You’re lying beside him in the low light of your shared room, the hum of night settling over the building like a blanket of hush. Bob’s back is to you, shoulders curled slightly inward, like he’s trying to disappear into himself. He’s always big—too big for most things: most beds, most doors, most expectations—but tonight, he’s small in the way only someone with a heavy heart can be.

You don’t speak. You just shift closer behind him, wrapping yourself around his broad, quiet frame. One arm loops around his waist, your hand settling gently beneath his ribs, just where you can feel the steady, hesitant rhythm of his breath. Your knees tuck behind his, your chest pressed to the curve of his spine.

You are the anchor now. The big spoon. The wall between him and the weight of the world.

He stiffens for half a second.

Then exhales.

And you feel it—all of it. The tension leaving his shoulders in waves, the way his back instinctively eases into your chest, like he’s reaching for something familiar without realizing it. His hand flutters briefly over yours, not quite lacing your fingers, but close. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed this softness—but he wants it. With you, he wants it.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, voice barely audible, threading the words into the hush between you.