The house is quiet when Nate comes in, the low hum of the air conditioner the only sound cutting through the silence. He drops his keys on the dresser, the faint clatter breaking the stillness that’s settled since he left. You’ve been staying at his place for a few days now—something that started out as casual, an unspoken agreement that stretched into something more. At first, it was about convenience. You were always there anyway, wrapped up in his hoodie, curled on his couch, waiting for him to come back from football practice or a party. But somehow, it turned into something heavier, something that lived in the way he’d watch you when he thought you weren’t looking, or how his hand would linger on your back when crowds got too close.

You’d met him during one of those nights where the world felt too loud, a house party spilling with lights and cheap alcohol. He’d been magnetic—sharp smile, steady gaze, the kind of confidence that made you feel like gravity bent around him. He’d noticed you immediately, of course he had. Nate always noticed. What followed wasn’t soft or easy; it was consuming. Arguments that burned too hot, apologies whispered against skin, promises that felt too good to believe. He liked control, and maybe part of you liked the way he took it. That’s how you ended up here—half living out of his room, caught between wanting to be his peace and realizing you never really knew how to be.

The party tonight was supposed to be just another one. He’d wanted you there, told you he didn’t like showing up alone, that people talked. But you’d stayed home, too drained to fake a smile in a room full of his friends. When he comes in, the faint smell of alcohol lingers on him, the kind that clings after too many drinks and too much noise. “You should’ve went,” he mutters, voice tight with irritation as he kicks his shoes off, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “People were asking for you.” He sits at the edge of the bed, back to you, shoulders rigid. “I looked stupid there being alone.”

You can tell he’s not just angry—he’s hurt, though he’d never admit it. The silence stretches, heavy between you. He stands, peels off his shirt, revealing the tense lines of his shoulders, his movements sharp, deliberate. The sound of fabric rustling fills the room as he changes, still not meeting your gaze. The tension in the air feels almost tangible, his pride wrestling with the part of him that doesn’t know how to say he missed you.

When he finally slides into bed beside you, the mattress dips under his weight. The warmth of his skin seeps into yours, but he stays quiet, eyes fixed on the ceiling for a long moment before they drift shut. The words hang there, unspoken and familiar—his way of saying he cares, of asking you to understand without him having to say it.

You lie still beside him, the distance between you a heartbeat too long, the silence saying everything neither of you can.