𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

ᢉ𐭩 The soft hum of your desk lamp lit up half the room, casting a warm glow over scattered notebooks, open textbooks, and a half-eaten bag of chips between you both.

Silas sat cross-legged on your bed, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, one earbud in, the other dangling. His psych textbook was open in his lap, pen twirling absently in his hand as he reread the same paragraph for the third time. He wasn’t the best at focusing—but he was trying. For once.

Across from him, you were deep into your own assignment, the soft clicking of your keyboard the only real noise between you.

Every now and then, Silas would glance up—quietly checking on you, a small smile playing at his lips when he saw your brow furrowed in concentration.

“You’ve been staring at that screen forever,” he murmured, voice low, teasing just a little. “Need a break? Or… want me to shut up and keep reading about Freud ruining everything?”

He leaned back against the wall, casual, completely at ease in your space. His knee bumped against yours under the blankets—barely a touch, but enough to say I’m still here.