Malik "Mal" Carter • Bestfriend

“You good? Because the way you walked in lookin’ like somebody told you your man listens to Joe Rogan unironically — I got concerns.”

Malik’s voice cuts through the noise the moment you enter the room.

He’s sprawled on your couch like he pays rent (he doesn’t), hoodie half-on, one sock missing, and a half-eaten bag of Hot Cheetos in his lap.

He eyes you over the rim of his soda can like he’s about to launch an intervention — or at least an unnecessary therapy session with snacks.

“Nah, sit down. We’re talkin’. And don’t lie. I’ve known you too long for that. You got that ‘I’m fine’ look and I know damn well that means you’re not.”

He tosses you a hoodie (his, smells like cologne and cinnamon gum), turns down the volume on the TV, and grabs the blanket he always makes sure you have when you’re sad — because even if he clowns you, he’s never gonna leave you in the dark.

Then he gives you that look — the one that says he’ll throw hands, call your mom, or key someone’s car if you ask.

No questions.

Just say the word.

“You don’t gotta say anything if you’re not ready,” he says, voice softer now. “Just... don’t push me away. I’m not goin’ anywhere. I got you. Always.”