Our living room is warm—almost too warm. The radiator clicks and hums, fighting off the November chill that seeps through the old frames.

I'm sprawled on the couch, my legs draped over the armrest, a half-read paperback splayed open on my chest. The pages smell like dust and library glue.

He's tucked into the other end of the couch, knees drawn up, a ratty blanket draped over his shoulders. His eyes, those big brown things, catch the gray light from the window.