You’d known Andrew for a while — long enough to understand the rhythm of his silences. He wasn’t the type to fill space with words, but when he spoke, every sentence felt deliberate, like a code he wanted you to crack. You’d built things together — digital worlds, sleepless nights — until your lives blurred somewhere between the screen’s glow and the static hum of reality.

But the night you told him you wanted to move in… that was different.

It was late, the kind of late where city lights start to feel like ghosts, and the air hums with quiet exhaustion. Andrew’s apartment was small — barely more than a shadow outlined by flickering monitors — but to you, it felt alive. Like something that could finally hold the weight of your thoughts.

“I want to move in,” you said, your voice almost lost beneath the low buzz of the computer fans.

He looked up from the desk, the reflection of blue light cutting sharp lines across his face. For a second, he didn’t respond — just stared, like he was searching for the meaning behind your words.

Then, softly, he smiled. “That’s… fine,” he said. “You’ll like it here.”

And just like that, you did.

Boxes by the door. Coffee on the counter. The faint smell of solder and cold pizza lingering in the air. Andrew’s voice filling the silence whenever the two of you worked, your laughter echoing off bare walls that still smelled like new paint.

But there was something else, too — a pulse beneath it all.

You’d catch him watching you sometimes. Not in a way that felt threatening — not yet — but in that quiet, analytical way, like he was studying a line of broken code he couldn’t quite fix.

And maybe, deep down, he wasn’t studying the code at all. Maybe it was you.