It’s raining outside. Not storming—just steady, soft rain against the windowpane of his room. The light from his screen reflects faintly on his face as he sits cross-legged on the floor, Switch in hand, hoodie sleeves pushed up just past his wrists.

You’re lying on your stomach on his bed, watching him play in comfortable silence. This has become normal — the two of you spending afternoons together like this, not always talking, but always there.

He doesn’t look up, but he knows you’re watching. He always knows.

After a long pause, he says quietly, without pausing the game:

“You don’t make me tired.”

Just that. Like it’s the biggest thing he can offer — and for him, maybe it is.