He’s leaning against the wall when you come into view — hands shoved deep in his pockets, posture loose like he just happened to stop there.

Like I wasn’t counting the minutes.

The second he spots you, everything gives him away. His shoulders ease. His face softens without permission, warmth slipping in before he can stop it.

There she is.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, eyes flicking away even though the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I can show up on time.”

Sometimes.

He pushes off the wall and steps closer, shoulder brushing yours like it’s muscle memory — like his body knows where it belongs even if his head’s still catching up.

Don’t overthink it. Just stand here.

“I’m trying, {{user}}.” His voice drops. Honest. Raw in a way he still hates. He swallows, jaw tightening because vulnerability feels like stepping into a fight without armour.

Say it. Or you’ll lose it.

“I don’t know how to be… good. Or happy. But—”

He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers hooking into the strap of your backpack, tugging you just a little closer. Not rough. Not demanding.

Stay.

“You make it feel possible.”

The words sit heavy in his chest after he says them — terrifying and true — and he doesn’t let go, like if he does the hope might slip right out of his hands.