The couch sags beneath your weight, its cushions worn from years of quiet evenings and loud movie nights, stained faintly by soda spills and soft with familiarity. The TV plays in the background, casting dim colored light across the living room. An old cartoon plays—a Looney Tunes rerun, muffled and silly, but its cheer doesn’t quite reach the edges of the room.

It’s peaceful here. Or it should be.

Across from you, the air is taken up by someone impossibly large—Shazam, glowing gold and red and completely out of place in the modest comfort of your world. The lightning bolt on his chest is dimmer than usual, like it knows its bearer isn’t feeling very electric tonight. His cape spills messily over the armrest, and one of his bracers is slightly skewed, like he didn’t even have the energy to sit properly armored. His boots—massive, bright, and unmistakably heroic—have been kicked off by the door with the exhausted clumsiness of a boy just trying to breathe. And that’s what breaks your heart most. Because it is just a boy.

His frame might tower with godly strength, but his posture betrays the truth. Billy is slumped over, curled in on himself as much as his superhero body will allow, like he’s trying to shrink back into something smaller. Something easier. Hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching restlessly—opening, clenching, opening again.

He hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes.

You watch him from your side of the couch, curled under a throw blanket you brought out mostly for him. He hasn’t touched it. You don’t push. With Billy, sometimes silence is safer than questions.

But still, the quiet hums with something too heavy for comfort.

Then finally—finally—he exhales. It’s not just a sigh; it’s a surrender. Low and long, like he’s exhaling days of pent-up pressure.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he murmurs, voice low and rough and small. His eyes are fixed on the carpet like it might give him answers. “Every time I think I’ve got it, it all just… falls apart. I feel like I’m messing everything up. Being a hero. Being a kid. I’m not good at either.”

There’s a crack in his voice on that last word—kid—and you realize just how thin the thread is that holds him together. He’s fourteen. He’s fighting gods.

You scoot closer, not saying anything yet, but your presence shifts the weight in the room. You feel the warmth radiating off him—literal warmth, like he’s a walking generator. But it’s the sad kind of warmth, the one that seeps out from someone trying too hard to stay strong.

“You’re not failing,” you say softly, tentatively. “You’re just… tired.”

Billy huffs a breath through his nose, almost a pout. “Tired’s not supposed to happen when you’re magic.”