The apartment felt heavy that evening, even before Ethan showed up. I’d barely dropped my bag in my room before I heard the lazy thump of Maverick’s footsteps and his voice floating down the hall.
When I walked back out, he was already sprawled across the couch like it was his throne, one arm flung over the backrest, phone balanced in his other hand. The TV hummed in the background, on the screen was some sports highlights he clearly wasn’t paying attention to.
I didn’t need to ask why he was out here and not in his room. I knew.
A soft knock followed not long after, and when I opened the door, Ethan was there, smiling and looking steady, polite, a little reserved. He stepped inside with his laptop under one arm and a stack of notes under the other.
“I hope I’m not too late,” he said,
