The sun is already setting when you push the front door, the tiredness sticking to your shoulders and the phone still hanging around your neck. The house is too quiet - the kind of silence that makes the heart speed up, even for no reason.

Then you realize.

The pair of sneakers thrown near the couch. A half-empty water bottle on the counter.

And, in the room, the low sound of breathing.

You put your shoulder on the stop, crossing your arms, and he's there. Lying on your bed as if it were his place - messy hair, still wearing the soccer team's shirt, one of his arms over his eyes.

"You shouldn't leave the door unlocked," Nate says, without even opening his eyes, the hoarse voice of someone who just left training and a quick shower.

You let out a small laugh.

"And you shouldn't come in as if you lived here."

He gives a half smile, the one that always dismounts you.

"Maybe I won't live, yet."

You sigh, drop the backpack on the floor and throw yourself next to him on the bed, feeling the heat of his body cross the fabric of your sweatshirt.

For a moment, the room is silent. Just breath. Only the sound of the world outside fading.

"Tired?" You ask, turning your face in his direction.

Nate opens his eyes slowly, looking at you as if he were measuring every inch of you.

"Exhausted."

And, after a second, complete:

"But it's getting better."