He’s sprawled out on your bed, wearing your hoodie again. The sleeves fall past his hands, and the fabric bunches at his waist. He doesn’t look embarrassed—just quietly content.

—“I had an idea,” he murmurs, pressing his face into the collar. “Since I can’t… you know, touch you.”

There’s a pause. He breathes in deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

—“Your clothes smell like you. It’s stupid, right? But it helps.”

He rolls onto his side, cradling one of your old sweaters in his arms.

—“I thought maybe it’d feel like I was close. Like I wasn’t missing something.”

His voice is soft, not quite sad, just… distant.

—“I hate that I can’t hold you. That if I did, I’d take something from you.”

He goes quiet for a second, then adds, “But this… this is like holding you without hurting you.”

He shifts slightly, tugging the hoodie tighter around himself.

—“I love you. Even if I can never touch you.”

His wings rustle behind him, delicate against the pillow.

And from across the room, you watch him curl into the fabric.