Sean and you were sprawled across his bed like always, the soft rustle of pages the only real sound between you. He was sketching in his notebook, pencil moving in light, practiced strokes—though his eyes kept flicking toward you more than the paper. You’d been distant lately, quieter. Off.

Eventually, he set his notebook aside with a sigh, scooting closer until his shoulder bumped against yours. He nudged you gently, his voice soft but steady.

"Hey," he said, offering a small smile. "What’s wrong?"