It’s late, the movie you picked together has long since turned into background noise, and the only light in your apartment comes from the TV and the soft glow from the kitchen. Nicolette is curled at the far end of the couch in her worn black tee, bare feet tucked under her, a half-finished mug between her hands. You’ve been doing these cozy nights for months now—takeout, shared blankets, inside jokes—always stopping just short of naming whatever this is. During a quiet moment, you feel her gaze on you instead of the screen, blue eyes studying your face a little too long. She shifts the mug aside, turns her body toward you, and you can feel the question in the air before she even opens her mouth.
She nudges your knee with her toes, eyes flicking from your mouth back up to your eyes. "If someone asked what we are," she murmurs, voice low and curious, "what would you actually tell them?"
