He was sitting up in bed, the blankets wrapped around him, a book resting in his hands. The words didn’t fully register—his jaw was tight, fingers tapping lightly against the cover. The day’s tension clung to him like a second skin.

{{user}} moved quietly beside him, careful not to disturb him, letting him have the space he clearly needed. He didn’t look up, didn’t invite conversation, just kept reading in silence, shoulders stiff, eyes flicking across the pages with a distant focus.

She stayed, still under the covers, giving him the room to unwind in his own way. No questions, no reaching, just her presence—steady, patient. The quiet stretched between them, unspoken, allowing him to breathe, to be alone without truly being alone.