harua had claimed the left side of the couch before anyone even realized he was horizontal. k took the right, one arm thrown over his eyes, already gone.

yuma had folded himself somehow into the armchair, legs dangling over the side at an angle that would definitely hurt in the morning, but he was smiling in his sleep so presumably he'd deal with it then.

taki, maki, and nicholas had migrated to the floor at some point during the third movie, a shared blanket pulled up to their chins, maki's head resting against taki's shoulder.

jo and fuma were out cold against the wall.

which left you standing in the middle of the living room, blinking in the dim blue light of the tv's idle screen, holding your phone and realizing with a very specific kind of tired-person's clarity that you had absolutely nowhere to sleep.

"...oh."

"yeah."

you spun around. euijoo was standing behind you, arms crossed, looking at the occupied couch and the floor situation with an expression that could only be described as the face of a man doing rapid mental calculations.

you'd known euijoo for two years. long enough to know he made that face a lot.

"you can take my room," he said immediately. he was already turning toward the hallway. "i'll find a spot out here, it's fine—"

"there are literally no spots out here."

he paused. looked around the room again. absorbed the full scope of the couch situation, the floor situation, fuma's specific configuration against the wall.

"...i'll find a spot."

"euijoo."

"i will locate a spot—"

"there is no spot," you said. "i'll just take your floor. it's fine, i don't mind—"

"you're not sleeping on my floor."

"it's literally just for one night—"

"you're a guest."

"i'm not a guest, i've been here like forty times—"

"then as someone who has been here forty times, you know the floor is hardwood and you will feel it in your entire spine tomorrow." he crossed his arms. "i'll take the floor. you take the bed."

"euijoo, it's your room—"

"exactly, so i get to decide—"

"that is not how that logic works—"

"it works fine, it's my floor—"

"i'm not letting you sleep on your own floor—"

"then neither of us is sleeping on the floor," he said, and then immediately seemed to realize what he'd said, because he stopped.

you stopped.

the room was suddenly very quiet except for yuma's distant, peaceful snoring.

his ears went pink.

you looked at him while he looked at a point slightly above your head.

"there's a bed," you said, carefully. "that fits two people."

"...yes."

"and we have known each other for two years."

"...also yes."

"so."

a pause. a long one.

"so," he echoed. and then, with the energy of someone accepting a situation they had absolutely created themselves: "yeah. okay. that's — yeah. it's fine."

it was perhaps a little bit not fine — for you specifically, for reasons you were absolutely not going to examine right now — but you kept that very much to yourself.

—

the pillow wall was constructed with genuine architectural dedication.

you sat on the edge of the bed and watched him work, and you were not smiling, you were absolutely not smiling, except you were, a little, behind your hand.

"okay," euijoo said, stepping back to assess. he had arranged four pillows down the center of the bed in a neat, firm line. he nudged one slightly to the left.

"so — this is your side. i'll be on this side. and then this is the, um." he gestured vaguely at the pillow barrier. "the middle."

"the middle," you agreed.

"it's just — i move around sometimes. when i sleep. not a lot, but." he picked up a pillow, considered it, set it back down. "i just want to make sure you have space."

"euijoo. it's okay."

"i'm going to keep my socks on," he announced. "that way if my feet end up near yours, it's — it's less weird. there's a layer."

you pressed your lips together very hard.

"that's very considerate," you said.

he finally seemed to hear himself, because he laughed — a short, embarrassed sound — and rubbed the back of his neck. "i'm being weird about this."

"you're being sweet," you said, and watched his ears go pink again.

"do you need another blanket? i have an extra one in the closet."

"i'm good."

"are you sure? it gets kind of cold in here around three am, i think the building's heating is—"

"euijoo."

"yeah?"

