It was 2:47 a.m., and the house was awake in the worst way.

Not loud. Not chaotic. Just restless.

The TV cast a dull blue glow across the living room, frozen on some late-night rerun nobody was watching. Matt had fallen asleep on the floor hours ago, limbs tangled, phone still clutched in his hand. Edd sat at the table with a half-finished can of cola, sketching aimlessly, lines going nowhere. Tom leaned against the window, staring out into the street like it owed him answers.

And you stood near the door, jacket already on.

No one asked why at first.

Tord noticed before anyone else. He always did. Sitting on the arm of the couch, arms crossed, boots still on like he never planned to stay long, he watched you with that sharp, distant focus.

“You’re going out,” he said.

Not a question.

You nodded. “Just need air.”

Tom snorted. “You’ve had air all day.”

“Not this kind.”

That earned a glance from Tord.

Outside, the street was empty, washed in orange streetlight and quiet. The city felt paused, like everyone else had been invited somewhere you weren’t. You stepped onto the sidewalk, breathing in cold air, trying to shake the feeling that you were slightly out of sync with the world.

The door creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn around, but you knew.

“Figured,” Tord said, lighting a cigarette. The flame briefly lit his face — tired eyes, jaw set too tight. “You always leave when things get quiet.”

You hugged your jacket closer. “And you follow when you don’t want to be alone.”

He didn’t argue.

For a moment, you stood side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. Just two silhouettes under a flickering streetlamp.

“You don’t fit in there,” he said finally.

You frowned. “Neither do you.”

He exhaled smoke, slow. “Yeah. Difference is, I stopped trying.”

That hit closer than you expected.

You kicked a pebble across the pavement. “I don’t know where I fit.”

Tord tilted his head, studying you. “That’s the worst place to be. Not inside. Not outside. Just… hovering.”

You glanced at him. “Is that how you feel?”

A pause.

“Every day.”

The house behind you hummed softly — laughter from a TV laugh track, Matt shifting in his sleep. Warmth. Familiarity. Safety.

None of it reached you.

“I feel like I’m watching my life through a window,” you admitted. “Like everyone else knows the rules and I missed the memo.”

Tord’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Rules are overrated.”

“You say that like you’re not lonely.”

He looked away. “I didn’t say that.”

The silence stretched, thick but not uncomfortable. The city breathed around you — distant cars, a dog barking blocks away, the low hum of something electric and unseen.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked.

Tord didn’t hesitate. “Every time I stop moving.”

“And?”

“And then I remember,” he said, voice quieter, “that even if I go somewhere else, I’ll still be me.”

You swallowed. “That’s terrifying.”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

A gust of wind cut between you, cold enough to make you shiver. Without thinking, Tord shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The gesture was rough, unceremonious — but careful.

You looked at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

Your fingers brushed the sleeve. Not intimate. Just real.

From inside, Tom’s voice carried faintly. “If you two start brooding harder, the house might implode.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself.

Tord smirked. “See? That’s why we stay.”

You glanced back at the door, then at the empty street ahead.

“Do you ever feel like you’re standing on the wrong side of your own life?” you asked.

Tord met your eyes fully now. No sarcasm. No armor.

“Yeah,” he said. “But sometimes… standing outside is the only way to see it clearly.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then you stepped closer to him — not touching, just enough to share the same space, the same cold air.

“Maybe,” you said softly, “being outside doesn’t mean being alone.”

He looked at you for a long second.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

He said nonchalant, he looked at you, analyzing you before looking away with a scowl.