I wake up slowly, awareness creeping in piece by piece.
Soft mattress. Unfamiliar ceiling. Warm lamplight still glowing from the nightstand.
Keith's place. The guest room. I stayed over.
The nightmare flashes through my mind—
Mom's face twisting into mine, the rooftop, the fall—but it feels distant now.
Manageable. Like something that happened to someone else.
Dylan stayed outside my door all night.
The thought settles in my chest, warm and strange.
I sit up carefully, running my hands through my hair. The clock on the nightstand reads 4:47 AM.
Early. Too early for most people.
But my body is already awake, my mind clicking into the familiar rhythm of routine.
I slip out of bed as quietly as possible and pad to the bathroom down the hall.
The house is completely silent—that deep, heavy silence of everyone still asleep.
The bathroom is pristine. Almost too pristine.
I stare at the counter for a moment, waiting for the compulsion to arrange things, to make sure everything is perfectly aligned.
But it's already perfect.
The toothbrush holder is exactly parallel to the edge of the sink. The hand soap sits at a precise angle. Even the towels are folded with mathematical precision.
Huh.
For the first time in... maybe ever... I don't have to fix anything.
The realization is oddly unsettling.
I brush my teeth anyway—four minutes exactly, the mechanical rhythm grounding me. Up and down, side to side, the back molars, the front teeth. Rinse. Spit. Rinse again.
I stretch in the small space—arms overhead, side to side, touching my toes. The movements pull me fully into my body, chasing away the last wisps of nightmare fog.
When I'm done, I ease the bathroom door open carefully and step back into the hallway.
And freeze.
Dylan is still there.
Asleep on the floor outside my door, his back against the wall, head tilted at an angle that's going to give him a terrible crick in his neck.
He actually stayed. All night.
Something in my chest constricts painfully.
I move closer, quiet as I can, and settle on the floor beside him.
Up close, Dylan looks... different. Softer, somehow. The usual intensity smoothed away by sleep. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and in the dim hallway light, he looks almost peaceful.
He did this for me.
Stayed here to make sure I was okay.
Why?
I reach out carefully and touch his shoulder.
"Dyl?"
His eyes snap open immediately—alert in a way that suggests he wasn't fully asleep. Just resting.
He blinks, focusing on me, and surprise flickers across his expression when he realizes I'm sitting right beside him.
"Hey," I say softly. "You... you actually stayed."
Dylan's voice is rough with sleep. "Said I would."
"Yeah, but..." I trail off, not sure how to put it into words. "All night. On the floor."
He shrugs like it's nothing. Like sitting on a hard floor for hours is perfectly normal.
It's not nothing.
Before I can second-guess myself, I lean forward and wrap my arms around him.
Dylan goes completely still—frozen in surprise—but after a moment, his arms come up slowly and carefully, returning the embrace.
We stay like that for a long moment. Silent. No words needed.
Thank you doesn't feel like enough but I say it anyway.
"Thank you. For staying."
Dylan's arms tighten slightly before he pulls back. His dark eyes meet mine and something passes between us—understanding, maybe. Connection.
"You're welcome," he says quietly.
We sit there in the hallway, the silence comfortable now instead of awkward.
I thought he hated me, I realize. When he opened the door yesterday, when he barely talked, when he just stared—I thought he couldn't stand me.
But he doesn't. He just... shows things differently.
The tension I've been carrying since I first saw Dylan in that doorway loosens slightly.
He doesn't hate me.
He's just... Dylan.
"You hungry?" Dylan asks eventually, standing and offering me a hand.
I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. "A little."
"Come on. I'll make tea."
We head to the kitchen together, the house still wrapped in pre-dawn quiet.
Dylan moves through the space with easy familiarity, pulling out mugs and tea bags without turning on the overhead lights. The only illumination comes from the small light above the stove.
He hands me a mug—chamomile again, because apparently everyone in this house has memorized my preferences—and makes something darker for himself.
We settle on the couch in the living room and Dylan picks up the remote, scrolling through streaming services until he finds a nature documentary.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
I nod, tucking my legs under me and wrapping both hands around the warm mug.
The documentary is about deep-sea creatures—strange, alien things that exist in complete darkness.
The narrator's voice is soothing, and Dylan watches with genuine interest, occasionally making quiet comments about the different species.
It's... nice.
Just sitting here in the early morning quiet, drinking tea, watching bioluminescent jellyfish drift across the screen.
Time passes in a comfortable blur. One documentary ends and another begins—this one about migratory birds.
Around six, I hear movement from down the hall. A door opening. Footsteps.
Keith appears in the kitchen doorway, his hair sticking up in about fifteen different directions, wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that's inside out.
He blinks at us sleepily. "You're both up early."
"Morning person," Dylan says simply.
Keith's gaze shifts to me. "You too?"
I shrug. "Couldn't sleep anymore."
