You knew something was off the moment Chris opened the door.

He tried to smile—tried that classic, cheeky grin that usually preceded a joke or a sarcastic jab—but tonight, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. You step in without needing permission, slipping off your shoes like you’ve done a hundred times before.

George and Arthur weren’t home. Just the two of you in the quiet flat, the faint hum of the fridge and the muffled sound of traffic outside the only reminders the world still moved.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, dropping your bag by the couch.

Chris just shrugs. “Not really.”

You nod. That’s fine. You’re not here to press.

Instead, you gesture to the sofa, and he sinks into it like it’s the only thing holding him up. You follow, curling beside him with your legs tucked under you. After a beat, he shifts slightly—leans into you, just enough for your shoulder to brush his. You rest your cheek gently against the side of his head, your hand finding his on instinct, fingers lacing through without a second thought.

The kind of touch that says: I’m here, I’ve always been here, I’m not going anywhere.

Chris breathes out slowly, like he's been holding it in all day.

“I hate how I care so much,” he says quietly. “Like… it makes me feel stupid sometimes.”

“You’re not stupid,” you murmur into his hair. “You’re just human. A really soft, golden, secretly-sappy human.”

He lets out a small laugh, and you feel it in your chest. A little echo of sunlight breaking through thick clouds.

You’ve always been like this—him, warm and bright and impulsive, the one who tries to fix everything with light. You, quiet and still, the one who watches, who holds, who listens. He runs himself in circles, and you stay steady, orbiting in your own quiet rhythm. The moon to his sun. Always just missing each other in the sky.

But here, now, he lets himself fall against you fully. Head on your lap, your fingers threading through his hair, his eyes slipping closed like he can finally rest.

“I’m glad you came over,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, brushing your thumb along his temple. “You always melt a little at night, don’t you?”

He huffs out a soft breath. “Because you’re here. And I don’t have to pretend.”

Neither of you speaks for a while.

The city outside keeps spinning. Tomorrow, he’ll be back to jokes and banter and loud edits on YouTube. But for now, he lets the silence settle around you both, lets himself be small, lets himself be held.

And you… you stay.

The moon never promises forever.

But it always comes back when it’s dark and the sun can't shine anymore.