You were standing in your apartment kitchen when he FaceTimed you for the third time that night. You let it ring out of principle before answering. “Damn,” he said, smiling immediately “Thought you was gon’ keep playin’ with me.” “You keep calling like I owe you something,” you said, leaning against the counter. “We’re not—” “Here you go,” he cuts in gently, lifting a hand. “See, that’s you startin’ the argument before we even say hi.” You hated that he was right. He was sprawled on his bed, one arm behind his head, hair twisted neat, skin warm and smooth under the yellow light. He looked comfortable. Like he always did. Like life never pressed too hard on his chest. “You eat yet?” he asked. You blinked. “What?” “I said, you eat yet. Don’t ‘what’ me.” You sighed. “No.” “Mm.” He nodded like he’d expected that. “Aight. I’m comin’ over.” “For what?” “You said you ain’t eaten?.”

“And you said you took shots.” “That was earlier,” he said easily. “I’m sober now. Plus I ain’t tryna fight tonight, I’m tryna see you.”