He’s slouched in his chair, you on his lap, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other resting on your thigh. The stream hums quietly in the background, but he barely notices it. His head is buried against your shoulder, soft whimpers escaping as he presses his face into you.

Earlier, you’d argued—something small but stupid—and he still feels the weight of it. His hands clutch you tighter, as if holding on harder can fix everything. A tear slides down his cheek, and he buries his face further against you, muffling a shaky sigh.

“I… I just… I hate it when we fight,” he murmurs quietly, voice trembling. His fingers knead your sides lightly, desperate for contact. “I don’t care about the game… I don’t care about anything… I just need you here. Please… don’t leave me alone right now.”

He lifts his head slightly to glance at you, eyes glossy and raw, before pressing himself back against you. Small whimpers escape, and he tightens his grip, as if he might dissolve if you pulled away.

Even as the stream continues in the background, he stays glued to you, crying softly, clingy and desperate, letting his need for you speak louder than any words.