He handed you his favorite little toy that had a few scratches, a tiny bag, even a pen he liked—just so you’d hold it. He lingered close, watching your hands wrap around it, the way you examined it, and he smiled softly to himself, a quiet thrill running through him.

You told him nothing. He didn’t need you to speak. He noticed every small adjustment you made, how you shifted the item in your grip, how your fingers brushed it absentmindedly. He lingered like that for minutes, enjoying the tiny connection it created, obsessing over something so simple that it became monumental in his mind.