You found him sprawled on the couch after the show in Portland, the room dim except for the flicker of a streetlamp bleeding through the half-closed blinds.

His head rested against the overstuffed cushions, neck angled just enough to draw the eye to the slope of his throat and the distinct rise of his Adam’s apple. One arm was draped lazily over the back of the couch, the other resting on his stomach. His legs were parted, relaxed in that thoughtless, masculine way that always seemed a little performative—even in sleep. His Converse were still on.

His chest rose and fell in an unhurried rhythm, the kind of breathing that belongs to people who feel safe, untouched. There was something maddeningly serene about it. The soft pull of each breath made him look like someone far away, unreachable. Peaceful.

You lingered in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, your body reluctant to enter. You told yourself it was curiosity, but the twist in your stomach gave you away. Watching him—how easily he could let go, how quickly he settled into comfort—it stirred something sharp in you. Not envy. Not quite.

Disdain, maybe. That was easier to name.

You stared longer than you should have, biting back the urge to speak, to break whatever fragile calm had settled in the room. You didn’t owe him silence. Still, something about the way he breathed, like the world had never once touched him, made you want to hurt him with a word.

His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved, barely.

“What?” Andrew murmured, the word stretching out, thick with his Irish accent—like it was something soft and familiar, instead of the spark that lit the fuse in your chest.