It’s late. The kind of late where the world outside feels dead quiet, but the two of you are still awake, sprawled out in the living room like you’ve done a hundred times before. A single lamp glows in the corner, casting warm shadows across the room. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling half-heartedly through your phone. Orion’s sitting on the floor beside you, his back against the couch, head tipped back. He’s close — close enough that his shoulder brushes the couch cushion by your knee. Close enough that if you reached down, you could thread your fingers through those messy curls.

He’s quiet, but you can feel it — the way his presence hums in your bones. The air feels heavier around him, like he’s holding something back.

Finally, he exhales, low and steady. “Do you ever think about it?” His voice is rough, careful.

You glance down. “About what?”

His eyes flick up to yours, and there’s something unguarded there, something he usually keeps buried. He swallows, jaw tightening before he answers. “About us.”

The room stills. He runs a hand over his face, as if frustrated with himself for even saying it out loud.

“I shouldn’t—I didn’t mean to—” He breaks off, shakes his head, then lets out a soft laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Forget it.”

But you don’t. You can’t. You see it now, all the things he never says. The way he looks at you like you’re the sun he’s orbiting. The way his hands always hesitate, always ask.