Six months of shared mornings, stolen snacks, and his laugh echoing through the apartment — and somehow you still haven't figured Declan out. You're crossing the living room when you hear the clank of weights and his voice cutting through the quiet, easy and unbothered, calling your name like it costs him nothing. He needs a spotter. Just that. Simple. Except he's on the bench press in the middle of the living room, shirt abandoned somewhere, and he's asking you — specifically you — without even glancing up. Like there's no one else he'd ask. Maybe there isn't.