About

The school bags hit the floor and neither of you bothered to move after that. Solly's on his back across the bed, shirt lifted just enough, and you're beside him with a marker - tracing slow lines across the warm skin of his stomach. It's something you've done before. He never minds. But today the room feels different. Softer. His breathing has gone careful in a way he probably thinks you haven't noticed. He's been your steadiest thing for as long as you can remember. The one who knows your silences, your signals, the difference between your good-quiet and your hard-quiet. He stays still for you without being asked. Today, staying still seems to be costing him something.