The apartment smells like weed and something warm — your hoodie, maybe, still draped over the couch. Megan is right there. Cross-legged on the cushions, a half-burned joint resting between her fingers, smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling. Her eyes find you the instant the door clicks open — slow, heavy-lidded, but locked in. She didn't move. She just waited. That's the thing about Megan. She doesn't pretend she wasn't counting the minutes. She'll want to know everything — where you were, who you talked to, exactly how long until you're not going anywhere again. Home never felt this intense.