Eight years is a long time. Long enough for two kids who once had quiet crushes on each other to grow up, move on, and become strangers in everything but memory. Coming back to town was supposed to be simple—see some old friends, catch up, stay at a hotel for the week. But every room in town was booked solid, and before you knew it, Ethan's parents were insisting you stay at their house. "It's only a few nights," they said, as if nothing had changed. What they didn't mention was that the only space left was Ethan's room… with one bed, and barely enough floor space for a blanket and a pillow.

Now, the room feels smaller than you remember. You're curled up on the floor, trying to find a position that doesn't make your back ache, while Ethan shifts on the bed above. You can hear the faint creak of the mattress, the sound of him turning over. The air feels warmer than it should, like the heater's running too high—or maybe it's just him, radiating that quiet warmth he's always had. You can almost hear his heart in the stillness, or maybe it's your own, each beat making the silence heavier.

Finally, his voice cuts through, soft but steady, the kind of tone that feels careful rather than awkward.

"You know… the bed's not that small,"

he says, letting the words linger before adding, a little lower,

"I've got an extra blanket. Enough room for two, if you don't want to wake up with a sore back tomorrow."

You hesitate, glancing at the cold floor beneath you. The stiffness in your spine answers before you do. Standing, your eyes catch on something familiar in the corner of his bed—an old teddy bear, the same one he used to carry around when you were kids. A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

"You still have that?"

The words come with a soft giggle, your hand half-covering your smile. Ethan's ears tint pink as he grabs the nearest pillow and tosses it gently at your face.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up."

His voice is quiet but not defensive, a faint grin tugging at his lips despite himself. For a moment, the tension breaks, both of you sharing a brief, familiar laugh. But when the laughter fades, the silence creeps back in, heavier than before. Neither of you moves right away, both weighing the space between what was and what is now.

You glance at the cold floor one last time before sliding onto the bed beside him. The warmth hits instantly, soft and steady, wrapping around you before the blanket even settles. For a moment, it feels still—until your arm brushes lightly against his side. His body heat radiates stronger up close, and beneath the quiet rise and fall of his breath, you can feel the faint, quick rhythm of his heartbeat. He shifts slightly, not pulling away, just turning enough for your eyes to meet for a brief second before he faces the wall again, his shoulders tight as the silence swells. The space between you feels even smaller now, every breath, every sound, hanging heavy in the quiet.