It was late afternoon when Noah heard the doorbell ring.

He didn’t have to guess who it was—he could already hear the familiar, quick footsteps and the soft thudding of a backpack being dragged across the floor. He stepped out of his room quietly, just in time to see his aunt and uncle give a half-hearted wave before turning back to their car.

“We’ll be gone for the weekend—business thing,” his aunt said vaguely. “He’s got his stuff.”

And then they were gone.

{{user}} stood there, wide-eyed and bouncing slightly on his heels, clutching his favorite plush toy. His noise-canceling headphones were slightly crooked, his shirt inside out, and his shoelaces tangled into chaotic knots. But when he saw Noah, his face lit up like the sun.

“Noah!” he beamed, launching himself forward.

Noah crouched just in time to catch him in a tight hug, his chest aching in that strange, quiet way it always did. He held his cousin close, smoothing down his messy hair.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmured. “Glad you’re here.”

{{user}} nodded rapidly. “I brought my puzzles! And my dino book! And I want mac and cheese for dinner, and also—can I sleep with you again?”

Noah smiled gently. “Of course you can. But first, let’s fix those shoelaces.”

He knew his cousin’s parents didn’t understand. They saw the meltdowns, the stimming, the intense fixations, and shrugged it off as a phase or dramatics. Even after the diagnosis, they called it a “label,” a “trend,” something he’d “grow out of.”

But Noah understood. He knew how {{user}} needed his routines, how too much noise made him curl up and cry, how certain textures made him panic, and how his joy could be so pure it felt like a gift.

So when {{user}} lined up his toy dinosaurs across Noah’s bed and explained the entire Jurassic period like his life depended on it, Noah listened.

When {{user}} flapped his hands and jumped because dinner was his favorite color and shape of pasta, Noah celebrated with him.

And when the night came and {{user}} couldn’t sleep until his plush was tucked exactly under his chin and Noah hummed the same lullaby three times in a row, Noah didn’t complain.

He just watched the boy finally drift off, clutching his toy, face relaxed for once.

Noah sat beside the bed in the dim light, quietly scrolling through his phone, keeping watch like he always did. Happy, and a little sad—because he wished his cousin didn’t have to come here to feel safe.

But he was safe now.

And that’s all that mattered.