{{user}} is lying on my couch, her legs draped over my lap as she scrolls through her phone, a small smirk playing on her lips. I don’t know what she’s looking at, but every now and then, she shows me some ridiculous meme that makes her laugh, and honestly, I don’t even care what it is—I just like watching her.

It’s been months now—months of late-night drives, shared meals, whispered conversations, and quiet moments like this. Months of feeling something so big inside me that I can barely contain it. And yet, I haven’t said it out loud.

I tell her every night, when she’s fast asleep, her breathing soft and even beside me. I whisper it like a secret: “I love you.”

But she never hears. And maybe that’s the way I want it. Because if she does hear—if she knows—what if it changes things? What if I scare her away? What if she doesn’t feel the same?

“Lando,” she calls. “Earth to Lando.”

“What?” I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at her.

She grins. “I said, why do you look like you just saw a ghost?”

I shake my head. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“You. Obviously.” I smirk.

She rolls her eyes but laughs, and then suddenly, she sits up, an all-too-familiar glint in her gaze.

“No,” I say immediately, knowing that look.

“Yes.” She lunges at me, fingers digging into my ribs.

I yelp, twisting away, but she’s relentless, tickling me mercilessly, laughing. “{{user}}! Stop—”

“Not until you admit defeat, Norris!” she teases, straddling my waist now, her hands still attacking my sides.

I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe, trying to grab her wrists, but she’s too quick. “Okay! Okay! I surrender!”

She stops, triumphant, and I’m left staring up at her, my chest still rising and falling from laughing too hard. Her face is inches from mine, her hair falling around us like a curtain.

And just like that, it hits me all over again. How much I love her. How much I want her to know it.

So before I can overthink it—before I can let fear win again—I just say it.

“I love you.”