"come to bed."

a pause. then, very quietly: "...okay."

he turned off the light. the room went dark and soft, the distant sound of the city outside the window, the faint sound of someone's deep, even breathing in the living room. yuma, probably. he'd always been a loud sleeper.

you lay there in the dark, very aware of the pillow wall. very aware of euijoo approximately two feet away on the other side of it.

"comfortable?" he asked, into the ceiling.

"very," you said. "you?"

"yeah." a beat. "are my — are my feet near yours? i can't tell."

"they're nowhere near mine, you're on the other side of the pillow fortress."

"right." another pause. "good. great. that's good."

"goodnight, euijoo."

"...goodnight."

silence.

warm, quiet darkness.

you fell asleep embarrassingly fast.

—

the first thing you were aware of, before you were fully conscious, was warmth.

specifically: warmth on all sides. a solid, comfortable weight against your back. something draped over your waist. the slow, steady sound of breathing very close to your ear.

your brain came online in stages.

warm. cozy. heavy. very comfortable. why is—

oh.

oh no.

you opened your eyes.

the pillow wall had been completely annihilated. one pillow was on the floor. two were somewhere in the vicinity of your feet. the fourth had been pushed toward the headboard and was doing nothing for anyone.

euijoo had found you somewhere across the wreckage of his own good intentions.

his face was tucked against the back of your shoulder. his arm — heavy, warm, extremely there — was around your waist. his knees were curled behind yours, and he was, there was no other word for it, clinging.

oh, but thank goodness he had his socks on.

the ones he specifically kept on so things wouldn't be weird.

thank goodness for that one extra layer.

you stared at the wall across from you.

you were aware that your heart was doing something that couldn't be medically healthy. you were also aware that you should probably move.

create distance.

restore some version of the original defensive architecture.

you tried to assess whether you could wiggle free without waking him.

his arm tightened slightly in his sleep. he made a small, unconscious sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and pressed infinitesimally closer.

okay, you thought. okay. that's — that's fine. i'm fine. this is fine.

you were not fine.

you were so very, crushingly, hopelessly not fine, because you had been trying very hard for approximately eight months not to have feelings about this specific person, and those feelings were currently being held hostage by his arm and his warm, sleepy weight and the fact that he smelled, very unfairly, like clean laundry and something faintly cedar.

you took a careful breath.

and then, because you were apparently a person who made decisions like this before 7 am, you thought: it's still early. he's asleep. the others are all asleep. nothing has to happen right now.

you let out the breath.

you let yourself relax, just slightly, into the warmth. your heart rate, after another thirty seconds, started to do something approaching normal.

you told yourself it was just because you were comfortable.

you told yourself that very firmly.

you fell back asleep.

—

the second time you woke up, you were alone.

for a moment you just blinked at the ceiling, warm and soft and a little disoriented. the space behind you was empty but still faintly warm. morning light was coming through the gap in the curtains.

then you heard a sound and turned your head.

euijoo was sitting on the edge of the bed. his hair was doing several things at once. his hands were in his lap. he was staring at the floor with the expression of a man who had just mentally reviewed the last eight hours and arrived somewhere very alarming.

you watched him for a moment.

"hey," you said.

he stood up so fast he nearly knocked his lamp over.

"i'm so sorry," he said. the words came out in a rush, like he'd been holding them, organizing them, waiting. "i don't — i'm not usually — the pillows were right there, i built them specifically so — i don't know how i—" he pressed a hand over his face. "i'm really sorry. that was so — i should have just slept on the floor, i knew i should have taken the floor—"

"euijoo—"

"you were probably so uncomfortable, i'm sorry, i know that was — i should have thought of a better solution. i—"

"euijoo, stop."

he stopped. his hand was still half-over his face.

you pushed yourself up slowly onto one elbow. still half-buried in the blankets, hair probably terrible, blinking in the soft morning light — and then you reached out and lifted the edge of the blanket.

