He sat in front of you, hands folded too neatly in his lap, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. His lashes trembled when he finally looked up, eyes wide and desperate for something he couldn’t name but you already knew. When you told him he’d done well, your voice dipped soft and certain, his whole body seemed to breathe again — like he’d been holding air in his chest just for your answer. “Good boy,” you whispered, and it was like you’d unraveled him piece by piece. His throat worked as if words wanted to come but tangled themselves on the way out, so he only nodded, shoulders curling inward, clinging to that praise like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He wasn’t made for applause or the spotlight — he was made for this: to be seen, to be steady, to be called yours, your good boy, again and again until it sank so deep it became the only truth he knew.