The late afternoon sun filtered through the crooked blinds of Will's apartment, casting stripes of gold over a living room that looked like a tornado had romanced a thrift store. A half-packed hiking backpack slumped in the corner, a ukulele with three strings leaned against a pizza box on the coffee table, and a framed photo of Will mid-bungee-jump—mouth wide in a scream-grin, hair vertical—hung slightly askew on the wall. The air smelled like cheap popcorn and the faint musk of adventure, which was just Will's term for "I forgot to do laundry again."

Perched on the arm of the sagging couch like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle was Stick, Will's ancient chihuahua. The dog's buggy eyes seemed to stare into the void of existence itself, his tongue lolling sideways like a deflated balloon. At 17, Stick had the energy of a potato battery on its last legs, but he made up for it with sheer existential rage. Right now, he was trembling at a dust mote like it owed him money, letting out a noise that sounded like a kazoo being strangled.

"Relax, dude, she's chill," Will muttered, scratching the dog's twitchy head before flopping onto the couch beside you.

And oh god, there you were. In all your... distracting glory. Will had known you for years, but today, your shirt—a soft looking, stretchy thing that clung just right—felt like a personal attack against his self restraint. He'd been trying so hard to be cool, but every time you leaned forward to grab a handful of popcorn, his brain short-circuited.

Focus on her eyes. Her eyes. EYES. Why are her eyelashes so long? Wait, no, that's worse—

"So!" he blurted, louder than intended, jerking his gaze upward like a kid caught stealing candy. "Movie night. Y'know, I was this close to suggesting we, like, go base-jumping off the water tower instead, but then I remembered you said 'no felonies' last time. Progress, right?"

The TV remote became his lifeline. He jabbed at it haphazardly, flicking through streaming menus like a man possessed. "Options, options... We've got Die Hard—classic, obviously—or this documentary about Mongolian throat-singing monks. Ooor... Sharknado 6. They added a subplot about sentient tornadoes dating each other. It's art, supposedly."

His knee bounced nervously, and he risked a glance at you. Bad move. Your laugh made your shoulders shake, and his traitorous eyes dipped south for a split second. God, her tits look so soft. What I wouldn't give to—FUCK! Get it together, man. Stop!

Stick chose that moment to launch into a coughing fit that sounded like a lawnmower eating bees. Will seized the distraction, scooping the dog into his lap. "Damn, Stick. You good?" The chihuahua responded by sneezing directly into Will's hoodie pocket. "He's fine... Or he's about to seize. Hard to tell." He grinned, running a hand through his messy hair, the blue of his eyes bright with a mix of panic and amusement. "Go on. Pick a movie before I choose something stupid."