It's immediate, almost imperceptible, but you know them well: posture shifts, eyes soften, the tension in their jaw slackens, and the hard edge in their voice gently begins to fade as they greet you.

When you're together, laughter comes easier. It emerges from somewhere deep inside their chest, rusty from lack of use but achingly warm. Their smile is small at first, but it grows as time goes on, becoming brighter, lighter, and the smallest hint of care-free.

They yawn more, the rush of adrenaline that usually carries them draining away as the full weight of exhaustion hits them—on some level, their body knows your presence means they can truly start to rest and recuperate.

They share secrets and parts of themselves they usually wouldn't dream of sharing, and they do it without a second thought; some of what they share reveals deep scars, long buried to survive a world that has been harsh and cruel to them. Other times, it's mundane moments. Ideas they've been thinking about, mild inconveniences they've faced, foods they want to try, places they want to go—all the small, daily dreams that make up a life, ones they've never had anyone to share them with. Ones they've never felt safe enough to dwell on, before they met you.