mel

“No,” you whined, your voice a syrupy, sleep-laden honey that barely reached a whisper. You didn’t open your eyes, but you managed to slide your leg over his, anchoring him to the mattress with the sheer weight of your defiance alone.

“Baby,” Mat laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest where your head rested. He tried to gently pry your fingers from his shirt, but you only hummed in protest, burying your face deeper into the crook of his shoulder. “I have a flight in a few hours, princess. Liana is genuinely going to murder me if I miss my flight.”

You finally cracked your eyes open, your expression shifting into a calculated, brow-furrowed pout that you knew usually worked. “All your stuff is pretty much practically packed though,” you murmured, your voice regaining a bit of its usual melodic clarity as you slowly awakened. “Why do you have to leave now? You could just… stay in bed for like another hour.”

You shifted your weight, sliding your body upward until your chin rested on his chest, your eyes searching his for any hint of giving in to your wish.

Mat let out a loud, dramatic groan, though his hand had already found its way to the small of your back, his palm warm through your oversized shirt. “Liana will fucking murder me if I miss this flight,” he repeated, his accent much heavier under the haze of having just woken up, though the resolve in his voice was crumbling away.

He knew the game you were playing, loved it even if he was almost guaranteed to lose. He loved it when you tried to negotiate for every single second of his presence, and he loved it when you looked at him like he was the only thing in the room that mattered.

“I’m sorry you can’t come with me,” he hummed, pushing your silk bonnet back from your forehead just enough to kiss along your hairline.

You let out a soft, theatrical huff, crossing your arms over your chest and turning your face away from him without removing yourself from his warmth. You went still, your expression hardening into a mask of upset disappointment, letting Mat continue rubbing your back in the silence. You had begun table readings for a new movie last week, which forced you to fly back and forth between Los Angeles and New York, leaving you unable to join Mat on his week-long trip to see his sister in London.

Mat didn’t miss the subtle flicker of your eyelashes or the way your lip trembled with a suppressed smile just a fraction too much to be genuine. He knew the blueprint of your moods, and he knew that when you played the part of the saddened lover, the only cure was a total surrender of his attention. He shifted, rolling over so he could pin you gently against the pillows, his large frame enveloping you and leaving you without the ability to escape his affections.

“Oh, so we’re doing the cold shoulder now?” he teased, his voice dropping.

He began to pepper your face with quick, light kisses, starting with the tip of your nose, moving to each eyelid, and finally grazing the corner of your mouth. You tried to keep your face stony, but a small, betraying giggle escaped you. Mat didn’t stop; he moved to your jawline and the sensitive dip of your collarbone, raining down a barrage of affection that left your breathless.

“You can’t be mad at me, dude. If I leave this place knowing you’re pouting, it’ll ruin my whole week. I’ll be sitting on the plane thinking about how sad you are, and I just can’t handle that.” His kisses continued, migrating to your cheek and then your temple, his voice filled with a playful, exaggerated desperation.

You let out a genuine laugh, the sound bright and airy, as you finally collapsed back into the pillows. You reached up, your fingers cupping his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of stubble from two straight nights of neglecting to shave. The facade of your anger dissolved completely, replaced by a lingering, loving gaze. “You’re so fucking corny,” you whispered, though you squeezed his waist tightly, pulling him back down for a lingering kiss that tasted of sleepy contentment.

“Corny, but effective,” Mat countered, his grin widening as he finally rolled off you, though he stayed on top of you long enough to press one last kiss to the center of your forehead. He stood up, the sudden movement bringing a rush of cool air into the space where your warmth had been concentrated. He stretched, his joints popping with a series of audible clicks that made you wrinkle your nose in amusement.

You sighed, the sound more of a contented hum as you turned onto your side. You propped your head up onto your hand, watching him stretch and groan. His plaid pajama pants hung low enough on his hips that the line of his Apollo’s belt was evident, and the sight of him and all his long limbs and haphazard energy made the thought of an empty bed feel that much more disappointing.

