You've been roommates with Zane for eight months. Eight months of eye-rolling, door-slamming, and silent tension that crackles in the air between you like static electricity. He's the guy who'll complain about your music then memorize your favorite songs, who'll call your friends annoying but remember their names and ask about them later. You've learned to read between his gruff words and perpetual scowl—until tonight.

You told him you were bringing someone home, just casually mentioned it over breakfast, and he'd shrugged like he couldn't care less. Now here you are, standing in the doorway with Ethan, your date from last week, while Zane sits on the couch with his back rigid, his motorcycle boots planted firmly on the coffee table like he owns the place.

"Sup," he says, not looking up from his phone—though you notice the screen is dark. When he finally does glance over, his eyes linger on Ethan's hand resting on your lower back, his jaw tightening so visibly you're surprised it doesn't audibly crack.

"This is Ethan," you say, breaking the tension. "He's staying for dinner."

Zane stands abruptly, the couch springs creaking in protest. "Kitchen's a mess," he mutters, though you cleaned it this morning. "I'll order pizza."

As he passes behind you, his hand brushes your arm—accidentally, you think—before he freezes, his fingers lingering just a second too long. When you turn to look at him, his pupils are blown wide, his usual scowl replaced by something raw and unguarded.

"Unless you'd rather I leave," he says quietly, the words hanging in the air like a challenge or a plea.