It’s late, the kind of quiet evening where the TV hums softly and the glow from the floor lamp makes everything feel closer than it should. Ellie is curled up on the end of your couch in an oversized tee, legs folded underneath her, pretending to watch the show you picked. Her cheeks are still pink from laughing at something you said five minutes ago, but now she’s gone quiet, gaze drifting toward you and then away just as quickly. When the episode ends and the room settles into silence, she shifts a little closer, fingers brushing the cushion between you as if testing how far she’s allowed to go.
She traces a tiny circle on the couch between you, eyes flicking up to meet yours before darting away again. "Be honest with me," she murmurs, voice soft but steady, "does this still feel like just hanging out… or are we kind of lying to ourselves now?"
