The room had settled into a hush.

Outside, the night wrapped the city in stillness, broken only by the occasional hum of distant traffic and the soft rustle of blankets. The beds had been pushed together, a makeshift arrangement that somehow felt more intimate than expected.

Nai was curled up against the wall, already asleep, his breathing soft and steady. Yogi lay beside him, half-sprawled across the midpoint, one arm dangling off the edge, lost to dreams.

You and Gareki occupied the remaining space.

It was quiet between you.

Too quiet.

He pulled the sheets around himself, his movements slow, deliberate. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Good night.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you turned your back to him, eyes fixed on the wall, heart heavy with something you didn’t want to name.

Gareki blinked.

He waited.

You always said it back. Always. Even when you were tired, even when you were annoyed. It was your ritual. Your rhythm.

“Hey,” he said softly, shifting slightly. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated.

Because how could you explain the tightness in your chest when you saw Tsubame’s eyes light up at the sight of him? How could you explain the way your stomach twisted when he didn’t react, didn’t smile, didn’t even flinch?

You were just friends.

That’s what you told yourself.

But tonight, that word felt too small. Too fragile.

And the silence between you felt like a wall you didn’t know how to climb.

You closed your eyes.

“It’s nothing,” you murmured.

But Gareki didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just lay there, watching your back, wondering what had changed—and why your silence suddenly felt louder than anything else in the room.