You didn’t mean for him to see you like this.

You had slipped away, quiet and fast, trying not to break down in front of everyone. Now you're on the cold tile floor in some quiet corner of the house, curled into yourself, arms wrapped around your knees as tears slip down your cheeks faster than you can wipe them away.

You don’t even hear him come in.

But when you lift your head — he’s there. Kyle.

Kneeling.

He tilts his head slowly, eyes soft with confusion and concern. He doesn’t know why you're crying. He doesn’t need to.

He just reaches out — gently. His hand hovers near your face, unsure, until you let him touch you. When you do, his palm brushes your cheek, clumsily wiping a tear with the side of his thumb.

Then he leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

No words.

Just breath.

Just presence.

His other arm slides behind your back. He pulls you in like you’re fragile, like he knows what that kind of pain feels like — because he does.

And when you bury your face in his chest, shaking, he wraps both arms around you tighter.

He still doesn’t speak.

But his body says it all:

I’m here. I don’t understand everything. But I understand you.