The night is quieter than usual.

You and Ian sit on the front steps, shoulders almost touching, the city humming in the background. Neither of you says much at first. You don’t have to—silence with Ian isn’t awkward. It’s just… space.

He stares out at the street, jaw tight, like he’s replaying something in his head. You notice the way he taps his fingers against his knee when he’s anxious. He doesn’t notice you noticing.

“Long day?” you ask.

Ian huffs a short laugh. “You could say that.”

You sit there a moment longer, the air cool, the porch light buzzing faintly. Finally, Ian speaks again—quiet, careful.

“Ever feel like you’re tryin’ so hard to be normal that you forget what that even means?”

You nod. “All the time.”

That gets his attention. He turns to you, really looks at you, like he’s checking if you mean it.

“I hate that people think I got it all figured out,” he says. “Like if I mess up once, it proves something about me. About who I am.”

He rubs his face, frustrated. “I don’t wanna be a problem. I just wanna be… okay.”

You don’t rush to reassure him. You’ve learned Ian doesn’t need fixing—he needs honesty.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you say. “Not to me.”

He exhales slowly, like that sentence loosened something in his chest.

“I don’t talk like this with many people,” Ian admits. “Most of the time, I just shut down.”