Joseph’s apartment, lights low, a rainy night outside. A heartbreaking movie playing softly on the screen. Blankets, tea, and the kind of silence that only comes when you’re both invested... and trying not to cry first.

There was a steady patter of rain against the window, the kind of soft background noise that made everything feel closer—warmer—even while the movie on screen slowly, cruelly, broke their hearts.

{{user}} was curled into the couch, eyes glassy but pretending they weren’t. Joseph sat beside her, elbow resting on the back cushion, half-focused on the screen and half-focused on the way she was very, very clearly not okay.

“Are you crying?” he asked, voice teasing but low.

She sniffed, not looking at him. “No.”

He looked at her sideways. “Blink twice if you’re lying.”

“I’m just emotionally invested in the characters,” she mumbled, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. “You have no heart.”

“I’m not crying either.”

“That’s because you’re emotionally stunted.”

Joseph chuckled. “Ouch.”

The scene on screen got worse—slow music, soft-spoken goodbye, tragic flashback. It was designed to destroy you.

And {{user}}, despite her best efforts, let out the smallest, most pitiful sniffle.

Joseph glanced down and whispered, “Okay, but now you are crying.”