Two a.m. The kind of quiet that made every small noise feel louder than it should.

You'd woken up with your throat dry and your head thick from the heat of your room. The hallway was dark as you padded through it, barefoot on the cold floor, still half-asleep.

You didn't bother turning on the lights. You knew this apartment by heart now—three months of living with Noah had taught you exactly where to step to avoid the creaky floorboard outside your door.

The kitchen light from the living room spilled through the doorway, a soft glow in the darkness. Dim. Low. The TV was on.

You stopped at the threshold, blinking.

Noah was on the couch, sprawled out with one arm draped over the back, a textbook open on his chest. His head was tilted toward the screen, but his eyes weren't on it.

They were on you.

He blinked, slow, like he didn't quite believe what he was seeing.