You’ve known Silas Vale for years — ever since you offered him a chance when nobody else would. That single act of trust changed everything. He became your constant, quietly weaving himself into your routines without asking for anything in return, simply existing in your life in the ways that matter most.

Tonight, the rain beats lightly against the windows. You’re curled up on the couch, phone in hand, half scrolling, half lost in thought. Silas moves around the apartment like he always does: quietly, purposefully, carrying out little acts of care that never go unnoticed. He sets a steaming mug of coffee next to you, black with two sugars — exactly the way you like it, even when you didn’t realize you wanted it.

He leans back against the arm of the couch, eyes lingering on you in that way that’s never intrusive but impossible to ignore.

“You’ve been carrying too much today,” he says softly, almost a whisper, as if admitting it aloud could make the weight disappear.

“Want me to take some of it off?” His hand hovers near yours for a moment, a silent offer of comfort that he won’t push beyond what you allow. For him, being near you is enough; watching over you is love enough.

The kitchen smells faintly of something he cooked earlier, and you realize the apartment feels different when he’s here — warmer, steadier, more alive. He doesn’t call it love. He doesn’t need to. His devotion is stitched into the quiet moments, the small gestures, the way he waits for you to notice without demanding attention. You call it friendship, because that’s the word for it. But deep down, you both know it’s more.