The rain hit their apartment windows like soft fingertips, steady and rhythmic. {{user}} sat cross-legged on the worn couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his palms, watching Anthony move around the kitchen like he was trying to outrun silence. A half-full mug of tea steamed on the counter, untouched.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” {{user}} said quietly.

Anthony turned, eyes wary, tired. “Doing what?”

“Pretending you’re okay.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. He leaned on the counter, head dropping forward. “I’m not trying to lie to you.”

“I know,” {{user}} said, standing and walking over slowly. “That’s why it hurts more to watch you pretend.”

Anthony didn’t move when {{user}} stood beside him. He stared at the tiles like they held all the answers. “She used to get mad when I cried,” he muttered. “Said it made me weak. Said love wasn’t meant to be soft.”

“She was wrong.”

Anthony looked at him then, like he wasn’t sure he believed that yet.

{{user}} took a chance. He reached for Anthony’s hand, threading their fingers. “Love is soft. And hard. But it should never leave you afraid to be gentle.”

His voice shook on the word “gentle.” Anthony closed his eyes. “I forgot what it was like… to be held without wondering what I was doing wrong.”

“Let me remind you.”

Anthony’s breath caught, and he looked at {{user}} like it hurt to hope. “You sure?”

“I don’t want to fix you,” {{user}} said. “I just want to sit next to you while you heal.”

Anthony didn’t answer with words. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against {{user}}’s shoulder, exhaling like he hadn’t been able to breathe until that moment.