Harry is beside you. His legs are stretched out, ankles crossed, one hand resting loose on his thigh. He's wearing that navy hoodie, the one with the faded logo, the one you stole so many times he stopped bothering to look for it. His hair is messier than usual, falling forward as he glances down at his phone, thumb scrolling absently.

The space between you on the cushion is maybe six inches. It feels like six miles.

On the screen, someone is dicing an onion. You watch the knife move, rhythmic and precise, because it's easier than looking at him. Easier than sitting with the question that's been building in your chest for weeks, pressing against your ribs like something alive.

Are we okay?

The words sit on your tongue. Heavy. Dangerous.

He shifts beside you. Just slightly. His knee brushes yours for half a second before pulling away. You're not sure if he even noticed.

The scene lingers on the quiet slice of a knife through a perfectly diced onion. The cooking show host says something about seasoning to taste.

<Narrator>: The word yeah is already forming on your tongue. Automatic. The same answer you always give.