"come here," you said.

he didn't move.

you sat up. you held out your arm, and then, because he was still frozen with his hand over his eyes and his ears had gone so red they were nearly a different color, you said, very gently: "come back."

something in him seemed to — give, a little. loosen.

he crossed the room. he sat back down on the edge of the bed. his shoulders were up around his ears, and he was still not quite looking at you, and he looked so miserable and flustered and painfully earnest that your chest ached with something you couldn't quite name.

you reached out and pulled him in.

he went stiff for a moment — all of him, a full-body hesitation — and you thought he might pull away, might apologize again, might rebuild the pillow fortress out of sheer nervous energy.

but he didn't.

he let out a long breath. his shoulders dropped, one inch, and then another. you let the blanket settle back over both of you. he hovered there, not quite relaxed, not quite sure where to put himself.

you solved that by gently pulling him down, and he went — carefully, cautiously — until his head was resting against your chest.

his hair was a disaster. you could see it from here — sticking up on one side, flattened on the other, a complete document of the night.

without really thinking about it, still half in the soft fog of almost-asleep, you reached up.

you pushed his hair back. slowly, gently, just your fingers moving through it.

euijoo went very still.

not the stiff, anxious stillness from before.

something else.

something quieter.

you did it again. slow, gentle, your hand passing through his hair, tucking a piece back behind his ear. gentle, unhurried.

his breath came out — long and careful, like he'd been holding it.

you felt the moment he stopped hovering. his weight settled, really settled, sinking into you.

and then, slowly, his arm came around your waist. light at first. then easier.

his head tilted, the smallest degree, into your hand.

you kept going. slow and easy, back and forth, while the morning light came in gold and thin through the curtains.

his eyes, you realized, had closed.

"sorry," he murmured, and it was thick with sleep, barely a word at all.

"don't be," you said quietly.

a pause. long and warm.

"...was it actually okay?" the question was drowsy, soft, stripped of all its earlier panic.

you smiled, and he couldn't even see it.

"yeah," you said. "it was more than okay."

a small sound from him. not quite a word. just something settled and satisfied, and then the slow even pull of his breathing told you he was already gone again, his arm a comfortable weight across your waist, his hair soft under your hand where it had finally, gently, stilled.

outside, something dropped. a muffled ow that was almost certainly yuma.

you didn't move.

the morning light stretched long and gold across the floor, and your hand was still in his hair, and his arm was still around your waist, and you thought about eight months of very careful not-feeling and how spectacularly that had worked out for you.

you thought about the pillow wall. the socks. are you comfortable. six times.

you thought about the way he'd said is that okay just now, quiet and careful, like your answer actually mattered, like he'd have respected whatever you said — and somehow that was the part that got you.

not the clinging, not the warmth, not any of it. just that.

is that okay.

you were in so much trouble.

you closed your eyes, and his breathing was slow and even under your hand, and the morning was soft and unhurried and going absolutely nowhere, and you thought —

yeah. okay. this is okay.

—

outside, yuma unfolded himself from the armchair, winced at what his spine had to say about that, and shuffled toward the kitchen.

he stopped at the hallway.

looked at the closed door.

looked back at the living room.

"hey," he whispered, pointing. "hey. they're still—"

"we know," said k, from the couch, eyes still closed.

"should we—"

"no."

"but what if they—"

"no, yuma."

yuma lowered his arm. he looked at the door one more time. he looked deeply, personally delighted about something.

"i'm just saying," he whispered, to himself, shuffling onward to the kitchen. "i called it."

nobody asked him what he called.

even professors knew.

your statistics professor once paused attendance and frowned dramatically.

“y/n… where is harua?”

you blink, turning a little in your seat like huh?

“…here?”

harua raises his hand slightly at the same time, a little confused, like he’s not entirely sure why he’s being singled out.

the professor nods once and lets out a small, amused breath.

“good. i was worried i was only seeing one half of you two.”

the entire class burst into laughter while harua hid his face behind his notebook, ears completely red, but with a small smile slipping through like he’s trying—and failing—to hide it.

after class, he whined all the way to the café.

