It’s nearly midnight when the knock comes.

Not loud. Just two gentle taps, like whoever’s outside is hoping you’re still awake — or maybe hoping you’re not.

You already know who it is.

You don’t even check the peephole. Just open the door and there he is: Noctis, hoodie half-zipped, hair slightly damp like he just ran a hand through it after getting out of the shower — or out of the rain. You're not sure which.

“You’re here again,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “That’s three times this week.”

He shrugs, but there’s a small, sleepy grin tugging at his lips. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You never can.”

“Not when it’s quiet.”

You step aside to let him in without asking. It's become a ritual now — him showing up late, you pretending not to be waiting for it.

He kicks his shoes off, throws himself onto your couch like it’s his, and grabs the throw pillow he always complains is too soft. You pad back to the kitchen and return with two mugs — tea for you, whatever leftover can of something fizzy he left in your fridge for him.

He sips it, then stretches out, head tilted back so he can look at you upside down.

“You ever think this is weird?” he asks suddenly, voice low and curious.

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he gestures vaguely between you both. “Me. Here. This late. All the time.”

You glance at the clock. 12:07 AM. The mug in your hand feels suddenly heavier.

“I guess I figured you’d stop if it was.”

Noctis hums, quiet. He sits up a little straighter. The glow from your lamp throws gold across his features, softens the tired edge of his eyes.

“I don’t really wanna stop,” he says.

Then — silence.

The kind that stretches, comfortable but thick with something unsaid. You wonder if this is it — if this is the moment the line between “friend” and “something else” gets crossed. Or if you’ll both pretend it never came up, like always.

But he doesn’t move. He just watches you, waiting.