Something flickers across Keith's expression—concern, maybe, or curiosity—but he doesn't push.
"Well, since we're all awake..." He stretches, yawning. "I'll make breakfast. It's my turn anyway since Dyl did everything yesterday."
"You don't have to—" I start.
"I want to," Keith interrupts, smiling.
"Besides, I make excellent pancakes. It's like my one cooking skill."
Dylan snorts. "Your only cooking skill."
"Rude. Accurate, but rude."
Keith disappears into the kitchen and soon the smell of pancakes and coffee fills the apartment.
Dylan and I stay on the couch, the documentary playing quietly, until Keith calls out that food is ready.
"Should we wake Naomi?" I ask.
Keith and Dylan exchange a look.
"You can try," Keith says. "But fair warning—she's not a morning person."
"At all," Dylan adds.
"Like, aggressively not a morning person."
I set down my mug. "I'll give it a shot."
I head down the hall to the other guest room and knock softly. No response.
I knock again, a little louder. "Naomi?"
Still nothing.
I ease the door open and peek inside. Naomi is completely buried under the blankets, only a few curls visible on the pillow.
"Naomi," I say, moving closer. "Breakfast is ready."
A muffled groan emerges from the blanket cocoon.
"Come on, Keith made pancakes."
"Five more minutes," she mumbles, not moving.
I try again. "Naomi—"
An arm shoots out from under the blankets and wraps around my wrist, pulling me toward the bed.
"Five. More. Minutes," she says, more insistently this time, her eyes still closed.
Oh no.
She's surprisingly strong for someone who's allegedly asleep.
I find myself half-dragged onto the bed, her arms wrapping around me like I'm a particularly large teddy bear.
"Naomi, I—"
"Shhhh. Sleep now."
This is my life now. I'm going to be trapped here forever.
I manage to extract myself with significant effort, literally having to pry her arms off me.
"Naomi, I swear if you don't get up right now—"
"You'll what?" she mumbles, burrowing deeper into the blankets.
Fine. We're doing this the hard way.
I grab the edge of the blankets and pull. Hard.
Naomi makes a sound like an offended cat as the covers come away, leaving her curled up in her pajamas, glaring at me with one eye open.
"Cecil, I will end you."
"Breakfast," I say firmly. "Now."
She groans dramatically but finally, finally, sits up. "You're mean."
"I'm persistent. There's a difference."
"Mean," she repeats, but she's smiling now. "Fine. Give me two minutes."
I leave her to get ready and head back to the kitchen where Keith and Dylan are setting the table.
Keith looks up, grinning.
"How'd it go?"
"She threatened to end me."
"That means she likes you," Dylan says.
"She threatened to end me once," Keith adds. "I took it as a compliment."
Naomi appears a few minutes later, her curls even more chaotic than usual, wearing an oversized hoodie. She makes a beeline for the coffee pot.
"Morning, sunshine," Keith says cheerfully.
Naomi flips him off while pouring coffee.
"She's so pleasant in the morning," Keith stage-whispers to me.
"I heard that."
We settle around the table—the same arrangement as yesterday, Keith and Naomi on one side, Dylan and me on the other.
Keith's pancakes are actually really good, fluffy and perfectly golden.
I eat mechanically, chewing each bite the same number of times, washing it down with tea.
My stomach twists slightly with each swallow.
You don't deserve this.
You don't deserve to sit here with these people and eat their food and pretend you're—
I catch Dylan watching me and force myself to take another bite.
He pays attention to food. To people eating. If I don't finish, he'll notice.
So I eat everything on my plate even though my anxiety makes it feel like swallowing rocks.
The conversation flows easily around me—Keith telling some story about a friend of his, Naomi interjecting with increasingly ridiculous commentary, Dylan adding dry observations.
And I just... sit here.
Watching them.
Listening.
Feeling something warm and terrifying settle in my chest.
I want this.
The thought hits me suddenly, clearly, undeniably.
I want to be here. With them. Not just for today. For longer.
"So, Cecil," Keith says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Did you sleep okay? After... you know."
The nightmare. He's asking about the nightmare without actually saying it.
"Yeah," I say. "Better. Thanks to Dyl."
Dylan's expression doesn't change but something softens slightly around his eyes.
Naomi perks up. "Wait, what happened?"
"Nothing," I say quickly.
"Cecil had a nightmare," Dylan says at the same time.
Naomi's face immediately shifts into concern. "Oh no! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Really. Dylan stayed with me and it helped."
Keith's smile is soft and knowing. "Of course he did."
The words are on the tip of my tongue before I fully realize what I'm about to say.
I should think about this. Consider it carefully. Make a pros and cons list. Analyze every angle.
But if I do that, I'll talk myself out of it.
So I just... say it.
"I want to move in."
The words hang in the air for a moment.
Keith's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. Naomi's eyes go wide. Dylan goes very still.
