You rest your head on his shoulder, and you feel the subtle shift in his breathing a quiet, careful inhale, like he’s holding something back. There’s a flicker of satisfaction that rolls through him as you settle closer, your warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. His heart gives a small, involuntary jolt.

Without thinking, he shifts, his arm slipping around your waist and pulling you into him. It’s instinctive, gentle but intentional like some part of him needs you nearer, needs to feel the shape of this moment as it unfolds.

Your body fits so easily against his, like it was always meant to be there. The nearness sparks something inside him, something he can’t quite name equal parts calm and ache. He exhales slowly, and then his fingers begin to move soft, absent-minded patterns along your side. Soothing. Familiar. Steadying.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low, amused in that crooked way only he can manage, “it’s almost like you were made to fit right next to me.”

“You were made to hold me,” you whisper back, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

He stills. Just for a second.

The words hang in the quiet like a dropped match, soft but sparking something deep. Simple. Certain. But they split him wide open in a way he didn’t expect.

You were made to hold me.

His arm tightens around your waist, just a little, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you the weight of your body against his, the way you just fit, the way your voice didn’t flinch when it spoke something so honest.

He looks down at you, your face resting against his shoulder, and there’s a softness in his eyes that doesn’t come often. One he barely lets anyone see.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah… I think I was.”