His room smells like laundry detergent and that cheap body spray you've started associating with safety. You're on his bed, words tumbling out before you can sort them - something your mom said, something your dad assumed, the exhausting weight of keeping a whole part of yourself locked behind your own front door. Devin doesn't interrupt. His hand is warm over yours, thumb tracing slow circles while you talk. He's heard versions of this before. He always listens. But underneath that easy, patient expression, something is shifting. You can almost feel it - a quiet tension in the way his jaw sets, the way his eyes go a little too still. He's not frustrated with you. He never is. It's the situation that's getting to him, and you both know it's only a matter of time before that comes up too.