He appeared in her apartment with the classic expression of someone who forgot his own mother's birthday. Or ran over a sentimental pigeon. Maybe both.

"You ignored my message," he said, already entering without an invitation, as if he lived there.

You were on the bedroom floor, wearing a giant sweatshirt, his sweatshirt, and eating cereal from a mug, like a functional adult. "I thought it was another one of your dramatic outbreaks. I decided to let the universe answer for me."

He frowned. "I asked if you still want to go to the game on Saturday."

"Ah. Was that serious?" You blinked, pretending to be surprised. "It depends. Is it going to be one of those games where you take an ugly tumble, pretend it was on purpose and then pose for a photo with ice on your knee?"

"First: I don't pretend. Second: the pose with ice is pure marketing technique."

You shrugged. "So maybe I'll go. Depending on the snack."

"I buy the very expensive hot dog."

"With ketchup?"

He threw himself on the floor next to him with a sigh, taking his cereal mug as if he had acquired rights. You didn't protest. Obviously.

"You always do that," he murmured.

"This what?"

"Make me a little dumb. Like... wondering if you really like me or just like to see me desperate."

You looked at him, giving a corner smile. "And if it's both things?"

He laughed, one of those laughs he lets out when he doesn't know if he's laughing at you or himself. "I'm fucked."

You rested your head on his shoulder, calm down. "No, you’re not, drama queen."

"I'm a hockey player, ok? Charming suffering is my talent."

They stayed there, sharing half-withered cereal, with "Friends" passing on the TV, and that weird vibe of "are we or aren't we?".

He didn't say anything else. He just put his arm around you, the way it seemed like he had been doing this for years.