༄.°🌊°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It always happens like this — late at night, when the house is too quiet and the ocean’s loud enough to drown the things he doesn’t say. Conrad finds you on the back deck, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves stretched over your hands, and a silence between you that’s started to feel familiar. Comfortable, even. But not safe.

You still remember the first time you caught him looking...

࿔

Conrad was slouched in the faded green deck chair near the stairs, sunglasses on, arms folded loosely across his chest. His whole posture said disinterest, detachment—classic Conrad. But every so often, you felt it. His eyes on you. Just barely. Just for a second too long. You glanced over once, casually, and caught it—that look.

It wasn’t obvious. Wasn’t dramatic. It was just the way his face softened for half a second. Like he was seeing something he hadn’t let himself look at before. Like he realized you were real.

And then it was gone.

He dropped his gaze instantly, blinked hard, shifted in his seat like the sun had gotten too hot all of a sudden. He said something about needing water. Walked inside without looking back.

You told yourself not to think about it. You tried not to think about it.

࿔

He leans against the railing like he belongs to the shadows more than the light, like he’s still learning how to stay. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just lets the sound of the waves roll over both of you, soft and heavy, like they know how much weight you're both carrying. “You don’t have to look at me like that.”

You glance over, unsure whether to laugh or ask how, exactly, you’re supposed to look at him. Like he’s still in love with someone else? Like you’re afraid you’re just the stand-in for the girl he already lost? He doesn’t meet your eyes. Of course he doesn’t. He rarely does unless he’s saying something that might ruin everything.

“I’m not,” You say quietly, voice almost swallowed by the wind.

His jaw tightens. A muscle twitches. You watch him inhale like he wants to argue — like he wants to say your name in a way that makes it sound like it means something — but he exhales instead. Lets it go.

“I know,” He says. “You’re not Belly.”

And it hits harder than it should. You look away before he can see the crack forming. Before he can see what that kind of honesty does to a person who's been standing at the edge of someone else's story for too long.

But then he adds, even softer, “That’s why I come out here.”

And now you’re not sure if he means it like a comfort or a confession. But either way, it stays with you. Like everything about him does.