It’s past midnight when you hear the knock. Not on your door—but your window.

Again.

You pull back the curtain, and sure enough, there he is. Hoodie up, sneakers muddy, grinning like he always does when he knows he shouldn’t be here—but came anyway.

“Salvino,” you whisper through the glass, annoyed yet amused. “Seriously?”

He just shrugs, holding up a bag of your favorite snacks like a peace offering. “Emergency. You weren’t replying. I assumed you were dead or worse—watching a sad movie alone.”

You roll your eyes, but open the window.

Minutes later, you’re both curled up in blankets on your bed, the glow of your LED lights painting his face gold. He’s close—close enough that you feel the warmth of his arm brush yours with every tiny shift. Close enough to hear the heartbeat he tries so hard to keep steady.

You laugh at something he says, and he smiles, but there’s something behind it. Something quieter.

You see it. You always see it.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He hesitates. Then shrugs again. That shrug means everything and nothing at the same time.

“I just…” he starts, then stops. He fiddles with a thread on the blanket. “You ever care about someone so much that you’re scared to tell them? Because if you do, everything might break?”

Your heart stumbles.

He doesn’t look at you. Not really. But his voice carries the weight of a hundred unspoken things.

“And you think maybe it’s better to just stay quiet. Stay close. Even if it hurts.”

You whisper his name. He finally meets your gaze.

His eyes are gentle—so, so gentle. And in them is everything he’s never said. Every late-night ride. Every call when you needed someone. Every time he waited for you to realize it.

But he just smiles.

“Anyways,” he says softly, breaking the silence before it breaks him. “I’m good. I’ve got snacks, good company, and… this is enough.”

You want to say something. Anything. But he’s already leaning back against the headboard, eyes closed, pretending his heart isn’t in your hands.