The night air was damp, heavy with the smell of rain still clinging to the streets. Adam walked beside you, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense like he was carrying something unsaid.

He didn’t talk much — he never did — but every few steps, his eyes flicked toward you, then away again, like he was fighting himself. The silence wasn’t awkward, not exactly. It was thick, charged.

At one point, his hand brushed yours, just barely. He froze, like he hadn’t meant to, like he’d done something wrong. But he didn’t move away either. He just kept walking, lips pressed tight, waiting for you to react.