He doesn't move away.

That's the first thing I notice.

He stays crouched in front of me, elbows resting on his knees, hands loose, like he's afraid that if he shifts even an inch I'll tip over and shatter into a thousand dramatic, drunk pieces.

Which—fair.

I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Very elegant. Very prom-queen energy.

"You're staring," I accuse him softly.

"I'm monitoring," he corrects. "You look like you might fall asleep or cry again. Possibly both."

"I can multitask," I mumble. "I'm very talented."

That finally makes him laugh properly. Not the restrained, careful Luke laugh. A real one. It loosens something in my chest.

I tilt my head, squinting at him. "Why are you being nice?"

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

"You're usually very... tense." I make a vague gesture with my hands. "Like a knot. Or a tightly folded map. Or—those bedsheets you fold with military precision."

"That's not—" He stops, then sighs. "Okay, maybe that's fair."

I smile sleepily. "I like you better like this."

"Like what?"

"Like you're not pretending you don't feel things."

He looks away for a second. Just a second. But I see it.

"I'm not pretending," he says.

"Mm," I hum. "You're very bad at pretending."

That gets a snort out of him. He glances back at me, eyes softer now.

"You know," he says slowly, "you're terrifying when you're sober."

I perk up. "And when I'm drunk?"

"Still terrifying," he admits. "But louder. And... sadder."

I frown. "I'm not sad."

He studies me. "You cried three times in five minutes."

"That's just—hydration," I argue weakly.

He smiles again. Gods, he does that too easily now.

There's a pause. The music inside shifts—another slow song. Someone laughs loudly somewhere near the doors. The night feels thinner, like it's almost over.

"I didn't mean to make things weird," I say suddenly.

He looks at me again. "I know."

"I just... I don't like not knowing things," I add. "And you're very secretive."

"I'm not secretive."

"You alphabetize emotions," I shoot back. "That's secretive."

That makes him huff. "I just don't like chaos."

I shrug. "I am chaos."

"I noticed."

We sit in that for a moment.

Then, quieter, he says, "I didn't dance with her to hurt you."

I freeze.

I look up at him, really look at him.

"Hurt me?" I echo.

He shifts, uncomfortable now. "I just... she asked. And I didn't want to be rude."

"Oh," I say.

My chest does something weird. Like it tightens, then loosens again.

"Well," I add quickly, "for the record, I didn't care."

He gives me a look.

"Okay," I amend. "I cared a tiny bit. But mostly because she's annoying."

"That tracks," he says.

I yawn suddenly, the kind that steals all the air from my lungs. My head tips back against the sofa.

"I'm tired," I announce.

"Yeah," he says. "You're done for."

"Will you walk me home?" I ask, eyes already half-closed.

He doesn't hesitate. "Of course."

I smile, small and content.

"Good," I murmur. "Because if I trip, I'm blaming you."

He chuckles, standing and offering me his hand.

I take it.

And for a second—just a second—it feels like something important is starting.

Even if neither of us knows it yet.

We stop in front of my house, the porch light still on like it's been waiting for me. Everything feels softer here—quieter. Safer.

Luke exhales slowly. "Your parents aren't home, right?"

I shake my head. "Anniversary trip. Paris." I squint at him. "They like wine more than me."

He snorts, then gently takes my bag when I fumble with the zipper for the third time.

"Okay, drunk girl," he says, already knowing what he'll find. He pulls out my keys like it's the most natural thing in the world, unlocks the door, and guides me inside with a hand at my back.

The house smells like clean laundry and vanilla candles. Home.

"Shoes," he murmurs.

I kick them off dramatically. One of them hits the wall.

"Nailed it," I whisper, proud.

He just shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Upstairs, he steers me into my room and sits me gently on the edge of the bed like I'm made of glass. He opens my dresser without asking—because of course he knows where everything is—and pulls out one of my softest pajamas. The old one. The one with the faded stars.

He freezes for half a second, then hands them to me.

"Bathroom," he says, already turning around. "I'll... I'll be right here."

I wobble into the bathroom, leaning on the doorframe, watching his reflection in the mirror as he stares very intently at the opposite wall.

"Luke," I call.

"Yes?" Too fast.

"I'm not gonna fall."

A pause. Then, "Good."

I laugh to myself as I change, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet house. When I come back out, he's standing exactly where I left him, hands clasped behind his back like a boy trying very hard to be respectful.

I climb into bed, suddenly exhausted now that the adrenaline is gone.

He pulls the blankets up, tucking them around me in that careful way that makes my chest ache. He straightens a pillow. Smooths the sheet. Fusses.

Then he stops.

He stands there for a moment, just looking at me. Not like earlier. Not sharp or guarded. Just... soft.

And then, barely above a whisper, he says it.

"I'm sorry."

The words settle over me, heavy and gentle all at once.

"For what?" I murmur, already half-asleep.

"For being confusing," he says quietly. "For not saying things when I should. For... tonight."

My eyes flutter closed, but I force them open just enough to see him.

"You still took me home," I say.

He nods. "Always."

I smile—small, sleepy, honest.

"That counts for something," I whisper.

He hesitates, then reaches out and brushes a strand of hair off my face, so light I almost think I imagined it.

I'm floating somewhere between sleep and not-sleep, that soft place where the world feels muffled and warm, when I feel the mattress dip again.

I don't open my eyes. I don't think I could if I tried.

Luke's still there. I know it the same way I know where the moon is even when I can't see it.

For a long moment, he doesn't say anything. I hear his breathing—slow, uneven, like he's arguing with himself.

Then, very quietly, like the words might shatter if he says them too loud, he speaks.

"I'm scared of you."

That gets through the fog a little. My fingers twitch under the blanket.

"Not of you," he corrects himself immediately, softer. "Of what you do to me."

He exhales, shaky.

"I spent my whole life making sure I didn't feel things. Or... if I did, I put them in neat boxes. Labeled them. Controlled them."
A bitter little laugh. "I was really good at that."

I feel the edge of his hand on the mattress, close to mine but not touching.

"And then you showed up."

My heart thuds, slow and heavy.

"You think it was the stars," he whispers. "That I broke because of the ceiling. Because you messed up my perfect little universe."

He shakes his head.

"No."

A pause. Longer this time.

"It was you."

His voice drops even lower, like this part is just for him.

"You're loud and impulsive and you don't think before you feel. You just... feel. Fully. And you don't apologize for it."
Another breath. "You made everything messy."

His fingers finally brush mine, barely there.

"And I hate that I can't control it. That I get angry because of you. Protective. Jealous. That I feel things I don't want to feel."

I shift slightly, half asleep, and he freezes—then relaxes when I don't wake.

"I'm scared that if I let myself feel it all," he says, "I won't know how to stop."

His thumb presses lightly against my knuckle.

"I didn't break because of the stars, Maddie. I broke because you looked at me and refused to let me stay closed."

Silence fills the room again, thick and fragile.

"I know you won't remember this tomorrow," he murmurs, almost fond. "And maybe that's why I can say it."

He stands slowly, the mattress lifting back into place.

"At least tonight," he adds, like a quiet promise, "I can be honest."

I don't answer. I can't. Possibly because this is most likely a dream, a product of my imagination that I won't even remember in ten years from now.

But as sleep finally pulls me under, my fingers curl just slightly—like they're holding onto something important.