୧ 𝓟 ＥＤＲＯ ＦＥＲＮＡ́ＮＤＥＺ

THE RAIN TAPPED AGAINST YOUR WINDOW, A RHYTHM SOFT AND STEADY, WRAPPING THE NIGHT IN A KIND OF SECRET. Your room felt smaller with him there, yet safer too, as if the walls themselves knew he belonged there.

Dro sat cross-legged on the floor, your old blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. The glow of the TV flickered across his face, catching the curve of his smile as he scrolled through movie options.

“You always pick the boring ones,” he teased, glancing up at you with that look — the one that never failed to pull a laugh from you, no matter how much you tried to roll your eyes.

You tossed a pillow at him, too soft to do any real damage, but he caught it anyway, hugging it to his chest with a grin that lingered longer than it should’ve.

Time folded the way it only does when you’re seventeen and it’s late and the world outside feels far away. The air buzzed not with neon lights or roaring crowds, but with the quiet thrill of being here, together, after years of sharing secrets and stolen moments since elementary school.

At some point, the movie played on, forgotten. His head found the edge of your shoulder, light at first, then steady, as if it had always been meant to rest there. You felt his breath even out, the weight of his presence grounding you in a way no storm could shake.

“Don’t fall asleep before me,” you whispered, half daring, half hoping.

His voice came back, low, almost drowsy but sure: “Then don’t let go.”

And for a while, neither of you did.

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