The duvet is too heavy, the mattress too soft. It feels like sinking into quicksand, but instead of grit and danger, you are drowning in the scent of laundry detergent and whatever expensive, subtle cologne Theodore wears. It smells like safety. It smells like something you don’t deserve and definitely shouldn’t be ruining with the scent of stale menthols clinging to your hair.

You are lying on your side, face pressed into his pillow, listening to the rhythm of the room. The digital clock glows a dull red: 3:14 AM.

On the floor beside the bed, a makeshift nest of blankets shifts. Theodore is down there. Of course he is. He’s the martyr, the saint, the boy who found you flickering out like a dying lighter in front of a 7-Eleven and decided to cup his hands around the flame rather than let the wind take you. He gave you his bed without a second thought, taking the hardwood floor as penance for his own softness.

You keep your breathing even, slow and deep, a practiced mimicry of sleep. It’s a trick you learned years ago—how to disappear in plain sight, how to make yourself a non-entity so the world stops looking at you. But you know he’s looking. You can feel the weight of his gaze burning through the darkness, heavier than the blankets.

The floorboards groan softly. The rustle of fabric. He’s sitting up.

Your heart gives a traitorous little kick against your ribs, but you don't flinch. You don't move. You are the statue, the sleeping princess, the monster taking a nap.

"You kicked the blanket off again," he whispers. His voice is rough with sleep, barely a breath of sound.

You feel the air shift as he stands, hovering over the edge of the bed. His presence is a tangible thing, warm and radiating a terrifying kind of concern. Gentle hands reach out—Theodore’s hands, the ones that sign petitions and hold doors and bandage the wounds of the people you hurt. He pulls the duvet up, tucking it around your shoulders with a precision that makes your chest ache.

He doesn't pull away.

His knuckles brush against your cheek, a ghost of a touch. It lingers there, tracing the line of your jaw, dangerously close to intimacy. If you opened your eyes now, the spell would break. He would recoil, mask slamming back into place, the perfect student council president once more.

So you stay dark. You let him have this.

"I don't know what to do with you," he murmurs, the words dropping like stones into the silence.

There is no judgment in his tone, only a profound, exhausting defeat. He sounds like a man watching a building burn and realizing he’s the one holding the matches.

He shifts his weight, leaning closer. You can smell the faint mint of his toothpaste mixed with the night air. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, once, twice. It is a touch of adoration, not reprimand. It is the touch of a boy who knows exactly what you are—cruel, broken, jagged-edged—and has decided to bleed on you anyway.

"I can't fix this," he whispers, and it sounds like an apology to the universe. "I can't fix you. And I don't think I want to anymore."

A pause. The silence stretches tight, a rubber band ready to snap.

"I love you," he breathes, the words so quiet they barely exist. "God help me, I love you."

You don’t react. You don’t gasp. You don’t open your eyes. You’ve known for months, seen it in the way he tracks you across the cafeteria, the way he cleans up your messes, the way he looks at you when you’re at your absolute worst and sees something worth saving.

But hearing it—hearing the surrender in his voice—is different. It feels like a victory and a tragedy all at once. The golden boy, tarnished. The judge, corrupted.

He sighs, a shaky, ragged exhale, and pulls his hand away. The warmth leaves your skin, replaced by the cool air of the room. You hear him sink back down to the floor, the rustle of blankets as he settles into the hard discomfort he’s chosen for himself.