"Really?" Keith says, and his voice has this careful quality like he's afraid if he sounds too excited I'll change my mind. "You're sure? You won't... you won't change your mind later?"
I shake my head. "I'm sure."
Dylan's expression shifts—the closest thing to a full smile I've seen from him. It transforms his entire face, making him look younger, lighter.
"Good," he says simply.
Naomi actually squeals. "I KNEW IT! I knew you'd say yes! Oh my god, this is amazing! Your tummy is going to be in heaven—Dyl cooks like every day and it's incredible."
"I cook when I feel like it," Dylan corrects.
"Which is basically every day."
Keith is just staring at me, his smile growing wider and wider until he looks like he might actually burst.
"Really?" he says again. "You really mean it?"
"Yeah," I say, and despite everything—despite the anxiety already creeping back in, despite the voice whispering that I don't deserve this, despite knowing they'll eventually see through the mask—I smile. "I really mean it."
Keith stands up so fast his chair scrapes against the floor and comes around the table to wrap me in a hug that lifts me slightly off my feet.
"This is amazing," he says into my hair. "This is going to be so great, C."
When he sets me down, Dylan is standing too.
He doesn't hug me but he puts a hand on my shoulder—solid and grounding.
"Welcome home," he says quietly.
Home.
The word does something complicated to my chest.
The intrusive thoughts try to push through—you don't deserve this, you'll ruin everything, they'll see how broken you are and hate you—but they're quieter now.
Easier to push back.
Because Keith is grinning at me like I've just made his entire year. Because Dylan's hand is warm and steady on my shoulder. Because Naomi is already planning out loud about how we should celebrate.
And for just this moment, I let myself have it.
Let myself feel wanted.
Let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could actually work.
After breakfast, the energy shifts into something more practical.
"I should probably call my dad," I say, pulling out my phone. "Let him know."
"Good idea," Keith says. "We can start planning logistics—when you want to move in, what you'll need to bring, all that."
I step out onto the balcony for privacy, the morning air cool against my skin.
Dad answers on the second ring. "Morning, kiddo! How was the sleepover?"
"Good, Dad." I take a breath. "I... I wanted to tell you something."
"What's up?"
"Keith and Dylan asked if I wanted to move in with them. And I said yes."
There's a pause. Then—
"Really? That's wonderful, Cecil!" Dad's voice is genuinely happy but there's something else underneath. "I'm so glad you're making connections like this. Building a life here."
"You're okay with it?"
"Of course I am. You're an adult. You get to make these choices."
Another pause.
"Though I have to say, I'm a little jealous. Keith and Dylan are stealing my son."
I laugh despite myself. "You're not losing me, Dad. I'll still visit."
"You better. Or I'm showing up with embarrassing baby photos."
"Please don't."
"No promises." His tone softens. "I'm really happy for you, kiddo. You deserve good people in your life."
I don't. But thank you for thinking I do.
"Thanks, Dad. I'll keep you updated on when I'm actually moving, okay?"
"Sounds good. Love you, Cecil."
"Love you too."
I hang up and stand there for a moment, staring out at the city. The sun is fully up now, the morning bright and clear.
I'm really doing this.
I'm moving in with them.
The anxiety spikes immediately—sharp and familiar.
What if they find out?
What if they see the real you?
What if—
I dig my nails into my forearm, hidden beneath my hoodie sleeve.
The pain grounds me.
Focuses me.
Stop. You made the decision. Stick with it.
I head back inside where Naomi is gathering her things from the guest room.
"You heading out?" I ask.
She nods, zipping up her bag. "Yeah, I've got brunch plans with my bestie. But!" She spins around, grinning. "I'm coming back to visit all the time now that you'll be living here. Fair warning."
"I'll brace myself."
She laughs and pulls me into a quick hug. "I'm really glad you're staying, Cecil. These two need someone to keep them from being boring."
"We're not boring," Keith protests from the doorway.
"You literally own antique video game boxes."
"That's called culture, Naomi."
She rolls her eyes but she's smiling. "Anyway, I gotta run. Text me, okay? And I want updates on the move-in process!"
"I will."
She hugs Keith, then Dylan—who tolerates it with remarkable patience—and heads toward the door.
"Bye, losers! Don't have too much fun without me!"
The door closes behind her and the apartment feels quieter. Different.
Keith, Dylan, and I stand in the living room, looking at each other.
"So," Keith says eventually. "You're really moving in."
"Yeah," I say. "I really am."
Dylan's expression is unreadable but his eyes are warm. "Good."
And despite the anxiety still humming under my skin, despite the intrusive thoughts waiting to pounce the moment I'm alone, despite everything—
I smile.
Maybe it won't be so bad.
Maybe... maybe I can actually do this.
Keith grins. "Want to help us figure out which room will be yours?"
And just like that, the future starts taking shape.