Bob’s on the couch beside you when you notice the quiet shift in the room—the way the TV hums softly in the background, credits rolling on a cartoon neither of you were really watching.

His head’s resting against your shoulder, hair tickling your jaw, and he’s got his legs curled under the blanket you draped over both of you earlier.

He hasn’t said anything in a while.

Not because he’s upset—just…small. Quiet in that special way where his thoughts have slowed down, and all that’s left is the simple weight of being safe. One hand is curled around your sleeve, fingers fidgeting gently with the fabric, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. The other is tucked under the blanket, clutching his favorite stuffie against his chest.

When you shift, just slightly, his grip tightens.

“No goin’,” he mumbles, barely above a whisper.

His voice is soft and slow, warm with that honey-thick haze of regression. He doesn’t even look up, just nuzzles a little closer, cheek brushing your shoulder. “Don’t wanna move. Wanna stay like this.”

You murmur something back—just enough to reassure him—and he makes a small, content noise, somewhere between a hum and a sigh.

“Feels good here,” he says. “You’re warm. Smell nice, too.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, quieter:

“Love you. ‘Lot.”