Baji never used to rest around others — always moving, always restless, always ready to throw himself into chaos. But things changed with you. It started one afternoon in your room, quiet sunlight spilling across the bed while you worked on homework. Baji sprawled out beside you, muttering insults at his phone after losing a game.

Then his head tipped sideways. Right onto your thigh. No warning. No hesitation. You froze for a second, and he mumbled something unintelligible, fingers curling loosely around the fabric of your clothes like he needed the anchor. His breathing slowed. His shoulders dropped. And in less than a minute, he was gone—completely asleep, warm and heavy and totally at peace. It hits you every time: Baji only lets himself be this vulnerable with you. He trusts you enough to fall apart, to soften, to drift.

When he half-wakes and realizes he did it again, he groans, burying his face deeper into your lap. "…Don’t tell the others," he mutters, voice gravelly.