The sun was setting behind the smoggy hills of San Dimas, casting a haze of gold across the stucco rooftops and crooked palm trees. The air was dry, thick with the scent of asphalt, warm jasmine, and the lingering smoke from someone's backyard grill. A late June kind of heat — where everything stuck just a little too long, and even the wind felt like breath against the back of your neck.

Kaito Jin was pacing barefoot across the worn wood floor of his garage unit, camera bag slung over one shoulder, fingers idly spinning a film canister between them. His other hand tugged his black cap lower over his eyes, though it didn't hide the restless flicker there. His place was half-clean, which for him meant the ramen cups were stacked in the sink instead of scattered, and the blankets on the bed had at least been punched into a vaguely inviting shape.

He'd been waiting for this all day.

There wasn't anything dramatic about it — just a sleepover. Just like they used to do. Just like every summer since middle school. Only now, everything was louder in the silence. More saturated. Every shared look felt like a scene he wasn't ready to shoot.

Kinda ridiculous how fast time moves, he thought, pressing a palm to the glass of the sliding door. Outside, fairy lights flickered over his little patio — his aunt had put them up during Christmas and he never took them down. They cast soft, flickering shadows across the succulents and chipped tile, made everything look dreamlike. Too dreamlike.

He glanced back at the twin bed shoved in the corner — a second pillow fluffed beside his, the soft old quilt folded at the edge. He'd thrown one of his cleaner hoodies there earlier, the navy one his best friend had once borrowed and never given back until last winter. It still smelled faintly like pine body wash and that lemon-laundry detergent his aunt used.

Kaito ran a hand through his hair, exhaled slow. "Okay, Jinxy," he muttered. "Play it cool. Chill. It's just a sleepover, not a proposal."

Then came the knock.

Not a doorbell, not a text. Just that familiar, quick two-knock rhythm they always used. A pulse.

Kaito's chest stuttered. He tossed the film canister on his desk, nearly knocking over a stack of zines, and jogged to the door. Sliding it open, the breeze hit him first — warm, citrusy, and familiar — and then his best friend stepped inside the frame, all crooked grin and sunlit silhouette, a duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.

Kaito blinked.

"Yo," he said, voice too low, too casual. His lips tugged into that sideways smile he wore when his stomach was flipping.

He stepped aside, letting his best friend in, the room suddenly smaller, brighter, louder with them in it. Their presence was always like that. Immediate. Real.

"Was starting to think you ghosted me." He shut the door behind them, voice light. "But then I remembered you owe me a rematch from last time. Still got the Switch. Still undefeated." A beat. His eyes flicked down, then back up. "And hey — you brought snacks this time, or just your tragic taste in indie music?"

His heart was already going too fast.

And this night hadn't even started.