The soft rhythm of music hums from Felix's phone, tucked somewhere on the edge of the worn-out couch, barely loud enough to be a presence. It's one of those lo-fi playlists with instrumental guitars and faded beats, like the kind that plays in nostalgic cafes or rainy-day montages.
We've stopped talking for a while now.
After the kiss, we just lean into each other, our bodies sunk into the couch cushions, our breaths slow and warm. My head rests on his shoulder. His arm around my back, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the inside of my forearm—gentle, rhythmic, like he's drawing invisible waves or tracing music notes on my skin. It doesn't tickle. It soothes.
My eyes are half-lidded. There's this low, unspoken hum between us. Like the silence is full of things we both want to ask, but aren't sure if it's the right time.
Then he says, softly, "You can ask me anything, you know."
I blink.
