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You wiped away a stray tear you didn’t realize had fallen. It didn’t surprise you entirely that it was there, though. How often had you cried in frustration, in pain, in defeat? What was one more crying session? It seemed impossible to believe that just a few days ago, you were on top of the world. You felt like you could do anything, be anyone. And now you wished you were anyone except yourself. 

As you fought the dark thoughts trying to claw their way back to the front of your mind, you felt the unexpected weight of a blanket drape over your body. You blinked away the tears that had obscured your vision and looked over to see Orson had come into the living room. He tucked the crocheted blanket over your body and stooped over to plant a kiss to your cheek. 

“Are you feeling unwell?” 

You nodded, the mere thought of speaking bringing a new wave of exhaustion over you. You’d been so blessed to have found Orson, who seemed to be able to read your mind, even when it was scrambled with the chaotic static of mental and chronic illness. 

He silently left the living room for a few minutes and returned with a mug of hot tea. You could smell the floral tinge of wildflower honey mixed in with it, but you couldn’t even lift your head to look at the mug. He set it on the coffee table in front of you, along with a few options of snacks. He also always knew when you hadn’t eaten. You couldn’t tell if you were just that transparent or if he was genuinely psychic. Either way, you were grateful. 

Orson sat on the end of the couch and pulled your legs over his lap, rubbing your calves as he watched the television. His fingers gently moved over your feet, massaging your aching arches and toes. You felt another wave of tears flood your eyes, but these weren’t from pain or depression. They were from an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love. It was hard believe that such a stoic, solemn-faced man could be so gentle, so loving. So patient. But he was. At least, he was with you. You never imagined that you and he would get along, let alone become life partners, and yet here you were. Through everything, he was still by your side, and you were by his. 

Life had a funny way of turning expectations on their heads. 

One of Orson’s hands moved to your lower stomach and rubbed circles over the heating pad. “Is it bad again?” he asked, his voice even and calm. He knew how to stay calm in the midst of crisis when it came to you. 

“Yes,” you said, not even needing to clarify what was bad again. 

Orson gently removed your legs from his lap and laid behind you, stretching along the length of the couch. He draped one arm over your side under the blanket and continued to rub your stomach, kissing your temple. You winced as another pulse of pain echoed through your skull. 

“Migraine, too?” 

“It’s getting there.” 

He sighed in frustration, but not toward you. He was frustrated that you had to suffer alone with all this pain. He wished he could’ve taken it from you, bore it on himself. He would gladly live a life of chronic pain and melancholy if it meant that you were okay. 

Orson settled down behind you, snorting through his nose at the Squishmallow tucked under your head. “Not much of a pillow, love.” 

“It’s the only one that helps,” you replied, the first small smile of the day appearing on your face. It was true. You doubted the plushies were meant for pillows, but the large stuffed animal had been the only thing that had helped alleviate some of your neck and shoulder pain. Perhaps it was just a placebo effect because of how cute the plush axolotl was, but you didn’t care. Whatever worked made you happy. 

Orson kissed the side of your face. “Let me know if I’m helping or hindering.” 

“A bit of both,” you admitted. “The massage feels nice, but you’re kind of pushing me off the couch.” 

“Would you rather I get off the couch or we move to the bed?” 

You thought it over for a moment. There were pros and cons of each decision. If you went to the bed, you could lay next to Orson, but the mattress had been uncomfortable (and even painful) all last night and this morning. You suspected it needed to be flipped again. But if you stayed on the couch, you were bound to roll off the edge and fall into the coffee table, which would definitely be more painful in the long run. 

“Would it be okay if we went back to what we were doing? With you rubbing my legs?” 

“Of course,” he said, pressing one more kiss to your temple. He sat up, placed your legs in his lap, and began rubbing them gently. 

Emotion overwhelmed you for the umpteenth time that day. Orson never complained, never protested, never made himself into a martyr. His love for you was absolute. It wasn’t perfect, but it was selfless. You’d never truly understand how you managed to get someone who loved you so wonderfully. 

You took a steadying breath and looked at him, admiring his sharp features in the glow of the TV. His blue eyes glimmered. 

“Orson?” 

“Yes?” He looked at you, face soft and patient and beautiful. 

“I love you so much.” 

He smiled gently at you. He pulled the corner of the blanket back, leaned over, and kissed your hip, the farthest place he could reach while sitting. The warmth of the heating pad was nothing compared to the feeling of his kiss. He squeezed your ankle and turned his face up toward you again.