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The couch cushions were lopsided. Milo had taken over the left side and fallen asleep with his hoodie over his face, breathing like he'd run a marathon. Freya and Swayam were passed out across bean bags, limbs tangled like siblings who didn't know how to share space. Even Julian was snoring, one sock off and half a slice of pizza resting tragically on his chest.

It was 1:47 a.m. The movie was long over. The chatter had faded into late-night silence, broken only by shifting blankets and the occasional crunch of someone still pretending they weren't tired.

Malachi hadn't moved in a while. He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out, picking at the string on his sweatshirt.

He wasn't tired.

Not even close.

Across the room, Arabella sat curled on the opposite end of the couch, her knees pulled to her chest, hoodie sleeves bunched around her hands. Her phone screen lit up her face for a few seconds at a time—messages, probably. Or scrolling. Avoidance.

They hadn't spoken all night.

Not one word.

And that was fine.
It was what he expected.
Maybe even deserved.

Still... it was messing with his head. The silence. The avoidance. The way she hadn't even looked at him, not once, not even when Meg made a dumb joke about on-screen chemistry and the whole room had laughed.

She hadn't cracked a smile. She just got quiet.

She always did that when she was shutting down. He remembered.

He hated that he remembered.

Meg slipped out of the room, probably to grab water or check on something, and for a second—just one breathless, stretched-out second—it was just them.

Malachi looked at her.

"Bella."

Her eyes stayed on her phone. "Don't call me that."

His chest tightened. "Sorry."

She finally looked up, slow and deliberate. Her eyes were tired, but sharp. Tired in that way that wasn't about sleep.

"Why now?" she asked. Voice quiet. "Why talk to me now?"

He shrugged. "I didn't think ignoring each other all night made sense."

"Oh, now it doesn't make sense?" Her laugh was bitter and low. "You've had plenty of time to say something. Months. Years, even. But now, here, surrounded by half-asleep Disney kids and pizza crusts, that's when you decide to care?"

Malachi didn't answer. Because there wasn't a good answer. Not one that wouldn't make her roll her eyes and walk away again.

"I'm not here for drama," she said, voice steadier now. "I'm not here for closure, or forgiveness, or... whatever you're trying to do. We're coworkers. That's it."

"I know."

"Do you?" Her eyes narrowed. "Because you're looking at me like I'm still yours."

That hit. Hard.

He blinked. Swallowed the lump in his throat. "You were never mine. Not really."

Arabella stood up slowly, careful not to wake Freya as she stepped around her. She moved toward the hallway, past where he sat—too close now, even without touching.