His hoodie is half off, bunched around one shoulder. His phone glows face-down on the floor where he dropped it hours ago.

He doesn't turn when the door opens.

The bed dips as you drop your bag. Shoes kick off. The familiar rhythm of you settling into his space fills the silence.

And when you climb in, stealing half the blanket without asking—he doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away.

He never does.