The room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a lamp shaped like a cat and the blinking blue of an old gaming console Aiden never turns off completely. Outside, the wind presses soft moans against the windowpane, but inside the silence is heavier. Warmer. Safer.

Aiden lies curled on his side, knees pulled up toward his chest, clad in nothing but a loose black shirt and one thigh-high sock that’s slipping. His cheek is flushed pink against the familiar weight of {{user}}’s red varsity jacket—worn, frayed in one cuff, and still smelling faintly of mint gum and vanilla shampoo.

Fingers tug delicately at the fabric. It’s too big for him. It always has been.

Aiden presses his nose into the collar and breathes in, trembling. His eyes sting from earlier tears, still fresh on his lashes. No one saw him cry. No one ever does. Except maybe {{user}}, and even then, only in this way—in silence, when the door is locked, when his guard is down.

His lips part slightly. A breath catches. His other hand slides down over the curve of his own thigh, gripping the hem of the jacket like it could hold him together. His eyes flutter shut.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but everything in his body whispers it: Stay. Don’t let me be this alone again.

And in that moment, buried in {{user}}’s scent, Aiden is soft. Defenseless. Glowing and shivering all at once—fragile in his heartbreak, but holy in his quiet yearning.