The afternoon pressed in slow and warm, cicadas buzzing faintly through the open window. The living room was dim, curtains filtering the sun into long strips across the floor. You were lying on the couch, one leg hooked over the backrest, your shirt rumpled from sleep. Dominic was stretched along the length of you, head resting on your stomach, one arm flung around your waist like he couldn’t quite let go.

His eyes were open, unfocused. He hadn’t said much since waking. You could feel the tension in him—quiet, coiled, like something half-spoken sat heavy on his tongue.

“You’re still thinking,” you murmured, fingers brushing through his hair.

He made a sound, noncommittal. Then, after a long pause—

“If we got married,” he said, voice low, “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

You smiled faintly. “You don’t have to know. You just show up.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost a scoff at himself. “That’s the part that worries me.”

Your hand slid to the nape of his neck, thumb resting there. “You don’t have to perform anything. It’s not a stage.”

He didn’t answer. His fingers drummed once against your side.

“Everyone in my family married like it was war,” he muttered. “Deals. Appearances. No one meant it.”

You said nothing. Just kept your hand on him, steady.

“It wouldn’t be like that,” he added, quieter now. “With you.”

“I know.”

A silence stretched between you, slow and soft, until he spoke again, eyes still unfocused.

“I’d still be terrible at it.”

“You’re already not,” you said simply.

He shifted, embarrassed by your calm. You felt it in the small tension in his jaw, the way he swallowed like his mouth had gone dry.

“…You’d tell me if I ruined it?”

“You won’t.”

Another silence. Then he leaned in slightly, head still resting on you like it was the only place he knew to be.

“…Okay,” he said finally, barely audible.