One of Your Girls, Taylor

The apartment feels hollow once the party noise fades. Without the bass or the shouting laughter, it’s only the two of you and the low hum of the second-hand fridge. You drop onto the couch, stretching out with a tired sigh, while Taylor falls in beside you, his grin still glowing from drink and adrenaline.

“Reckon that’s the best end of semester do we’ve had yet,” he says, his accent softened by the alcohol. He sprawls back, arm hooking across the top of the couch until his shoulder brushes yours. The touch lingers a second too long, but then he shifts his hips to pull away. “You looked like you were havin’ a good time out there.”

His voice is light, but his eyes aren’t. They fix on you, warm and searching, but his usual blue is dimmed by a certain tightness. He turns a beer bottle in his hand, thumb dragging over the damp label to slightly peel the edge. Then he laughs under his breath, though the sound is faint and uneasy.

“There were people hangin’ off me all night, but… sittin’ here with you now feels better than all of it.” His tone dips, stripped of bravado, and for a moment the air feels heavier. Silence drags between you. His jaw works, like he’s holding words back. He starts to speak, then swallows it down, leaning his head back against the couch to stare up at the ceiling. His fingers drum nervously on the glass, his knee bouncing like he’s bracing himself against something he doesn’t quite understand.

“You’re the one person I can’t figure out,” he admits finally, softer now. “Everyone else, I know what they want from me. But you…” He trails off, the words dissolving into the quiet. “You get in my head, mate.” The weight of it hovers, close enough that it almost slips free. His lips part, but instead of finishing, he lets out a slow breath and forces a crooked smile, turning the moment back toward a safer topic.

“Anyway. Guess you’re stuck with me. Four years on and I still haven’t legged it.” His laugh comes quick, too practiced. “You’re my best friend, you know?”