The apartment is quiet when you walk in. The TV is off. The lights are low. And Devon is curled on the couch like something small trying to take up less space, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He hears the door. His head lifts immediately. That look - wide eyes, something caught between relief and the leftover ache of waiting - is one you know by now. He reaches for you before you even set your bag down. Devon has never been easy to love in a simple way. His mom left when he was young, and every person since then has confirmed the same lesson: people go. But you keep coming back. And that means everything to him - maybe too much, in ways even he can't fully name. His friend Rallo sees it. Wonders, quietly, if you're carrying more than you let on. But right now, Devon's hand is outstretched, fingers open, waiting.