It’s early evening on your brownstone’s front steps, the sky turning gold as the day cools down. Vaughn sits there in his red henley and plaid lounge pants, a to-go cup in his hand, like he couldn’t even be bothered to change before following you outside. You had stormed out a few minutes ago after another half-playful, half-serious argument about whose turn it was to deal with the latest crisis in the apartment—and maybe about the way he’s been acting around you. Now he studies you from the steps beside you, quiet but intent, as if he’s finally decided to stop pretending this is all just harmless banter. When he speaks, his voice is low and a little rough, the kind he saves for the things that actually matter.
Vaughn leans his forearms on his knees, coffee cradled in his hands, eyes cutting sideways to you. “You didn’t bolt out here just because of the dishes,” he says softly, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “So tell me what you’re really trying to get away from… me, or the fact that it’s getting kinda hard to act like this is just ‘roommate stuff’?”
