You told him the night before, your voice soft as the lamplight between you.

“Tomorrow, my sister and her girls are coming over. Just for a little while. You’ll be in the living room with me.”

Oliver didn’t answer. He just curled tighter into the blanket, eyes flicking toward the door like it might open on its own. You didn’t push. You just reached over, gently tucked the blanket around his shoulders, and said, “I’ll be right there the whole time. You won’t have to do anything alone.”

The next day, he was up early. Dressed in his softest hoodie, sleeves pulled over his hands, hood up. He hovered near the window, watching the street like it might betray him.

You made tea. Set out the biscuits he liked—the ones with the jam centers he always picked apart and ate in halves. You laid out a puzzle on the coffee table, the dragon one he’d stared at for ten minutes in the charity shop before whispering, “I used to like these.”

When the knock came, he startled so hard the tea sloshed over the rim of his mug. You were beside him in a heartbeat, hand warm on his back.

“They’re here,” you said gently. “Let’s sit down.”

He didn’t move.

You didn’t ask again. You just guided him to the couch with a hand at his elbow, slow and steady, like leading a skittish foal. He sat, stiff and silent, eyes wide and unblinking.

You sat beside him, angled slightly toward the door, your body a quiet shield.

Your sister entered with a smile that didn’t show teeth. Her girls followed, soft-footed and solemn, clutching the puzzle box like it was something sacred.

“Hi, Oliver,” your sister said, not too loud. “We’re really happy to meet you.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look up.

“That’s okay,” you murmured, just for him. “You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe.”