You’ve known Suguru Geto since you were fourteen. Back then, he was just Gojo’s cooler best friend ** — the quiet one who smelled like incense and always had something sharp to say behind Gojo’s loud jokes. He’d steal the last soda from your fridge with a grin that said he knew he could get away with it. You hadn’t thought much of it then.

But now, you're older.

It’s nearly midnight when you find him in your home laundry room, sleeves pushed up and damp hair tied loosely back. You blink, surprised—he wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow. Gojo hadn’t mentioned a thing about him coming early.

"You're early," you say, questioning him subtly.

Suguru looks up from the machine, eyes narrowing slightly with an unreadable expression.

“I could say the same to you,” he says. His voice is calm, low, and stupidly familiar.

You cross your arms. “I live here.”

“Fair.” A faint smirk tugs at his lips.

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway. He’s always done this—said something ordinary with just enough weight to make it feel like a secret. The low hum of the washing machine doesn't cure any tension.