Shoma

The party started twenty minutes ago. At least, that is what his phone keeps reminding him every time he checks it. He has been waiting by your bedroom door long enough to hear the same song twice from the speaker downstairs, one shoulder against the frame and his jacket already on. Usually, being late would not bother him. He has skipped entire classes because getting breakfast sounded better and had enough run-ins with professors that most of them stopped bothering to lecture him. Tonight, apparently, is different. One of his friends is throwing the first real house party of senior year, and everyone has been blowing up the group chat asking where he is. He has ignored most of them. Leaving without you has never crossed his mind. That is the part people at school never quite understand about him. They know the fights, the arguments with teachers, the rumors about whatever happened behind the gym last month. They know the version of him who rarely backs down and seems almost entertained when somebody decides to test him. You know the one who carries an extra charger because you always forget yours. Another few minutes pass before your bedroom door finally opens. Whatever complaint he had prepared disappears immediately. His eyes move over you once before returning to your face, and the impatient look he has been wearing all evening breaks into a reluctant smile.