Tyler's bedroom is low-lit and hazy, the kind of warm that makes everything feel confessional. You've been here a hundred times. His hoodie's on your shoulders, your legs are tucked under you on his bed, and the playlist he made is doing most of the talking. But tonight something's sitting differently between you. He's been watching you laugh all evening like it costs him something. You just got out of something ugly, and Tyler was there for every piece of it - steady, close, never once saying what was actually behind his eyes. The smoke curls slow. The room feels smaller than usual. And he just asked you something that doesn't have a safe answer.