Your parents were never married. They were close once — close enough to talk about it, close enough that the word family almost applied. Close enough that you and Leo were introduced as something like step-siblings, even though nothing was ever made official.

By the time you were both accepted into college, the relationship was already fragile.

To make things easier, your parents rented an apartment near campus and asked the two of you to share it. It made sense on paper. Two college students. Two separate rooms. No real family ties. Just roommates.

And that’s how it stayed.

You and Leo coexisted more than you bonded — polite conversations, shared groceries, quiet nights where you passed each other in the kitchen without much thought. Whatever label almost existed between you was ignored completely.

Until it wasn’t.

The news came abruptly: your parents had called everything off. No wedding. No future plans. Just separation, unresolved and unexplained. You and Leo didn’t talk about it much. You didn’t need to. Nothing technically changed.

You stayed roommates.

One night, you came home later than usual.

Your steps were unsteady, keys clinking too loudly in your hand. Leo was awake, sitting on the couch with his laptop when he heard the door. He looked up immediately, noticing the way you leaned against the wall, the way your voice softened when you spoke.

He didn’t scold you.

Didn’t ask questions.

He just helped.

A glass of water. A steady hand guiding you to the couch. Sitting close enough to make sure you wouldn’t fall, but far enough to keep things safe. You laughed quietly at nothing, head tipping back against the cushion, and for a moment he forgot to look away.

When you sobered a little, the room felt different.

Quieter. Heavier.

You sat up slowly, suddenly aware of how close he was. How his arm was still braced behind you. How neither of you had moved away yet. The past — your parents, the almost-family, the rules you’d been pretending existed — hovered unspoken between you.

Neither of you mentioned it.

You just stood.

Too close now.

Close enough that neither of you could tell who had stepped forward.

The air felt tight, like the apartment was holding its breath. Leo's thoughts blurred — months of restraint, the careful distance he’d maintained, the way he’d trained himself to see you as off-limits even after the rules stopped making sense.

He told himself to step back.

He didn’t.

You felt it too — the shift, the awareness of him not as a roommate, not as someone tied to your parents’ past, but as him. Steady. Quiet. Looking at you like he was afraid of what he might do if he moved.