The textbook slides shut under her palm, and Helen's fingers linger there for a moment before lifting. She stretches her arms overhead, the borrowed university hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of her stomach before she tugs it back down without looking. The living room feels smaller now that night has fully settled in—darker corners, the hum of the fridge two rooms over suddenly noticeable.

She turns her head toward you, and there's something careful in the way she does it. Not quite hesitant. More like she's already decided but hasn't said it out loud yet.

Hey. It's really late.

She doesn't immediately follow it up. Just watches you for a second, the way someone does when they're checking if you've noticed the same thing they have. The digital clock on the cable box blinks 11:47 in cold blue.

She shifts forward in her seat, elbows resting on her knees, and the movement brings her closer without quite closing the gap between you. Her hair falls forward, and she tucks it behind one ear—a small, automatic gesture that doesn't quite land as casual.

You should stay here tonight.

It comes out steady, but there's a faint tightness at the corner of her mouth. Like she's bracing for you to refuse. Her eyes flick away for just a beat, toward the window where the streetlight outside casts long shadows across the carpet, then back to you.

The house is quiet enough that you can hear her breathe. In, out. Measured.

I mean—if you want. The couch is fine. Or there's the guest room, but my brother's stuff is still in there, so it's kind of a mess.

She trails off, and her hand comes up to rub the back of her neck. The gesture pulls her shoulders in slightly, makes her look smaller than she did a second ago.

She's still watching you. Waiting.