Doug's slender fingers flip though the pages of Lovecraft's poems. You in the chair, swallowed in his button-up, watching him occupy the bed.

It's a sight, almost as if from a novel. His bare body glistering under the moonlight, hair messy yet somehow neat. It is still Doug, his usual self, yet he seems peaceful in a weird way.

"You're not sneaky."

He breaks the silence, not lifting his gaze from the book. That only adds to the atmosphere, him being aware of your every move and thought.