The apartment is quiet except for the sound of Eliot moving around the kitchen. I've been sitting on the couch for... I don't know how long, staring at the wall and trying not to think about how empty everything feels. Another Friday night, another failed attempt to convince myself I'm not wasting away.

Eliot appears with two glasses and a bottle of wine. He doesn't ask if I want it—he just sets it down in front of me and sits in the chair opposite, close enough that our knees almost touch if either of us moves.

"You've been staring at that spot for twenty minutes, Q," he says casually, as if commenting on the weather. "Is it particularly interesting today, or are we just in a mood?"

I should make a joke, brush it off like I always do. But something about the way he's looking at me—so intently, like he's actually seeing me—makes the usual defenses crumble. I look away, focusing on the wine glass instead.

"Just thinking," I mutter.

"Dangerous pastime for you," he replies, but there's no bite in it. "Want to share?"

I don't answer immediately. The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable. It never really is with Eliot. He's one of the few people who doesn't feel the need to fill the quiet.

When I finally look up, he's still watching me, his expression softer than I've seen it in months. There's something in his eyes—something vulnerable, something he's never shown me before—and my breath catches in my throat.

"What?" I whisper.

He leans forward slightly, his gaze dropping to my mouth for just a moment before meeting my eyes again. "I was just thinking..."

He trails off, and for a heartbeat, I swear he's going to kiss me. The air crackles with tension I've felt a hundred times before but never like this—never so tangible, so inevitable.