Night's POV
The silence after Sky leaves is the kind that feels earned.
She's a thunderstorm in lip gloss. Once she's gone, the room feels like it's catching its breath.
Day's still on the couch, head tilted back, eyes closed. The dim light from the kitchen casts shadows on his jawline—unfairly sculpted, like the universe decided to flex a little.
I don't say anything at first. Just stay sitting where I've been for the past hour, legs tucked under me, watching the leftover chaos settle like glitter in a snow globe.
"She ever stop talking?" he murmurs suddenly, voice rough with exhaustion.
I smirk. "In her sleep. Maybe."
"She dreams out loud."
"She once sang 'Hotline Bling' in her sleep. With harmony."
He huffs a laugh. It's soft. Too soft. And it hits me right in the chest.
God, I'm in trouble.
Day opens his eyes, looking at me. Not in that casual, friendly way. In the lingering way. The kind of look you pretend didn't happen because if you acknowledge it, it becomes real.
His voice is low. "You always stay after?"
"Only when she gets this worked up," I say. "She drains the whole room like an emotional vacuum."
He smiles again. Smaller. "You're always cleaning up after her."
"She'd do the same for me."
"I know."
And just like that, the air shifts.
We're quiet for a few beats. The kind of quiet that feels like something is waiting to be said. But if either of us says it, we'll cross a line neither of us can uncross.
So instead, I ask, "Why didn't you go with them?"
Day shrugs. "Didn't feel like it."
"Rain looked like he needed a buffer."
"He always looks like that."
"You're avoiding him."
He shrugs again, but this one's tighter. "Maybe."
I nod, fingers drumming lightly on my knee. "You mad at him?"
"No," he says, too fast. Then again, quieter. "No."
I look at him.
He looks at me.
Something's crawling between us, unsaid and hot and alive.
"Why are you really still here?" he asks, voice quieter now, like if he speaks too loud it'll shatter whatever this moment is.
I tilt my head. "Maybe I'm waiting for you to say something."
He blinks. His jaw works like he's grinding a thought between his teeth.
Then he says, barely above a whisper, "Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because if you do, I won't be able to pretend I don't want to hear it."
And that's it.
That's the line.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
There's a space between us that feels like a fuse—just waiting for someone to light it.
But instead, I rise, brushing imaginary dust off my jeans.
"I'm gonna go crash in Sky's room."
Day exhales, low and slow, like he's been holding his breath this whole time. "Night…"
"Yeah?"
He pauses. Then looks away. "Nothing."
I nod once, slowly, like I get it. Because I do.
I always have.
Some things are better when they're almost.
For now.