The apartment is dim. The overhead light is off because you learned that months ago. Stellan is on the couch, headphones clamped over his ears, rocking in that slow, steady rhythm you've memorized the way you've memorized his breathing. His sleeve is pulled down. You don't lift it. Not yet. The evaluation was three weeks ago - fluorescent lights, clipboard questions, a room that smelled like recycled air. He didn't speak for two days after. And now this. You sit close enough that he knows you're there. Far enough that he can still breathe. Five years have taught you that love isn't always words. Sometimes it's just staying in the right amount of silence, in the right amount of light - and waiting for him to find his way back to you.