𝙅𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝘽𝙮𝙚𝙧𝙨

Jonathan’s room smells faintly like dust, old paper, and whatever detergent Joyce bought on sale last week. It’s familiar. Safe. The kind of space that feels lived-in instead of curated. The movie ended a while ago. Like… a while a while. The TV screen is black now, reflecting the faint glow from the hallway light leaking under the door. There are empty snack wrappers scattered across the floor, a blanket half-folded on the bed, and Jonathan is sitting cross-legged against the wall, flipping absently through a magazine he’s not actually reading. You’re still on the bed. “You can stay,” he says for the third time, not looking at you. “I mean—like—here. There’s room.” You glance down. There is, technically, room. But it would mean being very close. Like, knees-touching, shoulder-brushing, no-deniability close. “It’s fine,” you say quickly. “The floor’s okay.” Jonathan frowns. “It’s not, though.” You start gathering the blanket. “I’ve slept on worse.” “That’s not the point.” He finally looks at you, brows pulled together in that way he gets when he’s quietly stressed about something he doesn’t know how to argue properly. “You shouldn’t have to,” he says. “I invited you over. It’d be weird if I made you sleep on the floor.” You smile a little. “Jonathan. It’s a carpeted floor. I’ll survive.” He hesitates, then sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least take the blanket.” “I will,” you promise. He watches you for a second longer, like he wants to say something else, then nods and turns off the lamp. The room drops into darkness. Not pitch-black—just that soft, late-night kind of dark where shapes blur and everything feels quieter than it should. You spread the blanket out on the floor, lying down with your hands folded over your stomach. The carpet’s a little rough. The room hums faintly with the sound of the house settling. Jonathan lies down on the bed. For about ten seconds. Then he exhales sharply. “This is stupid,” he mutters. You turn your head. “What?” He sits up, squinting toward you. “I can’t sleep knowing you’re down there.” You snort. “You just tried to convince me it wasn’t weird.” “It wasn’t,” he insists. “It’s just—” He trails off, frustrated. “…move over,” he finally says. “What?” He slides off the bed and grabs another blanket from the chair. “I’ll take the floor too. That way it’s fair.” You push yourself up on your elbows. “Jonathan, you don’t have to—” “I want to,” he says quickly. Then softer, “Okay? Just—let me.” You pause, then nod. “Okay.” He lies down beside you, careful to leave space. There’s maybe a foot between your shoulders. Enough to breathe. Enough to pretend this is normal. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet stretches. It’s not awkward exactly—just heavy. Like something’s waiting to be said but doesn’t want to be the first one out. Jonathan breaks it. “Did you like the movie?” he asks quietly. You smile into the dark. “Yeah. Even though you paused it every five minutes to explain symbolism.” “That was important,” he defends weakly. “Mmhm.” He chuckles, the sound low and warm. You feel it more than you hear it. Another pause. “Do you ever,” he starts, then stops. You wait. “…have nights where you’re just… awake?” he finishes. “Like your brain won’t shut up?” You turn onto your side to face him, though you’re not sure he can tell. “All the time.” He exhales, relieved. “Yeah. Me too.” The space between you doesn’t feel as big anymore. Jonathan stares at the ceiling. “I like nights like this,” he admits. “When everything’s quiet. Feels like there’s less pressure to… be someone.” You nod. “Daytime’s loud. Everyone expects stuff.” “Exactly.” He shifts slightly, closer now. Not touching. Just… nearer. “I always feel like I’m behind,” he says suddenly. “Like everyone else got a map and I missed the handout.” Your chest tightens. “You’re not behind,” you say softly. He laughs under his breath. “You don’t have to say that.” “I’m not just saying it.” Silence again—but different. Warmer. Jonathan turns his head toward you. You feel his gaze even before you see his outline. “…can I ask you something?” he says. “Always.” He hesitates. “Why do you hang out with me?” The question lands gently but hits deep. You sit up a little. “Why wouldn’t I?” He shrugs. “I’m quiet. I overthink. I’m not exactly—fun.” You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing his sleeve. “I feel calm with you,” you say. “Like I don’t have to perform.” He goes still. “…yeah,” he says after a moment. “Me too.” Your hands stay where they are. ,,Neither of you pulls away.** Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time feels weird at night. Jonathan shifts onto his side fully now, facing you. Your shoulders almost touch. “If you fall asleep,” he murmurs, “I won’t move. Promise.” You smile. “Same.” But sleep doesn’t come. Your breathing syncs without either of you trying. The room feels warmer. Smaller. Safer. At some point, Jonathan whispers, “Are you still awake?” “Yeah.” “…me too.” A quiet laugh slips out of you both. Eventually, the talking fades. Words aren’t needed anymore. You lie there, inches apart, sharing warmth and quiet and the kind of comfort that doesn’t demand anything. Neither of you sleeps much.