“that was so embarrassing…”

“i seem to recall you smiling.”

“i wasn't!”

“you totally were,” you say, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “and very clearly as well.”

“...okay, maybe a little.”

because the truth was, harua secretly loved it.

he loved hearing people say your names together.

he loved when your friends groaned, “we already know where y/n is, just look for harua.”

he loved that the barista at your favorite coffee shop no longer asked for names.

they'd simply smile.

“usual order for the campus couple?”

and harua would get all shy and grin like an idiot.

—

everyone knew your routines.

everyone knew that if you went to the vending machine, you’d come back with two of the same snack without even thinking about it.

everyone knew that he waited outside your lecture hall, even when his class ended an hour earlier.

and everyone knew that you both pretended it was “just a coincidence” when you always showed up right when the other needed it the most.

“you know you don't have to wait for me every time,” you told him, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

harua slipped an arm around your waist and took your backpack so he could carry it.

“why wouldn't i?”

“i don't know...i just don’t want you to get tired waiting around for me.”

he immediately shook his head.

“i would never get tired of it.”

you gave him a look. “you say that now.”

“and i mean it,” he said softly, before giving you a light, teasing shake. “you act like i don’t like doing this for you.”

your expression faltered a little at that, and he noticed—smiling faintly like he knew exactly what he’d done.

“…that’s cheesy,” you muttered.

“did it work?”

“100%.”

he smiled properly now.

“nice.”

—

one friday, you arrived late to lunch with his friends.

harua was already at the table, mid-laugh at something someone said, but the second your voice reached him, his head turned instantly—like it always did when it was you.

“there she is,” he said softly, smiling right away.

his friends groaned in unison.

“oh my god.”

“i’m moving tables.”

harua didn’t even react to them. he was already standing halfway, pulling the chair beside him out for you before you even got there.

when you reached him, you went in for a side hug, while he pulled you in closer and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your temple.

“hi,” he said, quieter now.

“hi,” you replied, smiling up at him like he was the only person in the room that mattered for a second.

you sat down beside him, but stayed close—your shoulder brushing his, fingers still lightly holding onto his sleeve like you didn’t fully want to let go yet.

while you were talking to his friends, greeting them one by one with an easy, familiar warmth, harua just kept looking at you—completely lovestruck, like he couldn’t focus on anything else even if he tried.

without saying a word, he gently slid your chair a little closer to his.

everyone groaned one last time, but smiled through it.

“see? hopeless.”

“disgustingly in love.”

“lowkey, i need what they have.”

harua just laughed while reaching under the table for your hand and lacing your fingers together gently.

you squeezed his hand back immediately, leaning your head just slightly toward his shoulder.

—

but one of your favorite thing about him always happened during finals week.

you’d been practically living in the library for days—exhausted, hair a mess, running on too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

and even with classes, harua still showed up every night around eight, without fail.

same hoodie. same soft smile. same little plastic bag of snacks that always somehow matched exactly what you were craving.

he’d slide into the seat beside you and give you a soft little head pat, like it was his way of saying he was there.

“delivery for my favorite student.”

shaking your head, you looked up with a soft smile. “harua… you didn’t have to come all the way here again.”

he smiled, reaching out to lightly mess with your hair. “i know. but i wanted to.”

he’d sit with you quietly after that, chin resting in his hand, listening like you were telling him something important instead of complaining about an essay for the fifth time.

and when your words started getting slower, your eyes heavier, he’d notice before you did.

without saying much, he’d gently close your laptop.

“okay,” he said softly.

you blinked up at him. “but i'm almost-”

“nope.”

you let out a small laugh, not really arguing this time. “i just wanted to finish this paragraph.”

his expression softened a little. “you can finish it tomorrow and do even better with a little bit more rest.”

you paused, then let out a breath, your shoulders easing as you nodded. “yeah… you’re right.”

