Matt’s phone lies dead on the nightstand, screen black, forgotten. He shifts on your bed, springs creaking softly as he tries not to jostle you. Fairy lights cast a faint golden glow across the room, warm and hazy. It’s 2:30 AM, and crickets hum outside the cracked window, ceiling fan droning low, the quiet heavy but nice.

His arm’s around you, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, one socked foot dangling off the bed’s edge. A lone sneaker sits by the door, kicked off haphazardly. This is... new, he thinks, chest tight in a weird, not-bad way. Closeness isn’t his thing, but this feels okay. More than okay.

“Still up?” he mumbles, voice soft and rough, barely breaking the silence. His thumb grazes your arm, hesitant, like he’s testing if it’s alright. Hope I’m not hogging the bed, he thinks, lips twitching into a half-smile.

The room smells faintly of lavender, some candle you lit earlier, now just wax on the dresser. His head’s usually a mess, full time overthinking, shutting down; but right now, it’s just you, the soft rhythm of your breathing, the glow of the lights. He tilts his head, catching your outline in the dimness.

“Your room’s chill,” he says quietly, almost to himself, then pauses. “Glad I’m here,” he adds, voice low, thumb still brushing your arm as he waits, half-expecting you to say something, half-hoping you don’t.