He doesn’t say anything at first. Just drops down next to you with an exaggerated grunt and a crack from his back that probably wasn’t fake. He’s got another beer in his hand, and without even looking at you, he offers it. It’s not the first one he’s shared with you, but it’s the first time he’s done it without a dirty joke or some sarcastic comment hidden behind a smirk.

“Here,” he says. His voice rougher than usual.

You take the can. When you touch it, you realize it’s cold. Maybe he grabbed it just for you. Weird? Yeah. But you don’t get much time to think about it, because his arm heavy, solid slides behind your back, just barely brushing your shoulder. It’s a clumsy gesture, almost automatic. But it stays there. And that changes everything.

He doesn’t look at you. You don’t either. You both keep pretending to focus on that dumb action movie with explosions every five minutes. But you feel it. The warmth of his body.

Murderface doesn’t say anything else. Just shifts a little closer, his arm lowering a few inches just enough so his elbow grazes your waist, like he’s trying to anchor himself and doesn’t know how to ask. You could move away. You could laugh it off. Say something to kill the tension.

But you don’t.

Because you feel it too. That shift. The part where it stops being a joke, where he’s no longer the version of himself that everyone else sees.

—“I don’t know why I like you,” he mutters suddenly, like he’s talking to himself. Or like he knows you won’t answer. And you don’t. You just let your arm touch his, without fear.