“also, you yawned twelve times in the past fifteen minutes. i didn't even know that was possible”

you blinked at him. “um, no i didn’t.”

“well, i counted so.”

“please get a hobby,” you said, a teasing smile on your face.

“i have one,” he added, clearly pleased with himself. “it’s bothering you.”

he then reached into the little bag and pushed a juice box toward you.

“drink this,” he said, softer now. “and i’ll carry your backpack.”

you frowned, glancing at your backpack. “my backpack isn’t even heavy right now though.”

he just looked at you like that didn’t change anything, still holding the juice box out.

“it doesn’t matter,” he said simply. “drink this.”

you just looked at him for a moment—soft, a little tired—before slipping both arms around his and leaning into his side.

his expression softened as he smiled, shifting closer like he was more than happy to stay right there with you.

“there you are,” he murmured.

—

one afternoon, you were sitting under your usual tree with coffee you’d picked up for both of you, as you both caught up.

harua was talking about how dance practice went, animated in that easy way he got when he was with you, while you listened, everything feeling a little slower and softer beneath the shade.

then two freshmen walked past and suddenly froze.

“wait, oh my god.”

“it's them.”

the two girls exchanged looks before one finally approached.

“sorry, this is so random, but…”

she smiled nervously.

“you guys are the campus couple, right?”

both of you almost choked.

“the what?”

“the campus couple! everyone knows you guys.”

the other girl nodded enthusiastically.

“you guys are literally relationship goals.”

you let out an awkward laugh, unsure what to say—but beside you, harua had gone completely still.

quickly recoving, you smiled at the girls.

“that’s so sweet—thank you so much,” you said with a small, flustered giggle.

they lit up immediately, both of them grinning as you chatted for a second longer.

they waved enthusiastically as they started to step away. “bye!”

you smiled back. “bye!”

and for a second, harua just sat there silently.

“baby?”

“hm?”

“did they really say that?”

“i think so.”

“relationship goals?”

“apparently.”

he looked away for a second, like he was trying to hide it—but the small smile still slipped through.

not big. just that quiet, pleased one he got when he was trying not to seem too happy about something.

then he shifted closer, slipping his arms around yours and resting his head on your shoulder.

“that’s nice.”

“what is?”

“being us.”

you smiled a little. “being famous?”

he shook his head lightly. “no.”

his fingers gently tightened around yours.

“being the person who gets to sit with you under this tree.”

“harua…”

“and walking you home.”

another small squeeze.

“and waiting outside your classes.”

another.

“and carrying your backpack.”

then he turned his head slightly, eyes warm on you.

“because if everyone’s calling us the campus couple…” he paused, like the words themselves amused him, “…then i guess i’m doing a pretty good job being yours, and you’re doing a pretty good job being mine, no?”

and honestly—

you didn’t need to say anything else.

you just smiled, big and bright.

because, yes.

he snorted, and for a second you forgot why you’d come here at all.

then your hand shook just enough for coffee to ripple over the rim.

nicholas reached out automatically to steady the cup.

neither of you commented on it.

he’d gotten good at that.

and you’d gotten good at pretending not to notice him getting good at it.

the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. it was crowded—full of everything neither of you were brave enough to hold at the same time.

there was no “tomorrow” that felt clean anymore.

just the fact sitting between you both, unspoken but never gone.

that you were going to die.

that there wasn’t a version of this story where it ended differently.

so you didn’t talk about it.

not because it wasn’t real.

because it was too real to touch directly.

so today, nicholas would point out a dog wearing a tiny yellow raincoat with absolute sincerity, and you both would spend five minutes arguing over whether the dog looked embarrassed.

it was a ridiculous conversation.

but it was perfect.

you found yourself watching him while he wasn’t looking.

the crease between his brows that had become permanent sometime in the last few months.

the way he smiled before he turned toward you, as if making sure you’d never catch whatever expression came first.

the exhaustion he thought he hid.

you wondered which memories would survive you.

whether he’d remember your voice accurately.

whether he’d forget the exact color of your eyes.

whether one day he’d hear a joke you’d have loved and instinctively reach for his phone before remembering there was nowhere left to send it.

the thought settled somewhere behind your ribs.

