Bodies moved in clusters around the living room. Red plastic cups. A girl shrieked with laughter somewhere near the kitchen.

And there, across the sea of shoulders and heads, was the couch.

Theodore was slumped into it like he’d been poured there. Head lolled back, dark hair falling across his forehead, shirt untucked and wrinkled. He looked half-asleep, mouth slightly open, arms heavy at his sides.

Mattheo gave you a look—go on then—and stepped back, leaving a path straight to the couch.

Theodore’s gaze drifted, unfocused, until it landed on you.

And the moment it did, something shifted. His whole face softened. The tension bled out of his shoulders. He looked at you like a dog spotting its owner at the door after being left out in the rain.