“Do you want me to make you breakfast?” you asked through a yawn. Your chin tilted upwards, a small smile crossing your lips, when he approached you once more to steal another kiss. “Or I can help you double-check your luggage. Whatever you need from me.”

He hummed in thought, still kissing you lightly until he pulled away after making up his mind, his eyes scanning your sleepy face. “Actually,” he started, his voice still raspy from sleep, “just stay right there. Or, well, stay near me. I can finish packing my stuff and make a quick bite to eat, but I just want to look at you. Need to see this face so I don’t wallow in fucking misery during this flight.”

You rolled your eyes, pursing your lips together to stop your smile from giving away how much you loved his show of clinginess. Instead, you shifted, sliding out from under the heavy duvet just enough to sit up. You leaned your back against the headboard, your legs tucked beneath yourself, watching him with an indulgent gaze as he began to move through the room.

The two of you settled into quiet conversation between Mat’s finishing touches on his packing, brushing his teeth, and double-checking that his passport was tucked securely into his carry-on. Every time Mat passed you to grab a charger or a stray hat, his hands would find your skin. He moved like a satellite orbiting you, always returning to your gravity, unable to bear the thought of being more than a few feet away even while he was preparing to leave.

Eventually you made your way downstairs, the silence of the apartment feeling heavy and depressing in the pre-dawn stillness. The kitchen was bathed in the soft, amber glow of the under-cabinet lighting, casting long shadows across the marble island where you now leaned, your chin resting on your palms. Even in his rush as he realized how late it was getting, Mat couldn’t seem to break the physical connection: as he reached for his bag, he paused to lean in, folding you into his chest for a long, swaying hug.

“You’re actually going to be late,” you giggled, though you didn’t move an inch to let him go.

“Five more minutes, gorgeous,” Mat murmured, his voice muffled against the crown of your head. He squeezed you tight, lifting you off your feet to let you wrap your legs around his waist, grounding himself in the feeling of you against him. He breathed you in, taking in your expensive lotions and moisturizers, refusing to let the ticking clock in the hallway win just yet.

He set you back down with a soft sigh. “Dude. I hate this shit. You just got back two days ago and now I’m leaving for a week.”

“I know. But it’s been a minute since you’ve seen your sister and spent time with her just the two of you,” you replied, your voice softening as you reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt. You smoothed your hand down his chest, then reached around to the back of his head. “It’ll be good. She’ll keep you busy. And I’ll be back the day after you get back with a clear schedule. We can spend the weekend at your place.”

Mat let out a low, longing sound and leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a brief second of stillness, feeling your arms wrap over his shoulders and around his neck. “Deal. Full weekend locked inside, just us, no phones, no clothes—”

“I didn’t say that part,” you laughed, though you didn’t pull away, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. You gave a playful little tug, just enough to make him wince and grin simultaneously. “Focus.”

She could hear his voice floating through the house, on a phone call with someone. It seemed to be a professional call given the way he made sure he sounded moderately cheerful but still evenly mellowed in his tone. She padded down the hallway in her socks, pausing when Colby intercepted her path. She scooped him up with a grin, airkissing his nose.

“I missed you, my baby,” she murmured, continuing toward the bedroom while the kitten purred against her chest. The moment she crossed the threshold, she set Colby free and treaded over to her closet to slip out of her scrubs and into one of Joe’s more modest graphic t-shirts.

Joe’s voice grew louder as he wandered into their room, still mid-conversation. “Yeah, I’ll look at those tonight—”

He stopped when he saw her sprawled across the bed. She didn’t lift her head, but she felt the mattress dip as he sat beside her, his free hand running down her back. After several moments she flipped onto her back, unable to help the smile that pulled at her lips when Joe mouthed ‘Hi’ before turning his attention back to whoever was on the phone. She stretched her arms overhead, sinking deeper into the sheets with a silent yawn as Joe continued his call.

