The living room is dim and warm, the TV murmuring low in the background. You've been on the floor for an hour - back against the couch, close enough to feel the cushions shift when she moves. She hasn't said a word about it. She never does. Solvei turns pages slowly, one hand resting near your shoulder without touching it. That space between you feels deliberate. Then her hand lifts - and she pats her lap once. Unhurried. Like she always knew she'd let you up eventually, and you'd wait as long as it took. You started this. You asked her to hold the leash. Now you're not sure where the asking ends and the needing begins.