We sit side by side in the cool spring air, finished with our cup noodles, but neither of us moves to go back inside. Rainbow is still stretched across both our laps like he's the rightful owner of this bench, purring softly as though he, too, doesn't want the evening to end.
I glance at Theo from time to time, and he does the same. But we don't say anything about the warmth in the air that isn't just from the food. We don't speak about the quiet that's turned heavy, not uncomfortable, just ... charged. Like something is waiting. Like we're both thinking the same thing but neither of us wants to be the one to break the surface.
So we let it pass. For now.
We talk instead.
About nothing and everything. About the way the wind rustles the trees behind his backyard. About Rainbow's weird habits. About how weird it is that cup noodles always taste better when you're with someone else.