Between conversation Joe managed to find chances to mute his side of the call long enough to bend and press a kiss to her forehead or her cheek or eventually her lips while she lay beneath him. She smiled up at him, watching fondly, feeling warmth on her skin underneath the palm he rubbed over her exposed thigh, down to her knee, and back up again.

Joe ended the call with a soft tap of his thumb against the screen, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. The mattress shifted again as he stretched out beside her, his body curling toward hers. She turned her head just enough to catch the wear of the day in the slope of his rigid shoulders.

His head found its way to her chest her fingers already carding through his hair before he’d fully settled. “How was your press conference today?” she murmured, thumb tracing the outside curve of his ear.

Joe made a noise halfway between a sigh and a tired groan, his breath warm through the thin cotton of her stolen shirt. “It was fine mostly. Normal stuff. Got a few questions about you.”

Her fingers stilled in his hair for a second before resuming their slow path from crown to nape. “About me?”

Joe’s nose scrunched against her collarbone, his exhale ruffling the fabric. “Yeah. All horribly phrased, obviously fishing.” He tilted his head just enough to catch her eye, the dry amusement in his voice softening the visible tension in his jaw. “Someone asked if getting engaged changed up my perspective on preseason prep.”

“Horrible question,” she empathized with him through a giggle.

“Terrible,” he agreed, shifting slightly to press his forehead against her sternum. “Flacco hadn’t seen your ring so I showed him a picture.”

She brushed the golden brown hair flopping over his forehead back enough to press a kiss there. “Flacco’s a sweetheart,” she said, kissing his temple next. “I’m glad he’s back.”

Joe released a laugh through his nose, eyes fluttering shut as she scratched gently along his scalp. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, painting them both in gold.

They lay in mirrored silence for a while: her fingers in his hair, his palm over her ribs rising with each breath. His eyes slowly shut as his breathing deepened. “I’m gonna fall asleep like this,” he murmured.

You’ve been at his place since seven. It’s almost eleven. You’ve been pulling at the hem of your sweater every fifteen minutes since the credits ran.

Your bag is by the door. The overnight one. You packed it like you were going to summer camp — your own toothbrush, your own face wash, pajamas, a book you won’t read. He has spares of most of it. You brought yours anyway.

He tops off your wine without you asking. His hand is warm on your back for two seconds, then gone.

“I can drive you home if you want to go,” he says.

“I know.”

He watches you. “Okay.”

You finish the wine. Set the glass down. “I don’t want to drive home tonight.”

He doesn’t move. Then he nods, once. Doesn’t make it a thing. “Okay.”

—

He doesn’t make a thing of getting you back to the bedroom. Takes your hand. The hall lights are off, just the lamp in his room. You’re glad about the lamp.

You sit on the edge of the bed, pull your sweater off over your head, and hold it against your chest. Your bra is one of the older ones. You’d thought about buying something earlier, then decided not to, because it felt like trying too hard.

You cross your arms.

“Hey.” His voice is closer than you expected. He’s crouched in front of you. His hands are on your knees, not your arms. “Look at me.”

You look at him.

“I want to see you,” he says. “Is that okay?”

He doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

“Yeah,” you say.

He gives it another second. Then his hands move. Slow. He pulls your arms down and keeps looking at your face.

“Look at you,” he says.

He stands and finishes undressing himself. He’s matter-of-fact about it.

He gets onto the bed with you. Pulls you in slowly. His hand on your jaw, then your hair, then your shoulder. He just kisses you for a while, and you catch yourself trying to participate from the right angle.

“Sorry,” you say. “I’m in my head.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Sorry.”

“Hey. No.” He doesn’t move. “Don’t apologize.”

You stay there with his forehead against yours.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

He reaches behind you and gets your bra off. He slowly pulls it down your arms. Tosses it.

You wait for him to look at you the way you’re expecting. You’ve already started to angle your body for it, your shoulders coming forward, your chin tilting away.

He looks at you. He doesn’t change.

