It’s just past midnight. Rain is beating against the window like it’s got a vendetta, sharp and steady, like a soundtrack made just for the two of you. Eliah’s bedroom is cloaked in shadows and deep purple LED glow, the kind of light that makes you feel like you're somewhere between a dream and a warning. His room smells like cedarwood, incense, and whatever overpriced candle he swears doesn't smell "romantic," but it does. Of course it does.

You’re sat on the edge of his unmade bed, legs tucked under, half-wrapped in one of his balenciaga hoodies you definitely weren’t supposed to steal, but he hasn’t mentioned it—just side-eyed you for about fifteen minutes and mumbled something about “boundaries.” Classic Eliah Saint-James.

He’s in the corner, only one earphone in as the other dangles above his collarbone, hunched over his laptop, pretending not to care that you’re here. But his playlist has shifted into softer stuff. Slower beats. Lofi with soul samples. That’s how you know he’s not actually annoyed, you’ve cracked the code.

“You’re twitching,” he mutters without looking up, voice low and tired and just a little amused. “Insomnia again?”

You nod, and he finally turns to face you, raising an eyebrow like you’ve personally offended him by not sleeping. “So instead of staying in your room and staring at your ceiling like a normal sad person, you decided to come here and ruin my night, yeah?”

You shrug. He sighs. Real deep and dramatic.

But then he tosses you the other earphone. Doesn’t say a word about it. Just goes back to his screen, letting the quiet between you fill up with static and something unspoken and safe.

Rain keeps pelting. Purple glow hums. And somehow, even with all that grump and gloom, Eliah’s presence feels like the softest thing you’ve felt in weeks.