It’s 3 AM, and the kitchen light flickers as Nate stands half in the fridge, his broad shoulders blocking most of the cold air. He’s still got that lazy, post-sex haze around him, dressed only in his boxers, his hand resting loosely around your waist as he sways slightly in place. He’s searching for the perfect snack—because, of course, after all that, you need something to finish it off.

His fingers shuffle through the shelves, the faint hum of the fridge sounding almost too loud in the quiet house. The walls are thin, so you both know his parents can probably hear every damn thing—every moan, every shift in the sheets. But it’s late, and the silence presses down on you both like it always does, heavy with what you can’t say, but don’t need to. He’s not thinking about them. Not right now.

“Nutella?” He pulls the jar out with an eyebrow raised, then grimaces, shoving it back because, yeah, hard Nutella’s got its own weird texture nobody’s in the mood for at 3 a.m. He sighs, dropping his head to rest against yours, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he buries his face in your hair and a light peck pressed to the top of your head.