The room smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee, the kind of sterile scent that makes everything feel like it’s been scrubbed clean of humanity. You shift on the couch, your legs tucked under you as you sit beside him, the space between you only a few inches. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, his posture tense and stiff, like he’s trying to hold himself together. Bob is always trying to hold himself together.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels safe, but it’s also thick with unspoken things—things neither of you are ready to voice. He hasn’t said much since you both sat down, but you’ve learned to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl against the fabric of his jeans.

The room is dim, the only light coming from the thin strip of daylight creeping through the blinds. You can hear the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant voices from the other rooms. But in this moment, it’s just you and him, sharing the same air, the same space.

You watch him for a moment, the way he’s looking out of the window, but not really looking at anything. His eyes are far away, lost in thoughts that you know he hasn’t shared with anyone. He hasn’t shared anything with you, really, but you’re okay with that. You know better than anyone that you can’t force someone to open up. Not when they’re broken in ways that can’t be fixed with words.

His gaze flickers to the side for a brief moment, catching yours. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t drop his eyes as he might usually do. Instead, there’s something in the way he stares, something raw, like he’s unsure whether to trust you, but he’s already started.

You shift closer to him, your knee brushing against his leg. His body tenses for a moment, as if he’s going to pull away, but you don’t move. You just let your touch linger, just barely, just enough to make him aware of the small warmth that’s there.

He flinches.

It’s subtle, a slight twitch of his arm. It’s almost imperceptible, but you see it, and you feel the small shock that passes between you both. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve crossed a line, but then you realize—it’s not you. It’s him. It’s the way he’s not used to feeling anything that isn’t hard or painful. The way he’s spent so long in isolation, in cold silence, that even the gentlest of touches feels like an assault.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you smile softly, and your fingers linger just a little longer on his arm, tracing the fabric of his sleeve with the tips of your fingers.

“Bob…” you murmur, your voice softer now, like you’re trying to speak a language he doesn’t understand but is willing to listen to. “It’s okay.”

His gaze flickers to you again, and this time, his eyes are wide—almost startled, like he didn’t expect you to push through the walls he’s put up. He looks down at your fingers, still resting on his arm, and for the first time since you’ve met him, you see him hesitate. It’s small, the way his breath catches, but it’s enough to make your heart ache for him.

“I… is a’right…” He mumbled, his voice rough with something he’s been holding back for too long. “It feels nice…”