That’s the part you weren’t ready for. He’s looking at you the same way he looked at you in the kitchen. At dinner. On his couch a month ago, when you were arguing about a movie. Same eyes. Same attention. Like nothing about you being undressed asks a different look from him.

You stop angling yourself.

“Yeah,” he says, like he was waiting on it.

He goes back to kissing you. He takes his time. He kisses your mouth before anything else, then your collarbone, then your shoulder, each time stopping and coming back up. He’s not in any hurry to get past anything.

You don’t have a system for being kissed like this. You’re a little embarrassed at how unprepared you are.

When he gets to your sternum, he stays there a while. His hand is open and flat on your stomach. You don’t brace. Halfway through, you realize you don’t brace, and that lands somewhere in you.

He looks up at you from your sternum. Smiles. Goes back to it.

He kisses between your ribs, lower. He kisses your stomach, where you weren’t expecting, and he stays there for longer than you can quite understand. You try to turn your face. His thumb comes up under your jaw. He doesn’t push it. He waits there.

You turn your face back yourself.

“There you go,” he says.

He comes back up to kiss your mouth. His hand drifts lower. Slow. He stops where he can feel you decide.

“Yeah,” you say.

He’s careful about it. His fingers, then his mouth back on yours, then his fingers again. He’s checking. He’s taking his time. He doesn’t act like it’s an inconvenience.

He moves over you. Not on you yet. His weight on his elbows, his face close to yours.

“You sure?” he says.

You nod.

“Tell me.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

He kisses you when he pushes in. Slow. He doesn’t go far the first time. He stops, gives you a second, then more, then stops again.

You realize halfway through that he’s never going to do all of it at once. He’s going to keep stopping. He’s going to keep checking.

You don’t know what to do with that.

He says your name. He kisses your jaw. He kisses the side of your mouth. When he finally settles fully against you, his chest against yours, he doesn’t move for a second.

“Okay?” he says, soft.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you again. Then he moves.

He keeps his face close the whole time. Every time you think you might close your eyes, he’s right there, mouth at the corner of yours, his forehead against yours, breathing against your skin. He’s talking quietly. You’re catching some of it.

He’s saying your name. He’s saying I’ve got you. He starts to say something about how you feel and doesn’t finish it. He’s saying keep looking at me.

You keep looking at him.

You catch yourself in your head about it. You’re waiting for him to be done. It’s the part where the other guys have always been done — before you got there, while you were still close, while you were going to spend the next twenty minutes being polite about it.

He’s not close. You can feel that he’s not. He’s slow on purpose.

You stop bracing.

He keeps coming back to your mouth. Every time you make a sound, he makes one back, low. Like he can’t help it.

The tears come first. They’re at the edges of your eyes before the rest of it does. You don’t know what they’re about. Just that everything feels good. There’s too much of it.

You try to keep them there.

It builds. It keeps building. He’s holding most of his weight on one arm now, his other hand under your jaw, his thumb at the corner of your mouth. He kisses you, and you can feel words against your mouth.

When it hits, it hits like the volume went up on everything at once. You’re not quiet about it. He keeps going, slow, his face pressed against your temple. Your hand is in his hair, gripping hard enough you’ll think about it later.

The tears come with it. You feel them go. He’s right there against your face. He has to know.

He keeps going. He doesn’t say anything about the tears. His breath catches a little. He’s close.

When he comes, he stays right there next to your face. He says your name. He doesn’t move off you right away.

When he does move, it’s carefully. He pulls out slowly. He shifts down beside you and pulls you against him, his arm under your shoulders, your face at his collarbone.

You’re against him. He’s still breathing hard. He’s still here.

He kisses the top of your head. His hand is flat between your shoulder blades, moving slowly, up and down. His other arm is still under you, his fingers spread across your ribs.

He holds you like that for a while.

You can feel his heart against your ear. You can feel his breathing coming back to him, slow. He’s not in a hurry. After a second, you realize he hasn’t moved. This is still happening.

