There’s a ringing in your ears, soft and distant, blending into the low hum of the street outside. The glow of your phone screen flickers against your face, but you’re not really looking at it—just staring past the blurry names and notifications, past the words you don’t have the energy to read.

Reki’s beside you, sprawled on your bed like he belongs there, like nothing’s changed. His skateboard leans against your desk, his hoodie is tossed somewhere on the floor, and his socks are mismatched, one striped and one plain.

It’s almost enough to make you forget the way things feel different now. Almost.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he mutters, voice muffled as he buries his face into your pillow.

You huff out a soft, tired laugh. “You’re just bad at sleeping.”

He lifts his head, red eyes hazy with exhaustion, but still warm. Still him. “Or maybe you’re just bad at shutting up in your own head.”

You tuck your hair behind your ear, blinking at him, but you don’t argue. He’s not wrong.

Reki sighs and flops onto his back, staring at your ceiling like the answers are written there. “I feel like I should say something,” he admits. “But I don’t know what.”

His hand twitches, like he wants to reach for you but thinks better of it. “I don’t want to mess things up,” he says, quieter this time. “Not with you.”