The hallway closet had been threatening collapse for three months.
Its door groaned like a cursed tomb. The top shelf bowed dangerously. It was one of those chaotic spaces no one really owned—half extra linens, half dead electronics, one suspiciously dusty raccoon plushie that no one remembered buying.
So naturally, it was declared a Saturday Family Project.
"Just sort it by what needs to stay, what needs to go," Aunt Fiona said, handing me a pair of too-small gloves. "Anything super weird, check with me first. And don't let Jayden convince you his ancient game controllers are 'vintage.' They're garbage."
"Copy that," I said.
Then she added, "Raven, can you help Dali with this?"
And that was it. The doom sentence.
I looked up—he was already nodding. Already walking toward me.
The closet was at the end of the hall, wedged between the bathroom and the linen cupboard. It was maybe four feet wide, maybe seven feet deep, with the smell of long-neglected dryer sheets and battery acid.
We opened the door and stared at the chaos.
"This," Raven said with mock solemnity, "is a crime scene."
I snorted. "It's a shrine to hoarding. Fiona could be on a documentary."
He stepped inside first, crouching to pull out a sagging box labeled 'WINTER STUFF' in aggressive red marker. I stood in the doorway, watching him lean forward, one arm braced against the wall.
His T-shirt rose slightly in the back.
Nope. Don't look at that. You're fine.
He turned toward me, box in hand. "You just gonna hover or you coming in?"
"I'm evaluating the situation," I said.
"You're stalling."
"I'm strategizing."
He stepped aside to make room.
There was not much room.
I squeezed past him with about three centimeters of clearance. My hip brushed his arm. He didn't react.
I, however, was now fully aware of how not cold it was in there.
"Okay," I said, kneeling beside a cracked plastic bin. "We need a system."
"You make the system. I'll follow your lead."
I glanced up. He was already looking at me.
It wasn't intense. Not flirty. Just quiet. But it did something weird to my ribs.
I looked back down. "Fine. Piles: Keep, Toss, Maybe."
"Bold of you to think anything in here qualifies as 'Keep.'"
He crouched beside me and we started sorting.
For a while, it was normal. A mess of outdated chargers, orphaned mittens, a glittery Halloween wig no one claimed. The silence wasn't awkward—but it wasn't comfortable, either. It was heavy. Thick. Like we were tiptoeing around something we didn't know how to name.
Then it happened.
He reached over me to grab a small box of lightbulbs just as I leaned forward.
Elbow. His. Mine.
Full contact.
I froze. So did he.
His arm was warm. Solid. He didn't jerk away—but he didn't move, either.
Just stayed like that, for a beat too long.
I turned my head slightly.
He was looking at me again.
Close up, his eyes were darker than they looked in the kitchen. They didn't give away much.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
I swallowed. "Yeah."
He nodded, like it meant something. Like maybe he wasn't entirely okay either.
We shifted back into motion. Kept sorting. But the rhythm had changed.
I was hyper-aware of how close we were. Of how he moved—carefully, as if he didn't want to touch me again, but also didn't mind if it happened.
Eventually, we filled three trash bags and stacked two boxes for donation.
"Well," I said, exhaling. "That was mildly traumatic."
Raven wiped his hands on his jeans. "We survived."
"Barely."
He looked at me again. "You still mash butter like you're in combat."
"You're never letting that go, are you?"
"Nope."
And just like that, the moment passed.
But as we left the closet, arms brushing once more on the way out, I had a very stupid, very persistent thought:
What if this is how it starts?
_______
Later that night, we all gathered for a movie night.
Aunt Fiona insisted we spent all the time we could with Raven before he went to college the next week.
The living room felt too small.
It always did when the five of us tried to wedge ourselves into it. Between the mismatched throw blankets, the creaky recliner, and the ever-growing pile of Jayden's discarded socks, the space had the aesthetic of "lived-in chaos."
But tonight, it felt tighter than usual.
Like the walls were inching closer. Or maybe that was just me—trapped in the far corner of the couch, knees hugged to my chest, hoodie sleeves pulled down like armor.
"Nothing sad tonight," Aunt Fiona declared, settling onto the loveseat with her designated tea mug and fuzzy blanket. "We cried last week. I need something stupid."
"I'm right here," Jayden muttered from the armchair, one sock half-off his foot.
"I said what I said," she replied.
After too much scrolling and several rounds of, "No, not that," and "Ugh, I've seen it," we finally landed on a chaotic rom-com with an over-budget soundtrack and slapstick galore. Something loud and bright. Something safe.
Safe for them.
Not for me.
Because Raven walked in just as the opening scene started, balancing a glass of water in one hand, phone in the other. And with a slow glance around the room, he assessed the seating situation.
Jayden was already flopped sideways in the armchair like a collapsed starfish. Aunt Fiona and Uncle Dave had claimed the loveseat and recliner respectively, leaving—
One spot.
Beside me.
He didn't hesitate. Just moved toward the couch and dropped down next to me.
Not touching me.
But close.
So close that I could feel the cushion dip. Feel the warmth radiating from his side of the couch. Close enough that I could see the stitching on the sleeve of his hoodie and hear the faintest sound of his breath when he exhaled.
I didn't turn.
I didn't breathe right for a full thirty seconds.
I focused on the screen like it held the secrets of the universe. But all I saw was movement and noise. Background to what was happening right here.
On this couch.
Beside me.
I shifted, just slightly, and our sleeves brushed.
Static.
I pulled my hands into the hoodie like I'd touched a burner. My knuckles tucked under the fabric, hiding the tremble I could already feel building in my fingers.
He didn't react.
Or maybe he did.
I wasn't brave enough to check.
The movie rolled on.
Laughter echoed around the room—Jayden snorting at a pratfall, Uncle Dave wheezing at some ridiculous one-liner. I forced a smile. Forced a breath.
But then—
It happened.
There was a joke. A really stupid, blink-and-you-miss-it moment where a character slipped on an ice cream cone and face-planted into a marching band.
The room erupted with laughter.
And then—
I felt him turn.
Just barely.
Not a full-body shift. Just his head.
I didn't need to look to know.
I could feel his eyes on me.
He wasn't laughing anymore.
Not loudly, anyway. Just a quiet chuckle under his breath.
And it was aimed at me.
Like he was checking.
Checking if I thought it was funny.
Checking if I was still the girl who laughed at the same dumb things he did.
I didn't move.
Didn't smile.
I kept my eyes on the screen, heart thudding, jaw tight.
But every part of me was screaming with awareness.
And still—he looked.
For too long.
Longer than anyone looks during a shared laugh.
Then, finally, he looked away.
The room kept going. The movie didn't stop. The popcorn bowl emptied. Jayden made three loud jokes about the lead actress being "totally his type" before falling asleep in his chair.
Dave snored quietly during the final act.
Fiona started dozing, her tea cooling on the side table.
And still—we didn't move.
The credits rolled.
The screen dimmed.
The room quieted.
But we stayed.
Me, still curled in my corner.
Raven, still beside me.
Not speaking.
Not watching the screen anymore.
Just sitting in the same space. Breathing the same air. Neither of us daring to be the first to move.
And maybe it meant nothing.
But maybe it didn't.
Because even in silence, there are some looks that say everything.
And this one hadn't left me.
Not even when the lights came back on.