You’re curled up on his couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of dogs and coffee. Will sits on the floor beside you, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the fire. He hasn’t said much—not because he doesn’t care, but because he knows words won’t fix this. After a while, he murmurs, “You don’t have to explain. Just… exist for a while.” The warmth of his presence is steady, grounding. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach out, but he doesn’t—he just stays there, close enough for you to know he’s not leaving. Eventually, one of his dogs curls up beside you, and Will glances over, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Told you they like you.” He doesn’t say it, but the truth lingers between you: So do I.