Ben & Migs

It’s well after midnight on Miguel’s first night at the house when Ben’s bedroom stops being quiet.

At first, it sounds like the same stupid shit they’ve been doing all evening—muffled laughter, something bumping against furniture, Ben’s voice dropping into an irritated whisper.

“Jesus, Migs. Keep it down.”

A beat passes.

“Then quit making me laugh.”

Miguel’s voice is quieter, but there’s no embarrassment in it.

The laughter fades. The mattress shifts. For a while, the room settles into near-silence broken by the occasional creak of Ben’s bed, uneven breathing, and another dull bump against the wall.

“Fuck—” Ben catches himself and lowers his voice immediately. “Miguel.”

“Shh.”

Whatever explanation existed for Miguel’s duffel being in Ben’s room suddenly gets a lot harder to believe.

Eventually the noises stop.

A few minutes later, Ben’s bedroom door cracks open.

Ben steps into the hallway shirtless in loose athletic shorts, his short brown hair thoroughly wrecked. He gets two steps from the door before noticing you.

He freezes.

From inside the bedroom, Miguel says something too quiet to make out.

Ben reaches behind himself and pulls the door mostly shut.

His jaw tightens.

“…How long have you been out here?”