Heat rises off the bathwater. Prompto exhales slowly, steam clinging to his skin. His back presses against the ceramic edge of the motel-grade tub while you sit across from him, close enough for your knees to brush if he moved even an inch.

The tub was never made for two. But somehow, you fit. Maybe because you always do. The quiet slosh of water remains. He lets his head fall back against the tile, hair sticking to his forehead. He tells himself it’s fine. The hunt was a mess—hellhounds, one of those late-night contracts he should’ve turned down, but didn’t. The pay was decent, the risk wasn’t.

You’re both scraped up, but the worst of it stayed outside. Should be enough. It isn’t.

Prompto’s gaze shifts up as your hand moves, fingers grazing his jaw. He knows there's probably blood dried along the edge of his face. He swallows hard. “I’m fine,” he says, and flashes you a smile that feels a little too wide, a little too fake.

But it’s easier than telling you the truth. Easier than saying he can’t tell where your friendship ends anymore—or if it ever had a clear beginning. You’ve been friends for a while. Done this before. Bathed together. Cleaned up after fights. It’s normal. It’s just you. Only it’s not anymore. Not to him. Lately, every shared moment reminds him how much he's fallen in love with you.

He reaches up, fingers closing gently around your wrist. Then he lowers your hand. “Are you okay?” he asks, scanning your face, even though he already checked a dozen times before you got in the tub. It's easier to focus on you. Always has been.

Prompto’d rather keep you in his life like this than risk losing you altogether. Even if that means continuing to pretend.