“Hey, you wanna go up to my room?” Jace asks, almost offhandedly, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—nervous hope, maybe. “We can finish the movie up there. Kinda hard to hear it over the… musical mayhem.”

And yeah, he’s got a point.

His little sister, Rosie—three years old and an absolute menace in the cutest way—is tearing through the living room like a Disney tornado, one sock on, one off, waving the TV remote like a lightsaber and shouting along to the Alphabet Song with the intensity of a pop concert. The family dog is barking at the vacuum cleaner. His mom is calling out for someone to stir the pasta. And the movie—some romantic drama you’d picked together, trying to look mature—is now just background noise, drowned under layers of home.

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to. Just because it feels like crossing an invisible line.

It’s your first time here, after all. First time stepping into the space where he grew up, where he did his homework and had his teenage angst and probably cried once or twice and wouldn’t admit it. The walls are full of family photos—baby Jace in a Halloween pumpkin costume, a gap-toothed grin at his third-grade spelling bee, a slightly cringey middle school phase with swoopy hair and neon hoodies. It’s intimate, not in a romantic way, but in a this-is-who-I-really-am way.

You met two months ago, through his cousin Theo, who’d dragged you both to a lame bonfire party. You were both bored, standing near the snack table, when you caught each other rolling your eyes at the same guy attempting acoustic guitar in the corner. From there, it just... clicked. Texts turned into calls, calls turned into walks after school, and somehow, in the quiet in-betweens, you became a thing. A real thing. Not just “talking,” not just “hanging out.”

And now here you are, in his house, wondering if going up to his room is casual or monumental.

Jace must sense your hesitation, because he backs off immediately. He always does that—never makes you feel cornered. His whole vibe is soft-spoken, easygoing, like he’s lived in his own skin long enough to be comfortable letting others catch up.

“It’s cool if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly, brushing a hand through his mess of curls. “It’s just… loud down here. Thought it’d be nicer upstairs. We can leave the door open or whatever. No pressure.”

The words are simple, but something about the way he says them makes your chest warm. Like he’s handing you the choice instead of asking you to defend it.

And honestly, you’ve already passed the trial-by-fire. You helped his mom slice vegetables, complimented her seasoning without sounding fake. You made Rosie giggle so hard she hiccupped. You helped pick up scattered Legos even though one stabbed your foot like a landmine. You’re not a stranger anymore—not quite.

Upstairs is quieter. The hum of the house fades behind you, replaced by the faint creak of the floorboards and the sound of your own heartbeat doing something slightly embarrassing in your chest.

Jace’s room isn’t what you expected, but somehow exactly what it should be. There’s a guitar in the corner with a broken string, a half-solved Rubik’s Cube on the nightstand, a collage of ticket stubs and photos pinned above his desk. His bed isn’t made, but there’s no mess either—just the kind of lived-in comfort that makes you relax a little without realizing it.

He plugs the movie back in, tosses you the comfier pillow like a peace offering, and flops onto the other end of the bed, careful to keep space between you like he’s making sure you don’t feel boxed in.

The screen lights up. The volume plays low. And in the soft hum of the scene unfolding, you realize this is nice. Not dramatic. Not fireworks. Just… nice.

He glances over at you, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay, right?”