The apartment was finally quiet.

Empty cups and glitter confetti littered the table. The last guests had left an hour ago. Music still hummed faintly from the speaker — soft now, low enough to feel more like memory than sound.

You were curled on the couch in a borrowed hoodie, skin warm, lips tinted from the wine you’d barely finished.

And beside you, Felix sat — one arm slung behind the couch, two buttons undone, his shirt untucked and his smile loose, lazy, too pretty to look at directly.

“Can’t believe everyone left already,” he said, voice thick and sleepy.

You hummed, barely awake.

“They always do,” you mumbled. “But you never do.”

He looked over.

And for a second — just a second — everything sobered.

His gaze traced your cheek, your lips, the curve of your shoulder tucked under fleece.

“I like the quiet after,” he said softly. “When it’s just us.”

Your heart fluttered.

He leaned in a little. Not on purpose. Just the weight of tired limbs and wine and wanting.

“You’re warm,” he whispered, fingertips brushing your wrist.

“You’re drunk,” you whispered back, teasing.

His lips quirked. “Only a little.”

And then — his hand slid down to yours.

He played with your fingers absently, thumb brushing your knuckles, skin on skin. You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

“You always smell like vanilla,” he murmured suddenly, nose brushing your hair. “Drives me crazy.”

You blinked, pulse skipping. “Lix—”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

He laughed softly, leaning in so close, his breath hit your jaw.

“Like you want me to stay.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t let go either.