His hand moves up to the back of your neck. His thumb starts making small circles there. You weren’t expecting that. You don’t know what to do with how much you want it to keep going.

You wipe at your face. You’re embarrassed about it.

“Sorry,” you say. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m not sad.”

He kisses the top of your head. “That was overwhelming. It’s okay.”

“I’m not sad. I don’t even know why I’m —”

“Hey. That was a lot. That happens.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey. Don’t say sorry. Look at me.”

You tilt your face up.

He kisses your forehead. “It was overwhelming. You’re allowed to cry. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He holds your gaze for another second. Then he kisses your mouth, soft.

“Come on,” he says. “Up.”

He stands and offers you a hand. You take it. You stand up. Your legs aren’t quite under you yet. He doesn’t let go.

He reaches for the gray sweatshirt of his on the chair by the bed. The one you’ve borrowed before.

“Arms up.”

You put your arms up. He pulls the sweatshirt over your head. It’s enormous. It comes down to your thighs.

He keeps a hand on the small of your back and walks you to the bathroom. He grabs your overnight bag on the way — the one that’s been by the bedroom door all night.

He flips on the bathroom light. Not the overhead. The small one over the mirror. Warm, yellow.

He sets the bag down on the counter and opens it. He looks for what he needs.

“Where’s your face wash?”

“Side pocket.”

He finds it. He runs the water until it’s warm. Tests it with the back of his hand. Then he pumps face wash into his palm and turns to you.

“Eyes closed, baby.”

You close them.

His hand on your face is wet and warm. He works the face wash across your forehead, your cheeks, the spots where the tears dried.

“Okay. Rinse.”

He cups water in his hand and brings it up. You feel it on your face. He does it twice more. Then he reaches past you for a hand towel and presses it gently to your skin.

“Open.”

You open your eyes.

He’s right there. You can see yourself in the mirror behind him — your wet face, your hair tangled, his gray sweatshirt almost down to your thighs. You can see him too. His shoulders, his hand on your jaw, the way he’s looking at you.

You look like you’re being taken care of.

You think about how he opened your bag without asking. How he knew exactly what to find. How he did it, like it was nothing.

You don’t know what to do with that.

He turns to the bag again. He finds your toothbrush. He finds your toothpaste. He twists the cap off the toothpaste and squeezes a line onto the brush. Hand it to you.

“Here.”

He grabs his own off the cup by the sink and starts brushing.

You stand at the sink next to him and brush your teeth. You catch yourself in the mirror again — brushing, with him next to you doing the same thing. He’s brushing his teeth at the sink next to you. Like that’s what you do at the end of the night.

You spit. He spits. He rinses his brush and sets it back in the cup. He rinses yours and sets it next to his.

He turns the bathroom light off. He walks you back to the bed.

He pulls the comforter back. “In.”

You get in. He gets in after you. He pulls the comforter up over both of you. He doesn’t reach for his phone. You realize halfway through that you’ve been waiting for him to. He doesn’t.

He pulls you against him. Your head goes back against his chest. His arm settles heavy across your middle.

You can feel his chest moving under your cheek. You can feel him exhale into your hair. The weight of his arm makes you aware of how much of him is wrapped around you. You don’t have a name for what that feels like.

His thumb is moving along your hipbone, slow. You don’t think he knows he’s doing it.

“You doing okay?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Okay.”

You stay like that for a while. His hand on your back, your face against his sweatshirt, the lamp still on. The crying slows. You wipe at your face with the sleeve.

His hand keeps moving — slow, palm flat, down to the small of your back. He doesn’t stop.

You can feel your shoulders coming down. You hadn’t noticed they were up.

You think about how much smaller you feel like this. Like you could fall asleep against him if you let yourself.

You feel it come back. The thing. You don’t even fight it this time. It’s a small wave, your shoulders tightening once.

“Sorry,” you say. Automatic.

You try again. “No one’s done that for me before.”

He’s quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “I had a feeling.”

His thumb comes to your cheek, where the tears are.

