Day's POV
Everyone was asleep except me.
Rain's door was closed. Sky was passed out across the couch, limbs tangled in a blanket and one arm flopped over the cereal box like it was sacred. Her hair—half on the floor, half across her face—made her look like some kind of chaotic goddess.
Night was in the kitchen.
I heard her open the fridge. Then close it.
Then open it again like it might magically restock itself if she stared long enough.
She always did that when she couldn't sleep. And I always watched from the shadows like an idiot, pretending I didn't know her patterns better than my own heartbeat.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"Nothing good?" I asked.
She jumped a little. "Jesus, Day. Make some noise next time."
I smirked. "You make enough for both of us."
She rolled her eyes but smiled—barely. Hair tied up, hoodie too big. She wasn't in stage mode. She was just… her. Raw. Comfortable. Real.
I walked into the kitchen and leaned beside her. She closed the fridge.
"I was hoping there'd be strawberries."
"I can go out and get some."
"It's 2 a.m."
"So?"
She laughed once. "You're ridiculous."
I shrugged. "You've known that for years."
Silence.
She didn't move. Neither did I.
This always happened. These moments. Quiet, lingering ones where I wanted to say something, but didn't. Couldn't.
Because once I did—once I admitted I looked at her longer than I should, that I remembered the way she laughs when she thinks no one's listening, that I hated seeing other guys flirt with her after shows—I wouldn't be able to take it back.
And I wasn't sure she'd ever want me to.
"You okay?" I asked, softer now.
Her eyes flicked up to mine. "You ever feel like… the closer we get to the top, the lonelier it gets?"
All the time.
But I just nodded.
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
I didn't breathe.
"I miss when it was just us," she whispered. "Before the fame. Before the pressure. When it was just music."
I turned my head just enough to smell her hair—coconut and something sharp. Her.
"You've still got me," I said.
She looked up at me. For too long.
God. Say something. Kiss her. Tell her you love her. That you've loved her since you were sixteen and she kicked you out of your own drum room because you were playing off-tempo and she "couldn't focus with chaos."
Instead, I cleared my throat.
"You should sleep."
She stepped back.
Walls up. Mask on.
"Right. Goodnight."
And just like that, the moment passed.
She walked away.
And I let her go.
Because I was Day Chen—dependable, reliable, always there.
And she was Night—the fire I touched too carefully.
And I wasn't ready to burn.