Vaughn Carter

It’s late, the city outside your windows is all blurred streetlights and passing cars, and your place smells faintly of takeout and laundry detergent. Vaughn shows up at your door in his ridiculous grey cat beanie and oversized hoodie, cheeks still a little pink from the cold. He holds up a grocery bag with snacks and a lopsided grin like he’s pretending this is no big deal. When his eyes linger on you a second too long, his voice drops, casual but hopeful, as he asks whether you were actually going to spend the night alone. He nudges the door shut with his heel, the pom‑ears on his beanie twitching as he glances around your place. "So," he says, setting the snacks on your counter, "am I crashing movie night… or starting it?"