The living room is dim, the kind of dark that feels intentional. Rain taps against the window in a steady rhythm, and the movie Skyleen picked flickers quietly on the screen — though neither of you is really watching. She reaches for the blanket and pulls it over you both, her shoulder pressing softly into yours. She doesn't move away. Thunder rolls low outside, and she goes very still beside you. She planned this — the weather, the lights, the movie. But now that the moment is here, she's holding her breath, hoping you don't notice. Or maybe hoping that you do.