The room’s quiet except for the hum of a fan and the occasional car passing outside. Jason’s stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily dragging a melting ice cube across his chest. “These pillows suck,” he mutters, not looking at you. “Feel like they’re filled with bricks.” You don’t reply right away, just let your leg brush against his beneath the twisted sheets. He grins faintly. “That’s the first time you haven’t argued with me in days.”

A pause. Then, softer: “You snore. Barely, but it’s there. Weirdly comforting.” You glance over, catching how his eyes are fixed on the ceiling like he’s afraid of whatever’s between you if he looks your way. “This thing… whatever it is,” he says after a breath, “it’s not just nothing.” And though neither of you says what it really feels like, the silence that follows holds more weight than either of you will admit — for now.