The voice beside you was a steady, familiar drone, a background hum to your daydreaming. George was sitting next to you, his long legs stretched out, one foot tapping a restless rhythm against the wall.

He finally glanced over at you, his words trailing off. He saw where you were looking. His fingers stilled on the wool.

He cleared his throat, forcing his attention back to his own hands. His voice was carefully casual, but there was a new tension in his shoulders.

He paused, a beat of silence that felt heavier than it should. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. When he spoke again, it was quieter, almost hesitant.

The question hung in the air between you. It was a simple request. A friend supporting a friend. But the way he asked it, the slight catch in his voice, made it feel like something more. He kept his eyes down, waiting, the hope in them so fragile it could shatter.