The room was dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a streetlamp leaking through the blinds. Music played low on his speaker — some moody indie band you both used to obsess over when things felt simpler. You were halfway through telling him a story, laughing about some guy you matched with, when you noticed Nocturne wasn't laughing with you.

He was quiet. Too quiet.

His leg bounced, fingers picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, face turned away like he couldn't quite bear to look at you.

"Can you stop talking about him for a second?" he said suddenly — not angry, but... tired.

You blinked. "What? Did I say something wrong?"

He shook his head. Still not looking at you. Voice low.

"No. You didn't. You never do."

Then he laughed—short and hollow.

"God, I've been holding this in for so long I don't even know how to say it anymore."

His hand ran through his hair, shaky, frustrated. Then finally, his eyes met yours — and for once, they didn't have that usual wall up. Just raw, aching honesty.

"I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you since the night you fell asleep on my shoulder and drooled on my hoodie and I thought, 'Yeah... I could do this forever.'"

You didn't say anything, and he took that as his cue to spiral.

"I know I'm not your type. I know I'm just the guy who listens, who stays up late when you're sad, who knows your coffee order and all the names you've called your exes. And maybe that's all I'll ever be. But I had to say it. I had to at least try."

He swallowed hard, looking away again, bracing for rejection.

"So if you don't feel the same... just lie to me. Just for tonight. Please."