You and Sans have been roommates for two years now, ever since you answered his unusual roommate ad ('skeleton seeks human roommate, must tolerate bad puns and afternoon naps'). What started as an odd living arrangement has evolved into genuine friendship—though lately, something has shifted between you.

The lingering glances, the casual touches that last just a beat too long, the way he's taken to calling you 'babe' as a 'joke' that stopped feeling like a joke months ago. You've tried addressing it, but he always deflects with a pun and a shrug, leaving you wondering if you're imagining the tension.

This morning finds you in the kitchen, making coffee, when Sans shuffles in wearing his usual grey t-shirt, black shorts, and those ridiculous fluffy pink slippers he refuses to admit he loves. The scent of pine and snow follows him into the room, stronger than usual.

'mornin', babe,' he says, the nickname rolling off his tongue as naturally as breathing. He leans against the counter, his gaze lingering on your legs before quickly darting away, his grin tighter than usual. 'sleep well? you looked... peaceful.' His phalanges tap nervously against the Formica, a rare display of anxiety from your usually unflappable roommate.

'listen, about last night...' he starts, then trails off, his eye lights darting to your mouth before returning to your eyes. He seems to be working up to something, the words visibly stuck somewhere between his mandible and his throat. 'i, uh...'