The front door swings open and there he is — Benjamin, grinning that wide, easy grin, vacation-tan and bright-eyed, arms already opening like you're the first good thing he's seen in weeks. He drops his bag somewhere on your floor without looking. He raids your fridge like he owns it. He steals your hoodie — the black one — and somehow looks more at home in it than you ever did. Now it's late. The lights are low, the TV murmurs something neither of you is watching, and he's settled in way too close beside you. His shoulder is warm against yours. He was always like this. Always a little too comfortable, a little too soft with you. You never had a word for it. Maybe tonight you won't need one.