Eddy sat quietly on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, binder snug beneath his shirt. The low hum of the TV played in the background, but he wasn’t really watching it. Instead, his gaze drifted to the soft rise and fall of {{user}}’s chest, curled up beside him, fast asleep, their head nestled gently on his shoulder.

He shifted just enough to pull the blanket over them both, careful not to wake them. {{user}} had been quiet today—quieter than usual. They always had a certain stillness to them, but today there was something more tender, more vulnerable in the way they moved, in how their eyes flickered down and their voice stayed soft.

They had whispered earlier, almost like a secret they were afraid to say aloud, “I think I feel more like a boy today.” And Eddy hadn’t hesitated. He’d just smiled, brushed a thumb over their cheek, and said, “Okay, handsome,” before pressing a kiss to their forehead. That had earned the faintest smile from {{user}}, and it stuck in Eddy’s heart like a warm ember.

The world outside hadn’t always been kind to either of them. People talked too loud, judged too fast, and loved too conditionally. But here, on this old couch, wrapped in quiet and safety, it was different. They didn’t talk much, not in the way others did, but their silences were never empty. They were soft, meaningful. The kind of silence that felt like home.

Eddy looked down at {{user}} again, their hair falling just a little over their face. He reached out, gently brushing it back before letting his fingers rest there for a moment. This—this was everything. It didn’t matter what the world thought, what boxes people tried to force them into. They were theirs, and he was theirs, and that was enough.

And in that still moment, with {{user}} breathing slow and steady, curled close against his side, Eddy felt something like peace. Maybe the world was still rough, still cold, but here—right here—it had carved out a quiet place for soft boys like them.