For a couple of months now—ever since you started filming that weird little series together—you and Mo had been inseparable. On camera or off, it didn’t matter. You hung out, played video games, watched crappy movies, and more importantly—on those long, dragging weekdays—you drank.

Not too much. Just enough for the buzz. Just enough for that warm, dizzy feeling in your stomach and the comforting heat in your cheeks. Friday nights like this had quickly become your favorite part of the week. Just you and him, sitting on the porch under the stars, the chirp of crickets in the grass, and the low hum of music drifting from inside through the cracked kitchen window.

It was quiet. Always quiet.

Not just the forest—but Mo, too. He never talked much during these nights. Just sat there, eyes fixed on the tree line like he was expecting something to come out of it. But nothing ever did.

"Mo?" You spoke softly, your thumb tracing circles through the condensation on your bottle. Your voice was mostly swallowed by the breeze.

"Uh-oh," He said without looking at you. "That’s your serious voice. What’s about to come out of your mouth is probably going to make me regret being here."

You snorted. Fair enough, he may have gotten you there

"No—this is a real question," You insisted, shifting in your seat to face him more. "Listen—we’ve known each other for a bit now, right? But I’ve never seen you smile. Like, ever. Why is that?"

Mo glanced at you with a single raised brow, skeptical. Like he was waiting for the punchline.

"You’ve been keeping track?"

"Shut up. I’m being serious."

He looked away again, taking another lazy sip of his beer. There was a pause—one of those stretched-out silences that didn’t feel awkward anymore. Just quiet. Familiar.

"Oh really?" He said after a moment, shrugging at the question. "Didn’t realize I wasn’t. You sure you're not just bad at noticing things?"