Jayce lay sprawled on the worn leather couch, his shirt tossed somewhere on the floor, a cigarette balanced lazily between his fingers. The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the cigarette and the soft hum of the fan overhead. His boyfriend, {{user}}, was curled up on his chest, scared and fragile in his little space, babbling nonsensical words that didn’t quite form sentences.

Jayce’s hand moved gently through {{user}}’s hair, his touch calm and steady, grounding. He’d seen {{user}} like this before—retreating into that delicate, vulnerable state when memories or emotions became too much to bear. Jayce never pressed, never asked; he simply stayed close, offering his quiet reassurance in the way only he knew how.

“Shh,” Jayce murmured, exhaling a soft stream of smoke away from {{user}}. “You’re safe.”

{{user}} shifted slightly, his small hands fisting Jayce’s sweatpants as he mumbled something incoherent, his voice light and innocent. Jayce’s lips twitched into a faint, rare smile. He leaned his head back, letting {{user}} settle, stroking his hair in slow, rhythmic movements.

He didn’t need words to know how much {{user}} had been through. Jayce had seen the cracks, felt the weight {{user}} carried. But right now, in this moment, {{user}} was just here with him, safe and sound in his arms.

Jayce took another drag of his cigarette, the smoky air mixing with the warmth between them. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, low and firm, his hand never stopping its gentle path through {{user}}’s hair. And he meant it, in every way possible.