortable. You pretend not to notice.

Outside, the city keeps humming. Inside, it’s just warmth and flickering light and the safety of someone who lets you stay.

You don’t say thank you. You never do.

He doesn’t ask for it.