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There are a million and one ways one can show that they care about their fellow human being. Some people like to call this sort of thing a "love language", but some scholars (such as this narrator) might find that to be a bit too reductive. For some, this may be gifts and money, and for others, it could be performing tasks, or words of affirmation, but for some particular kinds of people, sometimes it is as little as spending quiet moments with the person you care for. Jake's brain was always a haze of activity, far too thinking for his own good. Jane always kept herself busy, with extracurriculars, career builders, board meetings, things that consumed all of her free time. Sure, they could play games or go out to the movies, but there was, arguably, a better use of their time.
Jane's large, and rather expensive, birthday computer sat in its place on her desk, awaiting input, a small bouncing ball of light ricocheting from edge to edge, very rarely making contact with a corner. If Jake was watching it, he would probably cheer and make a little noise whenever it did so, but he was not watching it, because he was asleep on Jane's bed, wrapped up in a thick comforter to the point of near immobility. Jane, too, was asleep next to him, with a lighter blanket more loosely draped over her, keeping the two of them separate. Only the presence of slight pressure reminded each other that the other one was there. The computer hummed and hissed with sound, the gentle patter of Rainymood on a sunny afternoon like this, the speakers humming staticky brown noise, a mix of ambient music to relax the nerves.
It was calm. Quiet. Meditative, and almost contemplative. Jake was the softer of the two sleepers, pillows stuffed in his little blanket cocoon so that his arms weren't touching his torso, and his legs weren't touching each other, his glasses set on Jane's nightstand, his presence recognizable by his soft, slightly congested breathing. Jane, glasses off, sitting on top of Jake's pair, was snoring quietly, stirring left and right, her limbs getting entangled in the thin, satin-y sheet she slept with (she liked being somewhat chilly). She stirred and moved, constantly shifting on the pillow every five or ten minutes, flipping over like a pork chop on a grill except a bit more autonomous.
A cat slowly wandered its way in, pushing the door open. White fur and beady little eyes, it looked around the messy room, towards Jake's strange VR headset computer doohickey, and then decided that it wanted to be on the bed, a place it typically wasn't allowed to be. It hopped up with all the ease of a practiced acrobat, or perhaps a very normal cat, and then silently padded itself over on top of Jake until it was between the two of them, curling up, resting its tail on Jake's neck. Jake twitched slightly, snorted a bit, and then went back to his near-silent breathing inside his comforter chrysalis.
Eventually, even the white-haired cat, technically unowned by Jane but more of a stray that she let come and go, fell asleep too. It purred quietly on the shared pillows, its little chest heaving up, and then down, and then up again, and so on and so forth. Dad Crocker, as he was known mononymously, peeked his head into Jane's bedroom, wondering, exactly, why he was not hearing the typical joy and exhuberant noises of youth. There was, after all, a tiny television in the room, and the latest consoles and gadgets hooked up to it, AND Mario Kart 8, AND Super Smash Brothers Ultimate, AND the latest Call Of Duty, just to make sure his little girl had her bases covered.
He was only slightly startled to see, instead of playing video games, their joy was from a little nap. He smiled, and shut the door behind him.