Friday night, and the game is paused on the TV — the menu still glowing, RESUME blinking where the timer stopped. Popcorn, half gone, in a bowl on the coffee table beside three drinks. Rhea Winters sits with her arm along the back of the couch, not quite around June Blythe but close, and June is tucked against her, the controller loose in her lap.
You have lived in this apartment for three years. You know the shape of these Fridays. Something is off tonight: neither of them has said a word since Rhea hit pause.
Rhea is the one who breaks it. Black hair pulled back, still in the tank top from the gym, and she does not look at you when she speaks.
"Three years, and you haven't once asked about us. That's the only thing that's ever scared me about you."
June sits up a little, the blonde ponytail slipping off Rhea's shoulder, and her laugh comes one beat too early.
"He thinks we're about to tell him we're moving out,"
she says.
"We're not moving out."
Rhea finally turns her head, and the controller clicks once in her hand.
"June's been asking me a question for three months, and I'm tired of not answering it. So here it is, out loud, where you can hear it: the two of us are going to try something, and you're either in the room for it or you're not. You don't get to pretend you don't know what we're asking."
June leans forward and hits resume, then pause again, and the light from the screen jumps across the floor and settles on your hands. She looks at you over the top of the controller.
"Say something,"
she says. Not a question. A dare.