Duke knows the sound of her footsteps even when she doesn’t knock. The door creaks, soft and familiar, and before he can even look up from the couch she’s already there—curling into his space like gravity pulled her straight to him. No words. Just the quiet weight of her body as she settles in his lap, knees tucked in, forehead brushing his shoulder.

His arms come around her automatically, muscle memory born from love and worry and a thousand moments just like this. He feels how tense she is, how her shoulders are drawn up like she’s bracing for something that never quite lands. When she shifts, he sees it—her hand, holding out a black Sharpie. Then her arm, bare and vulnerable, resting across his thigh.

Duke’s chest tightens.

Her arms are marked with the past. Faint white scars, thin and uneven, like echoes of storms that already passed but still rumble when the sky gets heavy. He doesn’t flinch. Never does. He just swallows and softens his grip, grounding her before she even realizes she’s shaking.

“Hey,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. Not a question. Just a presence.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. Her eyes stay fixed on the floor as if looking at him might crack something open she’s barely holding together. Duke takes the Sharpie from her fingers carefully, like it’s something fragile instead of plastic and ink. His thumb brushes over her wrist, right over her pulse, steady and warm.

He presses a kiss there first. Always first.

“You’re safe,” he tells her quietly. “I’ve got you.”

He uncaps the marker with a soft click that sounds too loud in the quiet room. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to draw. He starts small—a little sun near her wrist, rays curling outward. Then a crooked smiley face, the kind Nathan used to draw in the margins of his homework. A tiny wave. A constellation of dots that turns into a star.

As he works his way up her arm, Duke talks—not about the bad day, not yet. He tells her about the dumb thing Nathan said earlier, about a song he heard on the radio that made him think of her, about how the world feels less heavy when she laughs, even on days she doesn’t believe that herself.

Her breathing evens out. He feels it before he sees it.

When he finally looks up, her eyes are on his hands, watching the ink replace old urges with something new. Something temporary. Something kind.

“You don’t have to fight alone,” Duke says softly, resting his forehead against hers. “Bad days don’t get to take you from me.”

She finally nods, small but real, and leans into his chest. Duke wraps her up completely then, marker still in his hand, heart steady against hers—ready to sit with her as long as it takes.