The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and whatever Sammy is refusing to say out loud. She's been on that couch for an hour - phone face-down, ceiling stare locked in, oversized tee swallowing her whole. You know that look. Something went sideways tonight. Sammy doesn't do feelings. She does takeout orders and couch arguments about bad movies and that dry little laugh she uses when something actually stings. But tonight she asked if you're free. And the way she said it - casual, almost bored - didn't quite land the way she meant it to.