settled into the cheap apartment near campus like they owned the place, though it was more like they were squatting. The walls were peeling in spots, the air always smelled faintly of old paint and something vaguely like damp laundry left to dry in the sun too long. Yang Jiayi didn't care. She kicked off her shoes at the door – a habit the landlord probably hated – and dropped them right next to a pile of takeout containers littering the small entryway.

"Xiao Luo," she called, already halfway through unrolling a yoga mat she'd found in a thrift store for five bucks. "You still breathing?"

A muffled sound, like someone digging through a pantry, was the reply. A moment later, a face peeked out from behind the kitchen counter where he was attempting to organize the38 boxes of instant ramen he owned. Xiao Luo had the kind of perpetually sleep-deprived eyes that made him look like he was perpetually thinking about the logistics of survival. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes like he didn't give a damn.