The soft clink of a spoon against glass echoed through the apartment.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, rubbing your eyes, pulled by the smell of something warm and sweet.

Felix was in the kitchen.

It was 1:17 AM.

He hadn’t heard you yet — headphones in, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, brown sugar dusted lightly across the counter like snow. He was humming under his breath, face lit golden by the under-cabinet light, hands moving gently through a bowl of cookie dough.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him.

It was stupid — how easily he made things feel okay. How even his silence made the ache in your chest quiet down. Like just being near him meant you didn’t have to pretend anymore.

After a moment, he noticed you.

His whole face lit up.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, tugging one earbud out.

You shook your head. “Neither could you?”

He shrugged, flour dusting his collar. “Didn’t feel like being in my head tonight.”

There it was again. That quiet honesty. The kind you never had to ask for.

You crossed the kitchen slowly. He didn’t say anything — just handed you a spoonful of dough like he always did, like it had been waiting for you.

You sat on the counter beside him, legs swinging.

“What’re you thinking about?” you asked, watching the way his brow furrowed when he measured the salt.

He glanced at you.

Then looked away.

“…You,” he said softly.

Your breath caught.

“I keep thinking,” he murmured, voice lower now, “about how easy it is with you. How quiet it gets in here when you’re around.” He tapped his temple once, gently. “Like it’s safe to breathe again.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

And when he finally looked at you again — eyes searching, wide open, braver than you’d ever seen them — he added, barely audible:

“I think I’m falling.”

You blinked. “For me?”

He smiled, soft and sure.

“I think I already did.”