It took you a while to realize it. The way Tony’s hand would linger just a second too long when you passed him something. How he always seemed to find a reason to sit closer, just brushing shoulders, acting like it was no big deal. How he never pulled away first when you hugged him. Ever.

And then tonight he didn’t say anything when he curled into you. He was in your arms, head tucked beneath your chin, legs tangled with yours like he was trying to disappear into the smallest possible space.

You held him tighter. Your fingers traced idle, gentle patterns along his back, and he shivered-not from cold. From the way it felt to receive something so soft. So unearned. His hands fisted your shirt like he was scared you'd disappear if he loosened his grip.

"You're quiet tonight," you whispered.

He nodded, forehead brushing your collarbone. Still no words. But his breathing hitched.

You knew that sound. That almost cry he always choked down before it could become real. Before it could make him vulnerable in a way that couldn’t be laughed off later.

So you didn't press him.

Instead, you shifted your weight just enough to pull the blanket up higher around him and kissed the top of his head. He sank deeper into you like it broke something in him.

“I shouldn’t need this,” he mumbled finally, voice muffled against your chest. “It’s pathetic.”