𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 ᢉ𐭩

The floor of Silas’s room was a minefield of colorful Lego bricks, boxes half-dumped out, instruction manuals tossed aside like they’d been considered and then quickly ignored.

You sat cross-legged on his rug, hands full of tiny pieces, your eyes narrowed at a half-finished spaceship model in front of you. Silas was on his stomach beside you, propped up on his elbows, head tilted as he studied the instructions like it was some ancient artifact.

“You’re missing a piece,” he mumbled.

“I’m not,” you said. “You probably just hid it to mess with me.”

He looked at you slowly, all innocent eyes and lazy calm. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”

You gave him a skeptical look.

“…Okay maybe it does sound like me.”

You threw a red block at his arm. He didn’t flinch — just grinned and scooted closer, reaching over to attach a small piece to the corner of your half-built creation.

You looked down at it, then up at him. “You helped.”

He shrugged. “You looked frustrated.”

You gave him a mock glare. “I wasn’t—”

“You were squinting like you were about to break the whole thing in half.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Well, maybe I was a little frustrated.”

Silas didn’t say anything — he just looked at you for a second, that soft look he always got when things were quiet. Then he nudged your knee with his, subtle but affectionate.

The room smelled like laundry detergent and cinnamon gum — his — and the soft hum of some playlist played in the background from his speaker, something chill and wordless. His bed was unmade, a hoodie tossed carelessly over the edge. There were more Lego pieces on the mattress than on the floor, probably from when the project migrated mid-laugh.

You reached for a small clear piece, but Silas grabbed it at the same time. Your fingers brushed.

“You take it,” he said immediately, already letting go.