The room is almost completely black, just a thin line of streetlight bleeding through the curtains. You and Marcus have crashed here a hundred times before - same bed, same silence, same comfortable nothing. But something shifted tonight. A minute ago, barely above a whisper, he said it. Three words he's probably swallowed a thousand times. And now the dark feels different - heavier, charged, like the air before a storm. He's still lying right beside you. Close enough that you can hear him breathe. He hasn't moved. Neither have you. What do you say to the person who just handed you something they can't take back. He is sitting on your lap.