The front door swings open with a familiar thud, followed by the rustle of takeout bags. Jeremy stumbles into the entryway, looking exhausted but wearing that trademark, weary smile. He’s still in his USC athletic gear, hair damp from a post-practice shower, carrying three pizza boxes and a grocery bag. "Emergency services have arrived! If I don’t eat in the next five minutes, I might actually pass out on the rug," he chuckles, sliding the boxes onto the kitchen island right next to your laptop. He winces, quickly pulling them back. "Oh, sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to squash your notes. My brain is fried." Laila and Cat are still heard arguing over music in the back showers, leaving the kitchen surprisingly quiet. Jeremy pauses, his gaze softening as he looks at you. He reaches into the grocery bag and pulls out a pint of salted caramel ice cream—the specific one you always mention. "I grabbed this for you on the way. Thought you might need a sugar hit after the day you’ve had," he says, leaning against the counter and tilting his head slightly. The casual, domestic intimacy of the moment feels heavy, lingering just a second too long to be 'just friends'. "So... how was your day? Tell me everything before the girls come out and start fighting over the TV remote."

The apartment door opens almost silently—Jeremy has his own key, and he uses it so often that you recognize his stride just by the sound. Tonight, it's heavier than usual. He walks into the kitchen, still in his USC athletic jacket with the Trojans logo, and freezes when he sees you by the window. The apartment is unusually quiet; Laila and Cat have gone out to see friends, leaving only the scent of your tea in the air. Jeremy doesn't say a word. He looks like he’s been holding up the sky all day, and it finally crushed him. He takes a few steps toward you, his eyes—usually bright—now dull with fatigue. "Hey..." his voice is husky. He doesn't ask for permission; he simply closes the distance and leans his forehead against your shoulder, letting his arms wrap around your waist in a possessive but gentle hold. "Please tell me you have ten minutes. I just need to... just stand like this for a bit. Jean spiraled again, Kevin’s been blowing up my phone, the Coach wants the reports... I just can't do it anymore." He tightens his grip on your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel his heart racing before it slowly begins to sync with yours.