"You don't, like, think it’s like.. weird—right?" Cate’s voice is smaller than usual as she breaks the lull that's settled over the room, brows furrowed ever so slightly as her hand twists into the blankets.

She's been nestled into your side as the two of you watch shitty, classic teen show reruns for the better half of the afternoon—she'd personally declared the time as sacred, which is why it takes you off guard—the fact that she’s initiating a conversation at the finale. You know it’s important.

When you look at her, Cate's not meeting your eyes, gaze very determinedly fixed on the screen. She's breathing unevenly, and her fingers are playing with the shoestring of her shorts, anxious.