“Baby. Stop apologizing for having feelings.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

“You had a big experience,” he says. “It made you feel a lot. You’re allowed to feel a lot. You’re not in trouble for crying.”

“I’m not?”

“No, baby.” He almost laughs. “You’re not in trouble for crying.”

You laugh too, a little. It comes out wet.

He kisses your forehead. He keeps you against him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

it started small. you'd reach for his hand while you were walking, and instead of the slight hesitation you'd come to expect, his fingers would immediately lace through yours like they belonged there. you'd lean into him on the couch during movies, and he'd adjust his position to make room for you, his arm coming around your shoulders without you having to ask. these tiny moments of acceptance were like water to a plant that had been left in the sun too long.

but then something shifted.

it was gradual, so gradual you almost didn't notice it at first. he started initiating. small things like his hand finding the small of your back when you were walking through a crowded restaurant, or brushing a strand of hair away from your face when you were talking, or the way he'd pull you closer in the morning instead of rolling over to check his phone.

then one night, after a particularly rough game, he came home and just collapsed into you. his head on your chest, his arms around your waist, and you realized he was seeking you out the same way you'd always sought him. he needed this too. he'd just been waiting for permission, waiting to see if it was safe.

"is this okay?" you asked softly, running your fingers through his hair, even though you already knew the answer by the way he melted into you.

"more than okay," he mumbled against your chest. "i needed this."

after that, something unlocked in him, like he'd been holding himself back and finally realized he didn't have to. the reserved quarterback with the careful demeanor slowly became someone who couldn't keep his hands off you. but not in a possessive way - it was tender, it was patient. it was like he was learning a new language and you were teaching him, one touch at a time.

he'd reach for you first now. pull you into his lap when you were sitting together, wrap his arms around you from behind while you were cooking, resting his chin on your shoulder and just being there. no words necessary. sometimes you'd be reading or scrolling on your phone and he'd just slide his hand into yours, thumb brushing across your skin absently while he watched whatever game was on.

your favorite was the mornings.

joe had never been particularly cuddly when you first started dating. or at least, you'd thought he hadn't but now you understood he'd just been scared, or maybe unsure.

now he was the one who refused to let you get out of bed, pulling you back under the covers with a sleepy smile whenever you tried to leave. his arms around you, your back against his chest, his face buried in your neck. sometimes he'd just hold you like that for hours, content to do nothing but exist in the same space, skin on skin.

"you're gonna make me late," you'd protest weakly, and he'd only pull you closer.

"worth it," he'd say, his voice still rough with sleep.

you noticed how it extended beyond just the physical act of cuddling. he'd grab your hand in the car, squeeze your shoulder when he walked past you in the kitchen, pull you into a hug when he got home from practice, like he'd been thinking about you all day and needed to confirm you were still real and every single time, you felt it - that deep, bone-level satisfaction of being touched, being wanted, being someone's priority.

one night, you were curled up on the couch, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you, your legs tangled together under a soft blanket. a game was playing quietly in the background, but neither of you was really paying attention.

"you know what i love about you?" he said suddenly, his voice soft in the quiet of your apartment.

you tilted your head up to look at him. "what?"

"that you made me realize i'm a cuddler," he said, a slight smile playing at his lips. "i never knew that about myself before you."

you laughed, surprised. "you're not a cuddler. you're just... you with me."

"same thing," he said, and he kissed the top of your head. "you let me be soft with you. you needed it, so i learned to give it and now i can't imagine being any other way."

he shifted slightly, repositioning you so you were practically in his lap, your head resting against his chest where you could hear the steady beat of his heart. his hand settled on your back, and you felt the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his body against yours.

"thank you," he said quietly, "for showing me how to love like this."

you didn't have words for how that made you feel. so instead, you just held on tighter, breathing him in, feeling completely and utterly safe in the arms of someone who'd learned to speak your language.

when he fell asleep like that, with you completely wrapped up in him, you realized that maybe it wasn't about him learning your love language. maybe it was about finding someone who was willing to meet you halfway, who could be soft and strong at the same time, who understood that sometimes love wasn't about grand gestures but instead, was about quiet mornings and hands held without thinking and the simple, profound act of choosing to stay close.

