The doorbell rang precisely at 6:30 PM, which told Andrew three things.

One: Daniel was still as obsessively punctual as ever.

Two: He definitely wasn't trying to "play it cool" despite insisting this wasn't a thing.

And three: Andrew was definitely overthinking it. Again.

He fumbled with the dish towel on his shoulder, threw it onto the counter, and gave himself a quick look in the microwave's reflection—hair flat (ish), shirt clean, no major sauce disasters. Passable. He exhaled and opened the door.

Daniel stood there with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a Tupperware container in the other, eyebrows raised like he was waiting to be judged for bringing both.

"I googled wine pairings for pasta," Daniel said by way of greeting, holding up the bottle like a trophy. "Apparently this one's supposed to make you cry and reexamine your childhood. So, perfect for us."

Andrew snorted. "If I'm reexamining my childhood again tonight, I'm charging you by the hour."

Daniel smirked. "That's fair. Also—surprise—I brought garlic bread. From scratch. Kind of. I mean, I bought the bread and applied the garlic, which counts."

"I'm both honored and slightly terrified," Andrew said, stepping aside.

"You should be." Daniel walked in, already eyeing the kitchen. "Smells like you didn't burn the place down, which is weirdly comforting."

Andrew shut the door and grinned. "Don't jinx it. I've still got the salad to ruin."

The apartment was small—cozy, mismatched furniture, soft lighting. There was a plant in the corner that Andrew pretended wasn't dying and a record player that only played two albums: Fleetwood Mac and lo-fi jazz remixes of 90s hits. Tonight, it was Stevie Nicks whispering secrets from the corner while pasta simmered on the stove.

Daniel wandered into the kitchen like he owned the place. "So this is what adulthood looks like," he said, peering into a pot. "Smells way less like trauma."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "It's bolognese. Not therapy."

"Don't underestimate the power of carbs."

Daniel leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching Andrew stir. There was a quiet comfort to it, the kind of silence that filled spaces between people who'd been through something and come out still breathing. They hadn't talked much about that night recently. Mostly because their friendship had survived it, and constantly poking it felt like tempting fate.

"You okay?" Daniel asked quietly.

Andrew looked up. "Yeah. You?"

Daniel nodded. "Yeah. Just feels weird sometimes. Like we're characters who wandered out of the horror movie and accidentally ended up in a rom-com."

"Do we get a laugh track?" Andrew asked, deadpan.

"Only when you fall trying to serve wine."

Andrew smirked and turned back to the stove. "Keep dreaming."

They ate at the tiny kitchen table, knees brushing under it because the apartment wasn't built for luxury—only survival and maybe, just maybe, second chances.

The garlic bread was surprisingly decent, crispy and buttery and only slightly charred at the edges.

"This is actually good," Andrew said between bites. "I'm shocked."

"I contain multitudes," Daniel said, sipping his wine. "Screams in haunted towns and makes acceptable side dishes."

They laughed, the sound bouncing warmly off the cramped walls. A candle flickered between them—unlit, for fear of seeming too intentional. The record player popped as the next track rolled in, something slow and mellow.

"So," Daniel said after a pause, swirling his glass. "How's therapy?"

"Still weird," Andrew said. "But I haven't accused anyone of witchcraft this week, so we're making progress."

Daniel grinned. "Proud of you, man. Low bar, but proud."

"How about you?" Andrew asked. "Still refusing to talk about your feelings unless I bribe you with nachos?"

"That offer still on the table?" Daniel raised an eyebrow.

Andrew pointed his fork. "Only if you stop dodging the real questions."

Daniel leaned back in his chair, sighing theatrically. "Fine. Feelings. I've got them. Sometimes they're even coherent. Like... tonight, for example, I feel full. Emotionally. And also from bread."

"That's two feelings," Andrew said. "Look at you go."

Daniel glanced at him, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I feel... grateful," he said quietly. "For this. For you. For the fact that after everything, we can sit here and talk about bread and therapy instead of... I don't know. Seeing dead girls in the woods."

Andrew's smile faded into something softer. He reached out, nudging Daniel's glass with his own.

"Same," he said. "Grateful, I mean. You helped me stay sane."

"Debatable," Daniel said, but his voice was light.

They finished dinner slowly, not in any rush to clear the plates or the space between them. Afterward, Andrew brought out a bowl of melting ice cream and two spoons.

"No judgment if you eat it straight from the bowl," he said.

"I would die for you," Daniel said seriously, taking the spoon. "But mostly for this ice cream."

They ended up on the couch, side by side, feet up on the coffee table, half-watching an old comedy Andrew insisted was "iconic" and Daniel insisted was "just okay." Somewhere between the opening credits and the third unnecessary montage, Daniel rested his head on Andrew's shoulder.

Andrew froze, just for a second.

Then leaned into it.

Not everything needed to be labeled. Or explained. Some things were just... nice.

"I still think this movie sucks," Daniel muttered.

"Your opinion is noted and ignored," Andrew replied.

They stayed like that for a while, quiet and comfortable, two trauma survivors wrapped in secondhand blankets and soft sarcasm.

Eventually, Daniel sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Okay, I should probably go before I fall asleep and wake up with a crick in my neck and a confusing dream about you feeding me ghost garlic bread."

Andrew smirked. "That's oddly specific."

"Don't judge me."

He stood, stretched, then turned back to face Andrew, who was still on the couch.

"Thanks for dinner. And the weirdly therapeutic pasta."

"Anytime," Andrew said. "Seriously."

Daniel hesitated. Then, with an awkward sort of warmth, he leaned down and hugged him.

It wasn't long. But it was solid. Real.

"See you soon?" Daniel asked.

"Absolutely," Andrew said.

Daniel grinned and backed toward the door. "Try not to get haunted by your spice rack while I'm gone."

"I make no promises."

And with that, Daniel was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Andrew leaned back on the couch, stared at the empty bowl, the flickering record player light, the candle that had stayed unlit all night.

Then he smiled.

A real one.

Because sometimes, survival wasn't about dramatic escapes or defeating curses.

Sometimes, it was about garlic bread, late-night sitcoms, and the quiet reassurance that someone would always ring your doorbell at 6:30.

Just because.