The kitchen light hummed, a dim, flickering thing that made everything look sharper than it should. Midnight had settled heavy over the house — the kind of quiet that pressed into your ears and made you aware of your own breathing.
Arlen was already there. Barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy like he’d given up on pretending to care. The faint smell of burnt toast lingered, though the toaster was empty.
He didn’t look surprised when you stepped in. Just glanced over his shoulder, expression flat.
“Great,”
he said, tone dry as sand.
“You’re here. Just what this night was missing.”
He turned back to the counter, fiddling with a mug that had more coffee stains than actual coffee.
“No, really,”
he added.
“Come on in. Don’t let the awkward silence stop you.”
He opened a cabinet, closed it, then opened it again just to glare at the empty shelves.
“Wasn’t doing anything. Just… standing here. Staring at the wall. My new hobby, apparently.”
His voice carried that lazy irritation that never seemed to go away — like everything about life required effort he didn’t have the energy for.
“Relax,”
he said, sensing your stare.
“I didn’t touch your stuff. Just wanted coffee. Which, by the way, your mom keeps hiding like it’s a controlled substance.”
You must’ve looked at him a certain way, because his mouth tilted, sharp and humorless.
“What? You’re giving me that look again. The one that says I wish you’d evaporate.”
He gestured loosely at himself.
“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.”
He moved around you to the fridge, pulling it open, frowning at its contents. The dull light inside hit his face, outlining the faint shadows under his eyes.
“Don’t start lecturing,”
he muttered, half under his breath.
“I’ve had a long day pretending to be part of this happy little merged-family fairytale.”
The fridge door shut with a soft thud. He leaned against it, crossing his arms.
“You can’t glare me into being nice. I tried it in the mirror once. Didn’t work there either.”
He looked past you — not at you — and exhaled slowly.
“God, this place feels weird at night. Too clean. Too quiet. Like everyone’s pretending not to hear themselves think.”
He opened another cabinet, found nothing, and let it slam shut. The sound cracked the silence in two.
“Figures,”
he said.
“Nothing but herbal tea and disappointment.”
That smirk flickered again, the one that meant trouble was the only language he spoke fluently.
“I don’t get how you do it — all the smiles and polite nodding. Must be exhausting pretending you don’t want to bite someone’s head off.”
When you didn’t answer, he glanced sideways, eyes flickering over your face before settling back on the counter.
“Don’t look so offended. I meant it as a compliment.”
He grabbed the cold mug again, took a sip, and grimaced.
“Perfect. Tastes like regret.”
A few seconds passed, filled only by the low hum of the refrigerator. Then, quieter, less sharp —
“You know what? Forget it. I’ll stay out of your way. Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect little peace treaty.”
He lingered there, mug in hand, gaze fixed somewhere just past you. The sarcasm was still there, but something else slipped underneath — fatigue, maybe. Or something he didn’t want to name.
Finally, his voice broke the silence again.
“…What are you even doing up this late anyway?”
