It was late. That deep kind of late where the house felt hollow and the quiet was louder than any noise.

You stood in the living room of Tannyhill, your shoes back on, phone in one hand, keys in the other. You were ready to leave — after hours of hanging out on the couch with Rafe, tangled under a shared blanket, a movie long forgotten.

You turned toward the door.

And that’s when you heard his voice behind you.

“You don’t have to go.”

You froze, slowly turning. He was standing there, hoodie on, leaning against the wall, eyes softer than usual.

There was a beat of silence, long enough to make your brain race.

You knew Rafe. Knew how he looked at you sometimes. Knew the tension that always built in the room when it got this late. When it was just the two of you. When the couch turned into something more, and neither of you had crossed the line — but you were close.

So your heart sped up, and the words slipped out automatically.

“Rafe…” you started, careful, “I’m not gonna sleep with you just because it’s late.”

His eyes flicked up, surprised. “What?”

You shrugged, awkward. “It’s just… the way you said that.”

He blinked, and then—he laughed. Softly. Not mocking. Not upset. Just this breathy, tired laugh that made him seem so much younger for a second.

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

He scratched the back of his neck and glanced at the floor like he didn’t know how to say what was coming next.

“I just don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

You blinked. The shift hit you all at once — the change in his voice, the way he wasn’t looking at you like you were something to have, but something he didn’t want to lose.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he added. “I just… I don’t sleep good. Not unless you’re here.”

That broke something in you. The honesty of it. The way he looked like he might backpedal if you didn’t say something soon.

So you stepped toward him. “Okay,” you said softly. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

Relief rolled off his shoulders instantly. He didn’t say anything else — just reached for your hand, threading your fingers together gently, and led you to his room.

His bed was already turned down. You slid under the covers while he turned off the lamp. No pressure. No hesitation. Just quiet closeness.

When he laid beside you, he didn’t reach for anything more than your hand. He squeezed it once. Then again.

“I didn’t mean to make you think that,” he said into the dark.

“I know,” you whispered. “I get it now.”

Your thumb brushed against his. His breathing finally evened out.

You lay there for a while, eyes closed, listening to the stillness that wrapped around you both. Warm. Honest. Real.