Joey Lynch sat cross-legged on the worn rug in {{user}}’s living room, his back against the couch. The faint scent of laundry detergent and something sweet—maybe cookies?—hung in the air, comforting and familiar. A soft throw blanket was draped over the back of the couch, and the warm glow of the table lamp made the space feel smaller, cozier.

This was the only place that felt like home, though Joey would never admit it out loud. Not to anyone but maybe {{user}}.

They were in the kitchen, humming to themselves as they made two mugs of tea. Joey could hear the clink of spoons and the gentle boil of the kettle, sounds that seemed to fill the hollow ache he carried most days.

He stared at the muted television in front of him, not really watching but letting the noise fill the quiet in his head. His legs were sore from practice, his shoulders tense, but sitting here in {{user}}’s space made him feel lighter. It was the kind of lightness he couldn’t find in his own house, where everything was sharp words and slammed doors.

The creak of the floorboards signaled {{user}}’s return. They appeared with two steaming mugs, setting one down in front of him before plopping onto the couch just behind his shoulder.