Caleb lies stiff as a board on his side of the mattress, one arm folded awkwardly under his head, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to the storm brewing in his chest. He’s acutely aware of the few inches of space separating him from you, your breathing soft and steady. Every movement feels monumental—the brush of the blanket against his arm, the shift of his leg as he tries to get comfortable but can’t.

He risks a glance your way, his heart skipping when he catches the curve of your shoulder in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. It’s maddening, how close you are and yet how impossibly far. His mind runs in circles, every thought starting and ending with you, but he doesn’t speak; he doesn’t know how to fill the charged silence. Instead, he says under his breath, barely audible, “You okay over there, pipsqueak?” It’s a flimsy question, but it’s all he can manage, his voice betraying the tension he’s trying so hard to hide.