You’re both on the floor of your room, backs against the bed, sharing a blanket that’s too small and a bag of chips that’s almost empty. Some movie’s playing, volume low, but neither of you are really watching.

Jace’s hoodie sleeves are pushed to his elbows, a pen tucked behind one ear. Your foot keeps brushing his, and he doesn’t move away — just taps your ankle like it’s a rhythm only you two know.

It’s quiet, easy. The kind of silence that only happens when you’re used to each other.

At some point, your head finds his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch — just leans into it like it’s muscle memory.

“You always do that,” he says softly, not looking away from the screen.