the couch had always been theirs. half-sunken cushions, one broken leg propped up by a stack of old magazines, the kind of couch that knew their secrets better than anyone else. it was late, stupid late, the hour where the world felt quieter and softer, like it was holding its breath.

you’d fallen asleep without warning. one minute you were talking about something completely random — some story about your neighbor’s cat — and the next, your words slurred and your head tipped sideways. jake barely had time to react before your weight settled against him, warm and familiar, your temple resting on his shoulder like it belonged there.

he froze.

not in a dramatic way. more like his brain blue-screened. this wasn’t new. you’d slept next to him during movie marathons, leaned on him during long bus rides, existed in his space like it was nothing. you were best friends. this was normal. mundane. painfully ordinary.

and yet.

your breathing evened out, soft puffs of air brushing his collarbone. your hand, limp with sleep, rested against his thigh, fingers curled slightly like you trusted him with your whole body. jake stared straight ahead, afraid that if he looked at you, something would crack open in his chest and spill everywhere.

that’s when it hit him. not like lightning, not like fireworks. more like gravity. slow, inevitable, impossible to ignore.

he loved you.

not in the loud, cinematic way he always imagined love would arrive. no sudden confession, no dramatic rain scene. just this. you asleep on his shoulder. the weight of you. the comfort. the terrifying realization that this — this exact moment — was all he ever wanted.

his heart started doing this stupid thing, beating too fast for how quiet everything was. he noticed details he’d never really let himself dwell on before. the way your lashes rested against your cheeks. the tiny frown between your brows that disappeared when he shifted slightly so you’d be more comfortable. how natural it felt to exist like this.

jake swallowed hard, throat tight. he knew, suddenly, with embarrassing clarity, that if this was all he ever got — late nights, shared silences, you trusting him enough to sleep like this — he’d still choose it every time. but god, he wanted more. he wanted mornings, inside jokes that lasted years, your head on his shoulder not just by accident but by choice.

carefully, so carefully, he lifted his hand and hovered it near you, hesitating. then he let his fingers rest lightly against yours. you didn’t wake up. you just shifted closer, like his presence was something you leaned toward even in sleep.

jake smiled, soft and a little wrecked.

“yeah,” he thought, staring down at you like you were something sacred. “i’m so in love, it’s actually insane.”

and for the first time, the idea didn’t scare him at all.