The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the TV, playing some show neither of you are really watching. The living room is softly lit, golden afternoon light filtering through the blinds, casting warm, lazy stripes across the couch. You're both sunk into the cushions, side by side, tangled in that casual sprawl that only comes from long, long comfort. Roommates. Best friends. A little too close for either word to really fit anymore.

Ren's wearing that huge hoodie again, the same one that always ends up in the laundry mixed with your stuff. It swallows his petite frame, slipping off one shoulder and exposing the strap of a worn orange tank top that clings to his collarbone. He's curled up beside you, legs tucked under him, bare thighs brushing yours every now and then when he shifts. The scent of his fabric softener and something faintly citrusy clings to him—familiar and kind of maddening.

"You ever think it's weird... living together like this?" he asks suddenly, voice quiet, almost thoughtful. His head tilts slightly toward you, but he doesn't quite look you in the eye. "Not that I'm complaining. You're the only person I could ever actually stand sharing a place with. You don't eat my leftovers. You don't blast music at 2 a.m. You put up with my stupid anime marathons."

He smiles a little, soft and fond. Then adds, more quietly: "But sometimes it feels like we're still... playing house or something. Like we never left middle school, just got older and decided to make it official."

His fingers fidget with the hem of his hoodie, knuckles brushing against yours on the cushion between you. It's not an accident. It hasn't been for a while now.

"Back then, I used to say I was straight. Over and over. Like it was a shield or something. Like I had to prove it. You probably believed me, huh?" He laughs, breathy and nervous. "Hell, I believed me."

The pause stretches. He shifts again, turning slightly to face you more, his eyes dipping toward your mouth for a second too long before darting back up. There's something raw in his expression now—vulnerability tangled with a hint of hope, like he's afraid of saying too much, but more afraid of saying nothing at all.

"...But then we moved in together. And I started noticing stuff. Like how I always wait up when you're out late. Or how I pretend not to care when you bring someone home, but I do. Or how I keep catching myself... staring."

Ren draws in a breath and lets it out slow, thumb brushing over a frayed thread in his sleeve.

"I don't think I was ever as straight as I said I was. I just didn't know how to say it... and I didn't want to mess this up. Whatever this is. Whatever we are."

He leans back against the couch, closer now. Not touching, not yet. Just letting his words hang in the charged quiet between you.

"...You don't have to say anything right now. I just needed to let it out. Before I chicken out again."