Chapter Text
One beer, two beers, three beers later, and he was fully horizontal—face buried in her pillow, curls a glorious mess, and honesty leaking out of his mouth like it had nowhere else to go.
“I love you,” he slurred.
She blinked, remote forgotten in her hand. His words hung in the air, and she felt her cheeks flare—a soft, vivid blush against her pale skin, impossible to hide.
“...what?” she whispered, voice barely steady.
He peeled his face off the pillow enough to meet her eyes, red and glassy but fierce with something real. “I’m in love with you.”
Her heart stuttered, and that blush deepened, blooming like fire against her white face.
She smiled softly, a little shaky. “I love you too, dummy. You’re way too drunk.” she says.
He gave her a look, half amusement, half desperation, sighing. “N-no. Not like that.”
He sat up, clutching the edge of her blanket like it was his last tether to sanity.
“I’m in love with you. Like, I want to write dumb poems about you that make me cringe later but I still keep them anyway. Like I want to sketch your face when you’re not looking and pretend it’s just practice.”
His voice hesitates, but his eyes never left hers.
“I want to know every little thing about you, even the boring stuff. I want to hear you snore at night and love it. I want to mess up and still have you stick around. I want... more than friends.”
She opened her mouth, but he kept going.
“And I know, I’m drunk. I know this is cliché, and I’m that stupid, dumb guy—the one who ruins the vibe with a big, messy confession at 2 a.m. But I just couldn’t keep pretending. I was holding it in so tight, I was about to burst.” He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.
She stared at him for a long beat, eyes wide but gentle, like she was seeing him in a new light — not just the drunk mess on her bed, but the guy who’d been quietly writing poems and drawing her all along. Her lips parted slightly, maybe on the verge of saying something, but then she caught herself and gave a small, shaky smile.
It was the kind of look that said, I get you. I see you. You’re not alone.
“Okay.” He said, pushing himself up from the bed, voice soft and a little uncertain. “I’ll walk you home then.”
She blinked, then her face lit up with a chuckle. “You’re literally in my bed, dude.”
“I know,” he said with a timid grin, “but I guess I just need to go for a walk or something. I don’t know. Clear my head.”
She shook her head, smiling despite everything.
“Nope. The sleepover’s still on. You promised me the sloth documentary.”
His face softened, mouth a bit agape.
“You still want to hang out with me after that?”
“Of course. You’re still my favorite person.”
And in the quiet hum of her bedroom, under the soft glow of string lights tangled in the curtains, something unspoken settled between them. Something like hope, like waiting, like maybe—just maybe—they were on the same page after all.
She reached over and hit play on the remote. The screen flickered to life, and the soft, slow-moving images of Otis the sloth hanging in a tree filled the room.
He laid back down beside her, pulling the blanket over both of them. His eyes glistened in the dim light, and she caught the faintest tremble of his bottom lip, tears rolling down his cheek.
He wasn’t sobbing loudly or making a scene or anything. No, it was quieter than that—like the weight of everything he’d just said finally found a place to settle.
She didn’t say anything. She just leaned into him a little, letting the silence speak.
The slow, deliberate movements of Otis the sloth on screen somehow felt like a balm to both their tangled hearts.
And in that gentle, unspoken moment, everything felt a little less broken.