The apartment smelled like leftover Thai and too many candles burning at once. You were curled on the couch in your hoodie, half-watching a show you didn’t care about and trying not to let the weight in your chest get too heavy. The key turned in the lock. You didn’t look up.

Silas didn’t say anything at first. He kicked off his shoes, set a bag of groceries on the counter, then padded into the room holding two things: a bottle of cheap wine and the really soft blanket you both pretended didn’t matter. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I brought the kind that tastes like fruit juice and bad decisions.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

He sat down next to you, didn’t touch you, just let your arms accidentally brush. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he. “How bad is it?” he asked.

You shrugged.

“That bad,” he said. He didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t offer affirmations or false comfort. He just poured you a glass, handed it over, and said: “You know, you could do nothing for the next six months and I’d still think you’re doing better than 90% of the population.”

You snorted. He smirked.

“Also,” he added, voice softer now, “if you want to just sit here and not talk for a while, that’s okay too. You don’t have to earn space.”