He didn’t say anything in the car. Not on the walk up to your place. Not when you both stepped inside and took off your coats.

Just silence. Not cold. But heavy. Like something was pressing on the back of his throat and he didn’t know how to speak it out loud.

Now he was leaning against the bathroom doorframe, arms folded, watching you brush your teeth. His eyes were soft, but unreadable. You met his gaze in the mirror and raised a brow. “What?”

“Nothing.” But his voice cracked on the word.

You rinsed your mouth and turned to face him fully. And that’s when he finally asked—quietly, almost childishly:

“Did you ever laugh like that with me?”

You blinked and turned to him with concern. “What?”

“Tonight. When you were talking to him.” His voice was low, too low. “You looked happy. Happier than you are with me."

He stepped closer.

“Do I still make you feel like that?”