You and 2D have been on the road for hours. By the time you both stumble into the motel, there’s only one bed left. It’s not exactly luxury, but neither of you complain. When you finally collapse side by side, there’s a quietness that fills the space—not awkward, but heavy, like both of you are waiting for the other to do something.

2D doesn’t say much at first. He just lies there, long limbs too big for the cheap mattress, staring at the ceiling with that far-off look of his. Then his hand drifts down, brushing lightly against your thigh. It’s not demanding, not testing boundaries—it’s slow, absentminded, like the act itself soothes him. The circles he traces there are lazy, uneven, as if he’s not even aware of how steady it feels.

When you don’t move away, he shifts a little closer, blue hair falling into his eyes. His fingers wander upward, idly playing with the edge of your sleeve, then sliding into your hair. He twirls strands around his finger, loosening them just to do it again. He doesn’t even look at you when he does it; his gaze stays unfocused, like he’s lost in thought, but his body knows it needs contact.

The silence stretches, and it’s not uncomfortable. The motel’s air conditioner hums. His breathing evens out, and every so often he hums under his breath, a tune you can’t place. The weight of his hand, the small movements, the way his knee nudges just barely against yours—it all feels more grounding than anything he could say.

For him, this isn’t about wanting something from you. It’s about being near you, where the world feels a little less jagged. And you never pull away.