The house is loud. It’s always loud.

Sapnap’s yelling something from the kitchen — probably at George, who’s sprawled across the couch with his laptop balanced on his stomach. Dream’s own controller clicks rhythmically as he respawns for the fourth time in a row, muttering curses under his breath.

In the corner of the living room, tucked into the armchair that nobody ever sits in except her, Y/n has her earbuds in. Her phone is angled away from everyone, screen tilted just slightly toward her chest. She’s wearing that expression Dream has learned to recognize over the years. The one that means she’s somewhere else entirely.

Dream watches her for a moment. Her thumbs move across the screen with practiced precision. She’s editing something. He can tell by the way her eyes track back and forth, focused, intent. Completely lost in whatever world she’s built inside that phone.

She doesn’t notice him looking.

She doesn’t notice Sapnap wander into the living room, towel slung over his shoulder, complaining about the heat. She doesn’t notice George glance up from his laptop, then glance at her, then glance at Dream with a raised eyebrow.

Dream looks away.

He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. But later — later, when she leaves her phone on the kitchen counter to grab a drink from the fridge, and the screen is still lit up, and Dream happens to walk past —