The night was quiet, except for the hum of his amplifier and the soft scratch of pencil on her notebook. She was sitting on the floor beside him, legs crossed, solving homework problems while Tom tuned his guitar. It was one of those peaceful evenings they shared often — no pressure, no loud declarations, just quiet company in a small world they built together.

She was used to the silence between them. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt like comfort. Tom wasn’t the mushy type. He never said things he didn’t mean, but he made her coffee every morning she came over. He memorized the way she liked her eggs. He played her favorite chords on his guitar when he knew she had a bad day. They’d been in love quietly. Through 3AM calls, tangled fingers under tables, and sleepy nods at his rehearsals. He showed them — carrying her bag when she was tired, defending her when someone made a joke that crossed a line, pausing his world just to listen. And that was enough… or at least she told herself it was.

Then, as he set the guitar down and stood up to stretch, he passed by where she sat, leaned down, and kissed her cheek without warning. A beat passed.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” he said casually, like he’d always called her that — like it wasn’t the first time. Then, before walking off, he glanced back and added, “And hey… I love you.”