Joe noticed long before you admitted it. Joe was simply good at noticing things - noticed the way your smile became smalle, the way you stared at your laptop screen long after you stopped typing, the way your shoulders remained tense even when you were supposed to be relaxing.

Every time he asked if you were okay, you gave him the same answer. "I'm fine."

And every time, he looked at you for a second too long before nodding.

Because he knew something was wrong. The trouble was that Joe respected people too much to push before they were ready.

So he waited, offered little things instead like a hand on the small of your back while you cooked dinner, a cup of coffee left beside you when you worked too late, gentle check-ins that sounded casual but never really were.

You appreciated all of it, you just didn't know how to let yourself lean on it.

By the time Thursday arrived, you were functioning almost entirely on stubbornness. The morning had started badly and somehow gotten worse. A project you had spent weeks working on had been criticized and an email landed in your inbox that sent your anxiety spiraling.

Nothing catastrophic happened, just a hundred tiny cuts that somehow hurt more than one big wound.

By the end of the workday, your head felt heavy.

Your eyes burned. Your stomach twisted every time you thought about opening your laptop again tomorrow.

Still, you drove home and still, you told yourself you were fine.

Joe was sitting on the couch when you walked inside.

The television was on, some game played quietly in the background. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows, casting warm gold across the room.

Normally it would've felt comforting. Today it only made you feel tired.

Joe looked up immediately.

The second he saw you, his expression changed, his attention shifted entirely onto you.

"Hey."

You managed a nod. "Hey."

You dropped your bag near the door, kicked off your shoes and walked toward the kitchen.

The whole time you could feel his eyes following you. You hated that, not because of him but because some small part of you knew exactly what he was seeing - the version of you that was running out of energy to pretend.

You busied yourself at the counter and opened the refrigerator, stared into it and forgot what you were looking for before closing it again.

Joe stood from the couch and you heard his footsteps approach. The same way someone approached a frightened animal. "How was work?"

The question should have been simple, should have been harmless. Instead something cracked.

Your throat tightened, eyes burned. You looked away quickly.

Joe saw it.

You heard his voice immediately, softer now. "Hey."

You squeezed your eyes shut.

No.

You had held it together all day. You could hold it together a little longer. Couldn't you?

Apparently not, because the second you tried to answer, your voice broke and suddenly the tears were there, unexpected and humiliating.

One escaped before you could stop it, then another.

Joe was beside you instantly. "Hey..." His hand settled carefully against your arm. "Hey... why are you crying?"

The question wasn't demanding, wasn't judgmental. It sounded genuinely heartbroken, as if seeing you cry physically hurt him.

That somehow made everything worse.

You laughed through a shaky breath, the kind of laugh people made right before they completely fell apart.

"I don't know." Your voice cracked again.

Joe's expression softened immediately. "Oh, baby."

The petname nearly destroyed whatever composure you had left as the tears came harder. You hated it, hated crying, hated feeling out of control, hated being seen like this.

But Joe never looked uncomfortable, instead he gently guided you toward one of the kitchen stools, his hands stayed careful like he was handling something precious.

"Sit down."

You obeyed, mostly because you didn't have the energy not to.

Joe crouched slightly in front of you, forearms rested on his knees.

Blue eyes fixed entirely on your face. Not distracted or trying to solve the problem immediately.

You cried harder, the room blurred. Your chest hurt as you wiped at your face angrily.

Joe reached for a nearby box of tissues and handed it over without comment. The gesture was so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache.

For a few moments neither of you spoke. The apartment remained quiet except for your uneven breathing.

Eventually Joe tilted his head slightly. "When was the last time you ate something?"

You blinked. The question caught you off guard.

"What?"

"When was the last time you ate?"

