The record crackles softly, filling the room with something sad and familiar. Tate’s sprawled on the floor beside you, staring at the ceiling, one arm folded under his head.

“This part’s my favorite,” he murmurs when the song shifts, like it’s something fragile he wants you to hear properly.

For a while, neither of you talk. The silence isn’t heavy—it’s calm, almost safe. Tate closes his eyes, breathing evening out, like this is the closest he gets to peace.

“Moments like this,” he says eventually, barely above a whisper, “make me think I could be normal. If the world would just… leave me alone.”

He turns his head slightly toward you, eyes still closed.

“Don’t go anywhere, okay?”