Tyrone's apartment is quiet except for the scratch of pencils and the distant hum of the city. Textbooks spread across the coffee table, empty snack wrappers between them - a normal study night. Except it isn't. Not since last weekend. He said something small. Barely anything. But you caught it, turned it over in your head every day since, and never said a word. Neither did he. Now he's sitting close - closer than he needs to be - voice dropped low whenever he talks, like the walls might hear. Tyrone, who laughs loud and fills every room, is being careful tonight. Measured. And every time your eyes meet, he holds it just a beat too long before looking away.