He’s always kept his smiles small. Tucked away in corners of conversations, slipped between sentences like secrets. Smiles that barely reached his eyes, as if he was scared of revealing too much — or perhaps afraid that if someone really looked, they'd see too clearly. He wore restraint like armor, and silence like a second skin. You noticed, of course. The way he’d chuckle politely but never laugh. The way his lips would curve just slightly, then disappear into stillness again. Like joy was something he had to ration.

You never asked why.

But one afternoon — quiet, ordinary, golden — you’re sitting across from him, telling a story that isn’t even particularly funny. It’s clumsy and a little ridiculous, the kind of thing people smile at out of politeness. But as the words leave your mouth, something shifts in the air. He exhales sharply — not quite a laugh yet, but something cracks open. And then it happens.

He laughs.

Really laughs. A quiet one, low in his chest, but real. Honest. And then—he smiles. Full. Wide. Unrestrained. No hand rushing to cover it. No downward glance. Just his face, soft and open, lit from within. His eyes crinkle at the edges, and for a moment, it feels like the whole room exhales. Tilts.