“what?” he asked, catching you staring.

you looked away.

“nothing.”

it was easier than saying:

i’m trying to memorize your face before i run out of time.

or:

i’m terrified you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to remember mine.

—

by evening, the sky had softened into gold.

the kind of light that made everything feel like it was already turning into a memory while it was still happening.

you and nicholas ended up by the water without really choosing it—as if your day had quietly agreed for you.

he dropped onto the dock first, legs stretched out, leaning back on his palms. you sat beside him, close enough that your shoulder immediately found his.

“you know,” he said, squinting at the horizon, “i think the sun is just showing off at this point.”

“it does feel a little personal.”

“it is personal,” he said seriously. “it’s trying to emotionally manipulate us.”

you let out a quiet laugh. “it’s working.”

a moment passes.

then, lightly—

“hey,” nicholas said. “do you ever think about the first time we met?”

you tilted your head. “unfortunately, yes.”

“excuse me?”

“you were so shy i thought you were going to disappear on the spot.”

he groaned. “that’s not what happened.”

“it is exactly what happened.”

you shifted a little closer, your knee pressing into his.

this story came back easily between you two now, like one you’d imagined telling at your wedding someday—before either of you had realized how fragile “someday” really was.

“you weren’t even talking,” you continued, smiling at the memory. “you were just standing there while euijoo was trying to introduce us, like you’d completely forgotten how to be a person for a second—just staring at me in the cutest way.”

nicholas covered his face with one hand. “i was thinking.”

“you were totally malfunctioning.”

he peeked at you through his fingers. “i recall saying hello.”

“a whisper does not count as speech, nico.”

from somewhere deep in his chest, he let out a long sigh and dropped his hand.

“i still remember thinking i looked so stupid,” he admitted, eyes flicking away toward the water. “like… i couldn’t get a single word out. i kept replaying it over and over after. i was like, ‘that’s it. that’s how i die socially. in front of the prettiest girl ever.’”

your expression softened a little at that.

but then you smiled.

“did you know that i immediately asked euijoo about you after you left?”

that made him freeze.

“…wait,” he said slowly. “i thought i did that. i asked euijoo about you first.”

you hummed, still calm. “in your version of events? yeah.”

his brow furrowed a little. “what do you mean my version?”

“i mean,” you said, a little too casually, “you think you asked euijoo about me first, got my info, and then we started talking.”

he nodded immediately. “because i did.”

then you added, easy as anything, “i asked euijoo about you first.”

nicholas blinked.

once.

twice.

then his whole face shifted. “wait—what??”

you just shrugged, still tucked into his side like this wasn’t about to rewrite his entire personality.

“we met, then i asked euijoo about you, got your info, and then you messaged me later.”

his jaw dropped. “so you’re telling me i thought i made the first move this whole time?”

“correct.”

“for years??”

“correct.”

he stared at you for a second—then broke.

“oh my god,” he groaned, half laughing now. “you liked me first. you were obsessed with me first.”

“i was not obsessed.”

“you literally pre-ordered my existence.”

“that’s not—no.”

“you did. you were scouting me.”

you were laughing now too, fully, trying to hide your face against his shoulder. “see? this is exactly why i didn’t tell you.”

he wrapped his arm more securely around your waist, pulling you closer.

“i can’t believe this,” he said, still grinning. “i’ve been living a lie—”

then he kissed you.

gently, like he was careful not to rush it.

his hand steady at your waist while his other came up to your cheek, thumb brushing there like he was trying to memorize every detail of you.

like holding on a little longer might slow down the fact that he was running out of time with you.

