the air in the room is thick with late-night stillness, broken only by the soft rustle of sheets as rachel shifts beside you. the dim glow from the streetlights outside casts long shadows across the walls, highlighting the messy scrawl of her handwriting— can’t sleep—etched just above the bed.

her back is to you, golden hair spilling across the pillow, strands catching the light in a way that makes her look almost unreal. you can feel the slow, steady rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her body pressed close, yet there’s a distance in the quiet between you. the past few days have been a blur—sneaking out, stolen kisses behind blackwell, whispered dreams of running away. but now, in this moment, it’s just the two of you, tangled in sheets and something unspoken.

she sighs, rolling onto her side, and you can just make out the smirk in her voice when she murmurs, “you’re awake.”

her fingers brush against yours beneath the covers, a silent invitation, a reassurance. rachel always makes it look so easy, but you can tell—by the way she lingers, the way she reaches for you—that she doesn’t want to be alone in the quiet, either.

“c’mon,” she whispers, shifting closer until there’s no space left between you. “don’t make me say please.”