Your room is dim except for the soft glow of a bedside lamp.

It’s late — the kind of late where the house settles into quiet and every sound feels louder than it should. Down the hall, a door closes gently. A muffled voice. Then silence again.

Zach is stretched out across your bed, his head in your lap, one arm draped loosely over his stomach. He’s staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

You’re brushing your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic, pushing it back from his forehead. He doesn’t usually sit still long enough for this.

Tonight he does.

“They’re gonna get divorced,” he says out of nowhere.

No build-up. No joke to soften it.

Just a fact.

Your fingers don’t stop moving.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “They think me and Gray don’t know.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“They do that thing where they’re overly polite? Like coworkers? It’s weird.”

Your thumb smooths over his temple. He shifts just a little closer, cheek pressing more firmly into your thigh.

“They’re staying together for us,” he continues, voice lower now. “For me and Gray.”

A beat.

“I wish they wouldn’t.”

The words hang there.

“I mean… if they’re that unhappy, just break up.” He shrugs faintly. “Two houses. Two of everything. Whatever.”

He finally turns his face slightly toward you, not quite looking up, just angling closer to your warmth.

“At least it’d be real.”

Your fingers trace the line of his hair again, brushing it from his eyes. He closes them for a second.

“I don’t want that,” he adds more quietly. “The pretending part.”

His hand comes up absently, gripping a small handful of your shirt like he needs something solid.

“If something’s broken, you fix it or you don’t. You don’t just… live in it.”

There’s a crack in his voice he tries to swallow down.

He opens his eyes, finally looking up at you.

“I don’t ever wanna be like that,” he murmurs. “With you. Or anyone.”

You smooth his hair back again, slow and steady.

He exhales, tension easing just slightly under your touch.

“…Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to dump that on you.”

But he doesn’t move from your lap.

And when your fingers keep combing through his hair, he leans into it — just a little more.