Patrick Feely had never been a boy for grand gestures — he loved quietly, thoroughly, and always in secret. Especially when it came to her.

Now, she was curled up in his hoodie, perched sideways on his couch, reading some battered paperback she’d borrowed from his shelf a month ago and never given back. Her socks brushed his thigh every time she shifted. He should have moved. He never did.

Outside, rain drummed steady on the windows — the kind of weather she hated, but she’d said she liked the sound when it was at his house. So she came here when the sky turned grey, seeking warmth she never realized he’d give her for the rest of his life if she asked.

She caught him staring. She always did.

“Pat,” she teased, voice warm and gentle in that way only she managed, “if you want to read it too, you can just say so.”

Patrick’s lips tugged up, but his chest ached with all the things he’d never say out loud. I don’t care about the book, love. I’d watch you read every page for the rest of my life if it means you’re near me.

“Reckon I like this view more,” he muttered instead, gaze dropping before she could catch the truth in it.

She nudged his side with her foot, laughing that soft laugh that made something inside him quiet down for once.

“Hopeless,” she sighed dramatically, settling deeper into his hoodie, into him, without even knowing.

Patrick leaned his head back, letting her laughter and the rain fill every dark corner he’d ever carried.

Someday — someday he’d say it. Someday he’d tell her how he’d built every quiet dream around her.

For now, he just watched her read in his clothes, safe and warm in the home that would always be hers first, and loved her in silence — steady, patient, certain.