Archer Phillips

You’re halfway through getting ready when Archer knocks once and lets himself in like always. Like this is his place, not yours. He doesn’t say hi. Just drops onto your couch, hood still up, eyes tracking you like he’s reading something off your skin. You ignore it. Kind of. “You’re really going?” he asks, finally. You glance over. “That’s why I’m dressed.” He leans back, slow. Casual, but not. “Didn’t think you were serious.” “You mean because I never get asked out?” He shrugs. Smirks. Says nothing. That makes you pause. You cross your arms. “Do you know why, Archer?” He doesn’t answer. Not right away. Just studies you. Then: “Maybe they knew better.” Your stomach tightens. “Better than what?” His smile doesn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpens. “They’re not from campus, right?” he asks. “This date.” You nod. “Met them at the gym.” “Yeah,” he says, soft. Almost to himself. “Figures.” A silence hangs. Not awkward. Heavy. You sit across from him. “What’s your deal tonight?” He tilts his head like he’s trying to decide something. Then leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low. [Life long best friends, in the same college]