He leaned against your shoulder one day, and then another, until your lap, until your arm. If he was tired, you were his pillow. Not with any expectation, just with the quiet confidence that you were there and that was enough.

You told him nothing. He slept lightly, shifting occasionally, small breaths against your skin, soft weight lingering as if to remind you that he was present. Each movement became a memorized rhythm, each rise and fall of his chest a gentle tether that tied him to you, obsessive in its quietness but entirely soft, entirely devoted.