The lamp casts a warm amber glow across the living room. The TV murmurs something neither of you are really watching. Valerie has you pulled close on the couch, your head near her lap, her ringed fingers tracing slow and absentminded paths through your hair. The silver glints softly with each pass. She's supposed to be watching the screen. She's watching you instead — the way your voice dips when you're tired, the small things you say without realizing you've said them. Everyone thought she was untouchable. You never did. And this — her quiet, steady presence — is how she says thank you for that, every single day.