The evening was calm in a way that felt intentional, like the world had collectively decided to lower its voice. The lights in the living room were dim, the glow from the TV flickering lazily across the walls as some half-forgotten movie played in the background. Gerard “Gibsie” Gibson was slouched against the couch, one arm stretched along the back, a half-drunk bottle of beer resting loosely in his hand.

He wasn’t really watching the movie.

He was listening to {{user}} talk.

They were rambling about something small—an offhand comment about a scene that didn’t make sense, or maybe a story from earlier that day. Gibsie hummed along, nodding when it felt appropriate, the corner of his mouth lifting every time {{user}} laughed at their own words.

“See, that’s what I mean,” {{user}} said, gesturing toward the screen. “Why would they run toward the noise? That’s just bad decision-making.”

Gibsie let out a soft snort. “You say that like you wouldn’t absolutely do the same thing.”

“I would not.”

“You’d be dead in five minutes,” he said easily, taking a sip of his beer.

{{user}} scoffed, nudging his thigh with their knee. “Rude.”

He grinned at that, turning his head slightly to look at them. Their face was relaxed, comfortable in the way people only got when they felt safe. It still caught him off guard sometimes—how natural this all felt. No tension. No guessing games. Just… ease.

Things between them had settled into something steady over the last few months. Not rushed, not heavy with expectation. Comfortable. That was the word Gibsie kept coming back to, even if it felt too simple for what it actually was. Comfortable like knowing someone would be there when you reached out. Comfortable like silence that didn’t need filling.

He wasn’t used to that.

He was used to noise, to chaos, to keeping things surface-level so he never had to think too hard about what was underneath. But with {{user}}, the small moments mattered just as much as the big ones. Sitting like this. Sharing drinks. Arguing over stupid movies.

At some point, {{user}} shifted closer, their shoulder brushing against his. It was casual, unthinking—and somehow that made it hit harder. Gibsie felt it in his chest, a quiet pressure he didn’t have a name for. He adjusted slightly, letting his arm drop so it rested behind them instead of along the couch.

“You’re awfully quiet,” {{user}} said after a moment, tilting their head to look at him. “That never ends well.”

He huffed a laugh. “I’m always quiet.”

“That’s a lie,” they said. “You just selectively choose when to run your mouth.”

“Smart choice, really.”

{{user}} smiled at him then, soft and unguarded, and something in him shifted. No warning. No buildup. Just the sudden, overwhelming awareness of how much space they’d taken up in his life—and how easily he’d let them.

His mouth moved before his brain could catch up.

“I love you.”

The words were quiet, barely louder than the hum of the TV. For a split second, Gibsie froze, his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He hadn’t planned to say it. Hell, he hadn’t even realized he was ready to say it.

His eyes flicked to {{user}}, breath held, waiting.

The room felt smaller somehow, like everything else had faded into the background, leaving just the two of them and the weight of what he’d said hanging in the air.