Next day Rylan visited me again.

The apartment felt smaller somehow, though nothing had changed. Rain had returned lightly outside, a soft patter against the window. I sat curled on the couch, blanket clutched around me, feeling the faint tremor of anxiety still lingering from the last few days.

Rylan was nearby, leaning against the counter, hands loosely folded, eyes tracking me in a way that made my chest both tighten and ache. He hadn’t said much, not like before just presence, a quiet insistence that I notice he was there.

“You… okay?” he asked finally, voice careful, as if testing the waters.

“I… yeah,” I muttered, unsure even to myself if it was true. “Just… tired.”

He didn’t press. He just nodded and moved a few steps closer, crouching slightly so our eyes met across the coffee table. It was small, subtle, but in that space I could feel the unspoken: I’m here. You don’t have to do this alone.

I tried to speak, but the words got stuck. Instead, I focused on the mug in my hands, tracing its rim with my thumb. The silence stretched between us, heavy but not suffocating.

“You know…” Rylan began again, hesitation catching his own words, “I didn’t expect… you to lean on me this much.”

I blinked, unsure if I should feel embarrassed, comforted, or annoyed. “I… didn’t really plan to,” I admitted. “It’s… just… easier right now.”

Easier. That one word made his eyes soften. “Good,” he said quietly. “I don’t mind. Really. You can lean. You can rely.”

I swallowed, chest tight, unsure whether I should smile or look away. “Thanks,” I whispered, weak but honest.

He gave a small nod, then sat back slightly. Our shoulders brushed, accidentally, and I felt that strange spark familiar, dangerous but we didn’t speak of it. We didn’t have to. The touch said enough: presence, protection, silent claim.

I wanted to ask him how he knew, how he’d always understood without needing to be told. But the words wouldn’t come. All I could do was nod, shift, and let him be there.

Minutes passed. I dared a small glance up, and I caught him looking at me again, patient, careful, and somehow unreadable. His presence didn’t demand trust; it invited it, quietly, and I felt a part of myself relaxing, a part of me I hadn’t let anyone see in years.

“I uh…” I stammered finally, voice shaky. “I… appreciate you… staying.”

He smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes completely. “I’ll stay. Doesn’t matter how long it takes for you to say the words you’re hiding.”

The tension stretched again, unspoken, awkward, yet comforting. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t intimacy. But it was a start. And for the first time in weeks, I felt like maybe… I could let someone in, even if just a little.

And maybe, just maybe, leaning on him wasn’t a weakness.