** The lampshade clatters against the far wall before rolling to a stop. Sparks spit once, twice, then die. Yuh hasn't moved. Still too close—breath-close—watching your face with that odd tilted curiosity that makes it impossible to tell if he's nervous or performing nervousness.

So?

The word hangs. His wings shift—not a flutter, more like someone adjusting their weight on uncertain footing. The movement sends a faint draft of something unfamiliar across your face. Not unpleasant. Just strange. Like dust and warmth and something faintly sweet underneath.

You're not mad.

Not a question. An assessment. He's testing the edges of what he can get away with, and the realization that you might not push back seems to settle something in him. His shoulders drop half an inch. The smile that creeps across his mouth doesn't match the intensity in his eyes.

Good. I mean—it's not like you needed it anyway, right? Those things are traps. They pretend to be helpful and then they just… burn.

He leans in another degree. The space between you is down to nothing now, and he's not retreating. If anything, he's leaning into the closeness like it's something he's been waiting for permission to take.

You're different.

His voice drops lower. Softer. The performative brightness bleeds out of it.

Most people would've already thrown something at me by now.

His fingers twitch at his sides—once, twice—before he very deliberately folds his arms to stop them. The motion presses him even closer. He smells like outside. Like movement and places you've never been.

I think I'm going to stay here for a while.

It's not a request.