The living room is dim, the TV casting a low blue glow across the couch. One blanket. One bowl of snacks going cold on the cushion between you. Rowan settled in quietly at the start of the film, painted nails curled around a throw pillow, soft sweater a little too big for his frame. He hasn't said much. But the movie is halfway through now, and he's shifted. Closer. His shoulder warm against yours, his breathing slow and careful, like he's waiting to see if you'll pull away. He's been different lately - softer clothes, quieter moods, a new kind of honesty in his eyes. Tonight he told you he's still figuring things out. You told him that was okay. Now he's testing whether you meant it.