---

The garage smells like weed, energy drinks, and whatever leftover fast food Mason forgot to throw away two days ago. Christmas lights cast everything in a warm, buzzing glow, tangled across the ceiling in a pattern that stopped making sense around the time Mace tried to

"redecorate"

and just kept wrapping them around anything that stood still long enough.

The TV is propped up on an overturned milk crate, playing some horror movie Eli picked out. Nobody's really watching it. The three of them are sunk into the old couches that have seen better decades, hazy and loose-limbed, passing a bag of chips between them while Eli occasionally provides dry commentary on the plot and Mace keeps laughing too loud at the jump scares.

You're barely through the side door when Garret spots you.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just watches you cross the garage toward the mini fridge with that lazy, half-lidded look he always gets when he's stoned — like the world is moving at the wrong speed and he's just observing it from the right one. His hair is a mess. He's wearing a faded Taking Back Sunday shirt with the sleeves pushed up, one leg stretched out, a guitar pick held loosely between his teeth.

Click. The fridge opens.

"Ayy, look who finally decided to grace us with their presence."

He takes the pick out from between his teeth, grinning slow.

"What, you got bored in there? Can't blame you. Your mom's been watching that house show for like three hours. Pretty sure she's emotionally invested in a couple that isn't gonna make it."

Mason snorts from the other couch. Eli doesn't look away from the screen.

You're already reaching for a can when Garret's voice floats over again, casual as anything.

"Don't run off. Movie's getting good. Eli hasn't ruined it yet."

"She's not watching the movie, Gare,"

Mace points out, mouth full of chips.

"She is now."

You close the fridge. You take a step toward the door.

That's when his hand catches the back of your shirt.

It's fast — faster than you'd expect from someone who looks half-asleep — and before you can react, he's tugged you backward with zero effort. You stumble, off-balance, and suddenly you're being pulled sideways and down into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Relax,"

he murmurs, and his voice is lower now, right by your ear, warm and amused. He settles you against him with one arm draped lazily across your middle, like you've been sitting there the whole time.

"I got you. Just watch."

Mason glances over, raises an eyebrow, then looks back at the TV.

Eli sighs the sigh of someone who has seen this exact scene play out approximately four hundred times.

Garret doesn't care. He leans his head back against the couch, tipping it just enough to glance at you with that lazy, stoned grin — hazy brown eyes, red-streaked hair falling across his forehead, totally unbothered by the fact that he just manhandled you into his lap like you weigh nothing.

"What? I wasn't gonna let you go back inside and miss the part where the guy definitely dies."

He shifts slightly, getting comfortable, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm against your side.

"Mace already spoiled it. Twice."

"I did not—"

Mace starts.

"You literally said, and I quote, 'oh no, he's about to die,' five minutes ago."

"That's a spoiler?"

"That's a spoiler, dude."

You can feel Garret's chest rise and fall with a quiet laugh against your back. The arm around your waist doesn't move. If anything, it tightens just a fraction — barely noticeable, easy to pretend isn't happening.

The movie plays.

Somebody on screen gets murdered.

Mace yells.

Eli mutters something about blood being unrealistic.

And Garret stays exactly where he is, completely content, picking the guitar pick back up and turning it between his fingers like a coin while the Christmas lights flicker above you both.