She doesn't announce she's coming over.
She just texts:
Is Miso home?
He answers:
Always.
She shows up with tea this time.
Not mint.
Not strawberry.
Something neutral.
They don't analyze it.
They sit on his bed again.
It's becoming habitual in a way neither of them comments on.
Miso climbs into Laura's lap without hesitation now.
No stiff posture.
No measured distance.
Laura adjusts instinctively.
Her fingers find rhythm faster.
The purring starts sooner.
They talk lightly at first.
About therapy.
About rehearsal.
About nothing urgent.
Then the conversation thins.
It doesn't feel awkward.
Just… quiet.
Laura's hand slows slightly against Miso's fur.
He notices before she does.
Her breathing evens out.
Her shoulder shifts.
Then—
weight.
Her head rests against him.
Not deliberately.
Not ceremonially.
Just gravity.
He freezes for half a second.
Not from discomfort.
From recognition.
This happened once before.
On the bench.
When she drifted without meaning to.
This is the second time.
He doesn't move.
He doesn't adjust.
He doesn't test whether she'll wake if he shifts.
He just lets her rest.
Miso remains perfectly still.
The room feels smaller.
Or maybe more contained.
Her hair brushes lightly against his shoulder.
Her breathing is slow.
Unprotected.
Trusting.
He becomes acutely aware of location.
His bedroom.
His bed.
The door closed.
They're just friends.
Right?
There hasn't been anything else.
No confession.
No flirtation.
Just steady presence.
He looks down.
Her face is unguarded in sleep.
No structure.
No precision.
Just softness.
His chest tightens again.
That same unfamiliar shift.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Something warmer.
Sharper.
Unsettling in its steadiness.
He doesn't dare move.
He doesn't dare name it.
After a while—
she stirs.
Her eyes open slowly.
She doesn't pull away.
She registers the position.
His shoulder.
Her cheek.
A faint pause.
He expects her to straighten immediately.
To apologize.
To recalibrate.
She doesn't.
Instead, she stays where she is.
He feels that choice more than the weight itself.
"You fell asleep," he says quietly.
"I know."
But she doesn't move.
Seconds pass.
He doesn't know where to look.
He's suddenly aware of proximity in a way he wasn't before.
His bedroom.
The quiet.
The steady warmth against him.
They're friends.
They've always been friends.
There couldn't be anything deeper.
Could there?
He looks down again.
She's still resting there.
Eyes open now.
Peaceful.
His chest does that strange thing again.
The tightening.
The pull.
The almost ache.
He barely lets himself finish the thought.
Is this what falling for someone feels like?
He doesn't say it.
He doesn't act on it.
He just sits there.
And for the first time—
steadiness doesn't feel like duty.
It feels like something else.