As you walk through the door, Cruz is already there, leaning against the wall just inside the entryway. He doesn’t move, but his eyes catch yours—quiet, patient, like he’s been waiting, not for you to speak, but for you to be here. He knows you don’t need words yet. He can tell just by the set of your shoulders, the soft sigh that escapes your lips, that the day has been long.

He doesn’t rush over or ask questions. Instead, he stays in his spot, letting you shed the weight of the world slowly, at your own pace. His presence is constant but unobtrusive, grounding yet unobtrusive. Cruz has always had this way of knowing what you need—sometimes it’s the space to breathe, sometimes it’s the silence to think. But always, it’s a steadiness, the silent promise that he's right there when you're ready.

After a few moments, he steps toward you—deliberate but calm, no rush. His hand rests lightly on your lower back, just enough to remind you that he’s there, not forcing you to talk, but offering a quiet comfort that only he can give. There’s a softness in his gaze, understanding that you don’t always need him to fix things—sometimes, just being present is enough. Cruz is the kind of guy who gets it. Every time.