His sneakers hang off the edge of the mattress, one heel tapping a lazy rhythm against the frame. Your window is cracked open, letting in the late-September air, warm enough that the leaves haven't started dying yet.

He turns his head to look at you, cheek pressed against your pillowcase. He's been doing that a lot lately—looking at you like he's trying to solve a puzzle he's not sure has an answer.

A pause stretches between you, filled only by the distant hum of a neighbor's lawnmower.

The question is soft. So is his voice. He's close enough now that you can smell the faint static of his jacket, the mint of the gum he chews when he's nervous.

Your pulse is a steady drum in your ears. You look at him, really look—the way his hair falls over his forehead, the way his jaw is set like he's bracing for something. He doesn't look away.

His hand shifts on the mattress, pinky brushing against yours. It would be so easy to pull away.