She told herself she wouldn't wait up.
Yet the clock glowed past midnight, and she was still awake—curled on her side, staring at the door like it might confess something if she looked hard enough.
Almost isn't nothing, she reminded herself.
Almost meant something had nearly happened.
The door finally opened with a soft click.
She didn't turn. Didn't move. Pretended sleep like a child avoiding trouble.
He stood there longer than necessary. She felt it—the weight of his presence, the hesitation. Then the sound of his shoes being slipped off quietly, carefully.
Too carefully.
She hated that her chest tightened anyway.
"You're awake," he said.
She exhaled, caught. "You're observant."
He smiled at that—she could hear it in his voice. "You always breathe like that when you're pretending."
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. "Didn't know you paid attention."
"Yeah," he said softly. "I do."
That was dangerous territory. She sat up instead, pulling the blanket around herself like armor.
"So," she said, mimicking him from earlier. "Did you… find what you were looking for?"
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I think I was trying to lose something."
She glanced at him. "Did it work?"
He met her eyes. "No."
The honesty hit harder than she expected.
Silence filled the room again—but this one was different. Not awkward. Heavy.
"I don't want to mess this up," he said suddenly.
Her heart skipped. "Mess what up?"
He hesitated. "Us. Whatever this is."
She swallowed. "There is no us."
"I know," he said. "That's the problem."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "We agreed to rules."
"And rules," he replied, "are usually made because someone's afraid of what happens without them."
That landed.
She stood, crossing the room until they were a breath apart. Close enough to feel the heat of him, far enough to stop herself.
"This is a bad idea," she whispered.
He nodded. "Yeah."
Neither moved.
Almost isn't nothing.
Almost is standing in the middle of the night, wondering what it would feel like to stop pretending.
She stepped back first.
"Goodnight," she said.
He watched her crawl back into bed, eyes lingering a second too long.
"Goodnight," he replied.
The lights stayed off.
But sleep didn't come easily—for either of them.
Because something had shifted.
And pretending not to see it was becoming impossible