I’ve never seen him in such a relaxed state, so I take my time watching him. The deep lines on his forehead are now smooth. His lower lip looks fuller. I move my gaze to his eyes and find them open.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi,” he croaks back. “What time is it?”
I glance at my phone I left on the floor by the couch. “A little after two.”
That’s it. We don’t say anything else. Just watch each other. His hands rest on my legs while his fingers trace lazy circles over them.
There’s something in the quiet. A slow, low hum between us. I’m pulled toward him like he has a center of gravity all on his own. It would be easy to move closer and lean into him. It would be easy to meet him halfway, but Idon’t want to rush. I’ve waited years for something real. I can wait a little longer. No matter how good he smells. Or how delicious the swell of his muscles looks under his shirt.
“I don’t usually like company,” he mutters after a long pause.
I glance over, grateful he’s broken this silent spell. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“Don’t push your luck,” he says with a sleepy, lopsided grin.
I smile to myself and sink a little deeper into the couch. The porch light still glows through the window. The chicken potpie he didn’t finish is cold on the counter.
“I’m surprised you leave that light on,” I say quietly.
He shifts beside me. “What?”
“Outside. You always leave it on. There’s no one around, and it’s not like you get company here.”
“I have you here, don’t I?” he replies cheekily.
“True. But you know what I mean. It’s so odd to have another light on. The person who lived here before you never left the lights on. Ever.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then mutters softly, “Habit.”
I look at him. “From where?”
Another pause. Longer. He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Just something I picked up a long time ago. Makes it easier to sleep.”
Light makes it easier to sleep. I thought I was the only one like that.
I want to ask more. To ask why it’s easier to sleep. Is it the same reason as mine? But something in his voice tells me not to push.
So I don’t. Instead, I tuck one foot under myself and lean my head back. “I have a nightlight in my room.”
His brow lifts. “Seriously?”
“One of those kids’ ones. It’s just… soft. I hate the dark when I’m by myself.”
He gently squeezes my foot. “Nora Moon is scared of the dark? The very same person who runs alone at night chasing the moon?”
“No,” I chuckle, then correct myself. “Sometimes. Yes. I think I’m more scared of what it means. Being alone in it.”
He goes quiet again.
I exhale slowly. “I don’t usually tell people that.”
He turns toward me. His eyes are darker in this light. Still sharp. But softer too. “Why not?”
“Because I have no reason to feel that way. I have a family who loves me. A job I’m good at. A house full of weirdness and warmth. But sometimes… I still feel like I don’t belong. Like I’m not really of this place. Like I’m just performing what everyone expects me to be.”
The moment I say all of that out loud, I’m overwhelmed with a wave of embarrassment. I hate oversharing. Hate these quiet moments when you suddenly let yourself feel vulnerable, and you hope the world will understand.
