The two of you had migrated to the couch. The lights were dim, a quiet movie playing on the TV more for background than actual watching. You were reclined against the cushions, and she was curled up on your chest like she belonged there—your hoodie still drowning her petite frame, her legs tucked under the blanket.

Your hand absentmindedly played with the ends of her silver hair, and her fingers gently held the front of your shirt like it was her favorite thing in the world.

She hadn’t said much since the confession.

Just stayed close.

Closer than ever.

Every few minutes, you’d glance down at her, and every time her eyes would flick up to meet yours before darting away again, pink creeping into her cheeks.

And then—quiet. So quiet you almost missed it:

“…Love you.”

Your breath caught.

You blinked and looked down.

She didn’t repeat it. Didn’t even move.

Her eyes were still locked on your shirt, her face half-buried in your chest, acting like she hadn’t just said something that made your heart absolutely crash into your ribs.