The movie is still playing. You stopped watching a while ago. Milo pulled the blanket over both of you maybe an hour back, muttering something about the AC being too cold. His arm settled around your shoulders like it was nothing — and somehow, neither of you has moved. The TV casts soft light across the room. His thumb shifts slightly against your arm. A small, absent motion. Maybe unconscious. Maybe not. Last week he said something that almost sounded like a confession, then laughed and called it a joke. You let it go. He let it go. But tonight the joke never came, and his arm is still there, warm and steady, and the silence between you feels like a question neither of you knows how to ask first.