You tried thinking, not just giving an automatic answer. Your stomach twisted.

"Oh."

Joe's expression immediately shifted - your realization answered the question.

"Yeah."

You swallowed. "I had coffee this morning."

Joe stared. "Coffee."

You winced. "Yeah."

His jaw tightened briefly. "That's it?"

Your silence answered for you. Joe exhaled slowly through his nose, he was trying his best not to lecture you in that moment. "Sweetheart."

Your eyes filled again because he sounded so worried, and looked down at your hands to avoid his gaze. "I forgot."

"No." His voice remained gentle. "You didn't forget."

Another pause. "You were overwhelmed."

That hit far too close to home as your throat tightened as the tears started again, and Joe reached for your hand immediately, without hesitation.

His thumb brushed across your knuckles and for the first time all day, someone said the thing you desperately needed to hear.

You were overwhelmed. Simple and human, uncomplicated.

The words loosened something inside your chest. The next confession slipped out before you could stop it. "I feel like I'm failing."

Joe frowned. "At what?"

"Everything." The answer came immediately, as though it had been waiting. "Work. Life. Everything."

You laughed shakily as Joe listened, really listened. You could tell because he never interrupted.

The words poured out after that. Weeks of frustration, of anxiety, of exhaustion. You told him about the meetings, the deadlines, the pressure.

The mistakes that kept replaying in your head, the constant fear that everyone else knew what they were doing while you secretly struggled to keep up.

By the time you finished speaking, your voice was hoarse.

The room fell quiet and Joe squeezed your hand twice. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

The tears returned instantly, not because of the words themselves but because of how he said them, like he meant them.

You looked at him through blurred vision. "I know."

His expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "You sure?"

A watery laugh escaped you as Joe smiled slightly, encouraging and patient.

"I just don't want to dump everything on you." The words sounded pathetic once spoken aloud.

Joe immediately shook his head. "No, that's not how this works."

You looked away as he gently squeezed your hand again until you met his eyes. "You don't become a burden because you're having a hard time."

Your throat tightened as Joe continued. "You listen to me when I need you."

Another squeeze. "You show up for me."

Another. "You take care of me."

His gaze softened. "So let me do the same thing for you."

The apartment felt impossibly quiet. You could hear your own breathing, could hear the distant television still running in the living room.

Joe stood and disappeared briefly into the kitchen, returned with water and a plate of leftovers.

Then he sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

You took a few bites, slowly.

Joe didn't make a big deal out of it, didn't praise you or watch every movement. He simply sat there and talked quietly about random things.

Practice, a funny interaction he'd had earlier, some ridiculous headline he'd seen online. The normality of it soothed you and gradually your breathing steadied, the tightness in your chest eased.

Later, after the tears dried and the food was gone and the evening settled around the apartment like a blanket, Joe guided you toward the couch.

You curled against him almost immediately, exhaustion finally catching up. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, warm and safe.

The television continued playing something neither of you were really watching and outside, the sky darkened.

Inside, everything felt softer. Joe pressed a kiss against your hair, then another. Neither one rushed, neither one absentminded, each one deliberate.

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and for the first time in weeks, your thoughts weren't racing, weren't spiraling, weren't trying to solve tomorrow's problems.

They simply existed.

Joe's hand moved slowly through your hair, comforting enough that your eyelids began growing heavy.

"You okay?" he murmured eventually.

You thought about it, really thought about it. The answer wasn't yes. Not completely.

Tomorrow would still come, work would still be waiting, the stress wouldn't magically disappear overnight.

But something had changed - you weren't carrying it alone anymore.

Somehow that made all the difference. So you nodded, a small movement against his chest.

Joe smiled, you could hear it in his voice. "Good."

Then he kissed the top of your head one final time and pulled you a little closer, held you there as the evening stretched on around you. Not trying to fix every problem or trying to erase every fear.

Just reminding you, in the quiet way he always did, that no matter how heavy life became, you would never have to carry it by yourself.