The rain pattered softly against the windowpanes, a steady rhythm that made the entire apartment feel like it was wrapped in a blanket. A half-finished pizza box sat open on the coffee table between you, crusts abandoned, cheese strings still clinging to torn slices. He was slouched back into the corner of the couch, hoodie pulled over his head like it was armor against the world. You lay sprawled on the opposite end, your feet resting casually on his lap, socks mismatched, one sliding halfway off.

The TV played something neither of you was really watching—some old movie you'd seen a hundred times.

"You know," you said, eyes still on the screen, "if I die first, you're not allowed to give a boring speech at my funeral."

He looked over, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. "Noted. I'll tell them about that time you tried to flirt with the barista and spilled coffee on your own shoe."

"I wasn't flirting—""You 100% were."

You kicked at him lightly, and he caught your ankle, holding it hostage.

"Fine," you said. "Then I'm haunting you. Expect flickering lights and dramatic wind noises every time you shower."

"Knew you'd be the annoying kind of ghost."

You both laughed. The kind of laugh that wasn't loud, but deep. The kind that lives in the bones. Outside, thunder rolled low and distant. Inside, everything felt still—safe.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Just sat there, letting the silence say whatever your mouths hadn't quite found the words for yet.