You and him would share glances. Quiet, cautious glances. It was the little things that mattered. His hand on your knee under the table, a gentle squeeze of reassurance. To keep you focussed, alert, anywhere but inside your head.

Growing up famous he was always showered with everything, massive gatherings of shareholders and higher ups, televised birthday-bashes. Hell- even statues. But to him, it was the little things.

Just like now. You sat curled up against his sturdy chest on the couch, eyes fixed on the tv, his thumb tracing circles over your bare back.

“This is everything to me. Everything I’ve ever wanted, you know.”