Fez is half-sprawled on the couch behind the counter, one arm hooked around the back cushion, the other lazily flipping through a beat-up magazine he’s read a hundred times already. The store hums low around him—cooler buzzing, fluorescent lights flickering like they always do—when the bell over the door gives a soft jingle.

He looks up, already knowing it’s you.

You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him at first. You just walk straight over, climb into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and settle there with a quiet, heavy sigh. Fez stiffens for half a second out of instinct, then relaxes, arms coming up around you automatically, like muscle memory.

He feels it immediately—the way your body’s a little too tense, the way you’re not joking, not smiling, not filling the silence with words the way you usually do.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low and gentle, his chin brushing the top of your head. “What’s goin’ on, mama?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you reach into your bag, pull out a black Sharpie, and place it in his hand. Then you lift your arm and rest it against his chest.

Fez’s chest tightens.

Your arm is familiar to him—every freckle, every faint white line that crisscrosses your skin like old memories you didn’t ask to keep. He never flinches, never looks away. He just exhales slowly, grounding himself so he can ground you too.

“A’ight,” he says softly. “I got you.”

He uncaps the marker with a quiet click and shifts so you’re sitting sideways on his lap, your back against his chest. One arm wraps snug around your waist, holding you there, keeping you present. The other hand hovers over your skin for a second, giving you time to pull away if you need to.

When you don’t, he starts to draw.

Nothing fancy. Little stars. A crooked smiley face. A tiny cloud with legs. He moves slow, deliberate, like every line matters—because to him, it does. His thumb occasionally brushes your wrist, a silent check-in, and every time, you stay.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you ain’t weak for havin’ bad days. Shit happens. Brain be lyin’ sometimes.”

His voice is steady, warm, like it’s anchoring you to something solid.

“You came to me,” he adds. “That counts for somethin’. Means you still fightin’, even when it don’t feel like it.”

He finishes the last doodle—a little heart tucked near your wrist—and caps the marker again. Then he presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere baby,” Fez says quietly. “We’ll sit right here as long as you need. Bad day don’t get to take you from me. Not today. Not ever.”

His arms tighten just a bit, not trapping you—protecting you. And for the first time all day, the noise in your head dulls, just enough to breathe.