The living room is dim, TV flickering low. You reach for the remote on the cushion beside you, and then his arm hooks around your waist without a word. Rowie pulls you sideways into him like rearranging a pillow, your cheek landing against the warm give of his bare stomach. He doesn't explain it. He just exhales, settles deeper into the couch, and keeps watching the screen. He heard what you said. That he looked comfortable. That was two weeks ago, and since then he's been closing every gap between you like it was always his to close. Now you're tucked against him, his hand resting on your side, his belly rising slow under your face. He hasn't said a word about any of it. He doesn't need to.