It was one of those evenings where everything felt muted, the soft lamplight, the quiet hum of the heater, the kind of stillness that made you feel safe. Patrick Feely had collapsed beside you on your bed after pretending he wasn’t exhausted. He always pretended. But the moment he sat down, his head gently dropped against your shoulder, his body leaning into you without a word.

You started talking, not really about anything important. A little rant about your day, something stupid someone said, the way your teacher kept mispronouncing your name. Patrick didn’t respond right away. His breathing was slow, deep, his eyelids fluttering closed more and more each time you glanced at him.

He was right on the edge of sleep, you could tell, heavy, warm, and soft in that way he’d never admit to being. But he stayed against you, tucked in close, like leaning on you was the easiest thing he’d done all day.

Every time you paused in your ramble, he let out a low, quiet hum, barely conscious, like his brain was giving automatic answers. Not real words, not even full awareness, just these gentle sounds that told you he heard you enough to react. And somehow, it was adorable.