—

for a while, neither of you spoke again.

not because there was nothing to say.

because there was too much.

eventually—

“can i ask you something?” he said.

you already knew what it would be.

still, you nodded.

his voice came quieter now. “are you scared?”

you didn’t answer right away.

the water moved like it didn’t understand the question.

“…yeah,” you admitted finally. “i am.”

he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that answer in his chest too.

“me too,” he said.

then, quicker, like honesty scared him more than anything else—

“i’m scared of such silly things,” he added. “like… forgetting your voice. or saying your name one day and realizing it doesn’t sound the same in my head anymore.”

that made your chest tighten.

you nodded slightly, like you understood more than you wanted to.

then, softer—

“and that’s what i scared of,” you said.

he looked at you.

you still weren’t fully facing him.

“i keep thinking about you doing that,” you said.

his brow furrowed. “doing what?”

you swallowed.

“trying to keep going,” you said. “like you always do. like you think you're supposed to.”

you finally turned your head toward him.

and your voice broke a little when you spoke again.

“i don’t want you to turn this into something you survive alone nico.”

nicholas’s expression shifted immediately.

“what?” he said, like he didn’t understand where this was going. “of course i won’t—”

but you shook your head, cutting him off gently.

“no,” you said. “listen to me.”

your hand tightened around his.

“i know you,” you continued. “i know how you get when you’re hurting. i know how you go quiet. how you act like you’re fine so nobody else has to carry it with you.”

his mouth opened, then closed again.

you took a shaky breath.

“and i need you to not do that with this,” you said.

your eyes finally met his fully.

“i need you to not disappear into it,” you said. “not make it into something you carry alone just because i’m not there to stop you.”

that hit him hard enough that his face changed completely.

“i’m not going to—” he started, immediate, defensive, like he could argue the future into behaving.

but it broke halfway through.

“…you don’t get to decide what i feel,” he said, but there was no anger in it. just fear trying to sound like control.

“i’m not deciding,” you said quickly. “i’m just—”

your breath caught.

“i’m just asking you not to let this become the only thing you’re made of after i’m gone.”

that word landed like a stone in still water.

gone.

nicholas went very still.

for a second, it looked like he might argue again.

then his shoulders dropped slightly, like something in him had given up pretending.

“…what am i supposed to do then?” he asked, voice rough. smaller now. “just… be okay?”

you shook your head immediately.

“no,” you said. “no, i'm not asking you to be okay.”

a pause.

“i just don’t want you to only be sad.”

his breath hitched.

you stepped closer without thinking, like your body needed to close the distance your words had opened.

“this might be selfish,” you whispered, “but i don’t want you to remember me as something that only hurts. i don’t want that to be what i turn into for you.”

his eyes were already glassy now.

“and i don’t want you to think you have to be broken to prove you loved me.”

then, softer—almost shaking, but gentler now:

“you don’t have to prove anything,” you added, “not to me. not to anyone. i already know how much you love me… everyone knows. anyone who’s ever looked at you for even a second knows how much you love me.”

that did it.

his expression cracked fully.

“…that’s not fair,” he whispered.

“i know,” you said, crying now too. “i know it’s not fair. i just—”

your voice broke completely.

“i just need you to live past this in a way that doesn’t destroy you…” you said, giving him a sweet, almost pleading look, like you were trying to make it feel lighter than it was. “…for me, okay?”

nicholas didn’t even hesitate.

he stepped into you like there was no other option.

his arms wrapped around you fast—tight, urgent, like he was afraid you might slip out of the moment if he didn’t hold on.

“i don’t know how to do that,” he said, voice breaking. “i don’t know how to do any of it without you.”

you held him just as tightly, trying to wipe his tears away, but it didn’t stop them.

“then don’t do it all at once,” you whispered, still holding him close. your hand moved slowly through his hair, gentle and steady. “just don’t leave yourself behind.”

and for a long time, that was all either of you could say.

until silence stopped being something between you