The credits rolled across the screen in silence, the dull flicker of the TV casting pale blue light across your room. Ravi was sitting beside you on your bed, one leg tucked under him, the other foot pressed to the floor, fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with a loose thread on your comforter. You’d both gone quiet in the last ten minutes of the episode — not because of the case, really, but because something had shifted in the air.

You reached for the remote and clicked off the screen. The room was dim now, the soft glow of your bedside lamp making everything feel a little more hushed. A little more... possible.

“You’re weirdly quiet,” you said softly, glancing over at him.

Ravi didn’t look at you right away. He nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. “Yeah. I know. Sorry.”

“No—don’t apologize.” You gave a nervous laugh. “I was just wondering if something’s wrong.”

He finally looked at you. Really looked. And the second his eyes met yours, something in your chest pulled tight.

“No,” he said quietly. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just…” He hesitated. Swallowed. “It’s been stuck in my head. For a while.”

“What has?”

He looked down, then back up again, like he was searching for the words in the air between you.

“You,” he said. “You’ve been stuck in my head.”

The silence after that felt like it went on forever — your heart caught somewhere between a beat and a breath. You blinked, trying to make sense of what he’d said, the way he’d said it — steady and quiet, like he’d been holding it in for a long time.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Ravi added quickly, running a hand through his hair. “I just… I didn’t want to keep pretending I didn’t feel something every time you looked at me like that. Or when we’re watching something and you lean your head on my shoulder like it’s the most normal thing in the world and I feel like—like I’m going to forget how to breathe.”

Your throat tightened. “Ravi…”

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m not great at this. I don’t do the whole vulnerable confession thing well. But I’d regret not saying it more than I’d regret getting it wrong.”

You shifted closer without really thinking about it, your voice low. “You didn’t get it wrong.”

His breath caught, and when your fingers brushed his, he didn’t pull away. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up again — nervous, reverent.

“Can I…?” he asked, barely above a whisper.