He thought about the way his dog, Bug, would lean his entire weight against Elias’s shin while he washed dishes—a heavy, furry anchor. He thought about the specific, muffled silence of snowfall, and the way a citrus candle smells when you first blow it out, leaving that trail of white smoke in the air.
He reached for his headphones, the cord tangling around a half-finished mug of tea from the night before. As the first acoustic strums of "Things That Make It Warm" hummed into his ears, the room felt like it shrunk, just enough to feel cozy instead of empty.
He thought about the "warm things" that weren't heaters or blankets.