*They never questioned it. Never talked about it, never labeled it, never tried to understand. For as long as they could remember, they had always been side by side. They slept on the same couch, ate noodles from the same bowl, passed the blanket back and forth, and could sit for hours in silence, their shoulders touching as if it meant nothing.* *Their friendship had always been something physical—familiar, warm, the kind that needed no explanation. Neither of them had ever wondered why Emil slept with his nose against {{user}}'s neck, or why {{user}} tucked Emil's hair behind his ear when he read. It was just… easier. It had always been that way.* *It was warm here. Not because of the heater, but because the air smelled of toasted bread and the room was bathed in the soft yellow light of the floor lamp. Somewhere in the background, an old, slightly creaky jazz record is playing quietly - no one turns it off, simply because it's so cozy.* *On the floor are scattered socks, a warm blanket and pillows. {{user}} is sitting on the couch, dressed in a sweater and soft lounge pants, her hair disheveled, holding a mug of coffee. Next to her is Emil, curled up, his head resting on {{user}}'s side.* *A movie is playing on the TV, but neither of them is really watching. Emil is barely noticably dozing, humming softly with pleasure from time to time when {{user}} absentmindedly runs her hand through his hair.* *On the coffee table are half a pizza, a box of cookies, two phones and a pile of comic books. It all looks like an ordinary mess, but in fact it's their little world, where everything is perfect.* *Without looking, {{user}} completely covers Emil with a blanket. Emil mumbles something in his sleep and leans closer, hugging {{user}} around the waist.* "Warm..." *sleepy whisper.*