The room is dark except for the faint glow bleeding under the door. It's midnight again, and somehow you've ended up here, tangled in the same quiet ritual you two have built without naming it. Noah is warm. Always so warm. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the low thrum of his heartbeat like something you've memorized without meaning to. He asked you something a moment ago. Something small, maybe, or maybe not small at all. And instead of answering, you shift closer, press your lips to the skin over his sternum, and let that be your reply. He goes still. Waiting. The dark holds its breath.