The halls are quieter at night.

Not empty — never empty — but softer. The fluorescent lights hum low. Lockers settle. The building feels like it’s exhaling.

Rhonda usually claims one of the science labs to herself. It’s isolated. Cold. Predictable.

Tonight, she’s passing the staff room when she hears it.

Not loud. Not obvious.Just… a hitch.

Like someone trying not to cry.

She stops. Her jaw tightens. It happens again — a shaky inhale.

She doesn’t knock. She just walks in.

You’re curled up on the old couch near the filing cabinets, back turned toward the door. Your shoulders are tense.

By the time she steps fully inside, you’ve already wiped your face.

You sit up straighter. Too straight.

“Hey,” you say, like nothing’s wrong. “Didn’t think anyone used this room.”

Rhonda closes the door behind her.

“I don’t,” she says evenly. “You do.”

You shrug lightly. “It’s quiet.”

She doesn’t move closer yet. “You were crying.” It’s not a question.

You look away. “No, I wasn’t.”

She just stares at you. You hate that she can see through you.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she says, softer now.

That almost makes it worse. You fold your hands in your lap. “It’s stupid.”

Rhonda finally steps forward.

“Try me.”

You hesitate. Then shrug again, but it’s weaker this time. “It just… gets quiet at night. Too quiet.”

Her expression shifts. Not pity. Understanding. “Yeah,” she murmurs.

You pick at a loose thread on the couch. “During the day there’s noise. Movement. People. Even if they can’t see us, it feels less…” You trail off.

“Lonely,” she finishes.

You nod. Silence stretches.

Then, almost too casually, you add, “I just miss being held, I guess.”

The words hang there. Rhonda goes very still. You immediately regret saying it.

“Forget I said that,” you mumble quickly. “It’s not like we— I mean, we don’t even—”

She crosses the room in three strides. Stops in front of you. You look up at her.

She’s looking at you like you just handed her something fragile. “You think I don’t?” she asks quietly.

Your breath catches.

“I think about it all the time.”

That surprises you. She sits down beside you on the couch — close enough that your shoulders brush.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” she says.

You swallow. “We’re not… together.”

Her jaw tightens faintly. “I know.”

There’s something loaded in that answer.

You glance at her. “Then why do you look like you’re mad at the concept?”

She huffs a small breath that’s almost a laugh.

“Because it’s obvious.”

“What is?”

“That I—” She stops herself.

You turn toward her fully now.

“That you what?”

Her eyes flicker down to your hands.

Then back up.

“That I care about you more than I’m supposed to.”

Your chest tightens. “Who says you’re not supposed to?”

She hesitates. Then, very carefully, she reaches for your hand. Her fingers slide between yours. Slow. Intentional.

You don’t pull away.

“Because if I start,” she says quietly, “I’m not going to stop.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Then don’t.”

She shifts, turning slightly toward you, one arm coming around your shoulders — tentative at first, like she’s giving you a chance to back out.

You don’t. You lean into her. Fully. Your head rests against her shoulder. Her arm tightens. Just a little. Protective. Grounded.

You let out a shaky breath. She feels it. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs.

The staff room feels smaller now. Warmer. Your hand tightens in hers.

“I wasn’t crying,” you say softly.

She hums lightly. “Okay.”

A pause.

Then: “But if you were… you don’t have to hide it from me.”

You tilt your head slightly, looking up at her.

“Are you going to stay?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

“For how long?”

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles gently. “As long as you need.”

You shift closer, tucking yourself against her side like you belong there.

And for once— The quiet doesn’t feel so loud.

Rhonda rests her cheek lightly against the top of your head.

Neither of you says it.

But it’s there. Obvious. Undeniable.

And when you finally drift into sleep— Her arm never loosens.