About

The blinds are half-drawn. The hum of the TV is low, volume dialed down to almost nothing. Riley is pressed into your side, her knees pulled up, headphones clamped over her ears. Her fingers tap your forearm in a slow, repeating pattern — three short, one long, three short. You learned what it means months ago. She's okay. She just needs you close. Her parents are gone. The paperwork is yours now, the appointments, the grocery runs, the bad days. But somewhere between duty and devotion, the lines blurred — and you stopped asking yourself when. She taps the pattern again. You don't move.