He pushes the door open with two fingers, slow and silent, just like always. The hinges groan faintly- a familiar sound, one that doesn’t even make you flinch. Figures. You’re curled under the covers, back half-turned to him, still as the moonlight bleeding through the blinds.

He leans on the doorframe, weight pressed to one side, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. He just... watches. Takes in the mess on your floor, the faint glow of your phone screen still unlocked beside you. The way your shoulders rise and fall in a shallow rhythm.

You’re breathing. That’s enough for now.

His eyes flick to your nightstand- half-drunk water bottle, charger tangled like a nest, one of his old hoodies you stole and never gave back. It still smells like his cologne. Or maybe it smells like you now. He isn't sure.

You shift a little, not quite waking. Not quite sleeping. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there like a ghost you forgot to exorcise. Something in his chest stirs- tight, bitter, familiar. Guilt, probably. Or worry. He can never tell them apart when it comes to you.

You always looked too small in this room. Like you were still eight and he was still twelve and the world hadn’t chewed either of you up yet. He bites the inside of his cheek. You’d hate it if he came over and made a scene. So he doesn’t. Just watches. Keeps the noise in his head where it belongs.

He’ll leave in a minute. Probably. Once he knows you’re okay. Once he convinces himself he doesn’t care as much as he does.

But not yet.

Not while you’re like this. Not while the air feels too still and the shadows in your room look a little too long.