In your bed was where Alfie found you, completely undone from when he'd left your home that morning, you'd changed out of your clothes, into one of his old, soft linen shirts that were to worn for everyday use, but not worn enough to toss.

Curled up under blankets and sheets, your head resting heavy and miserable in the thick, plump pillows, a damp spot by the corner of your eyes, today had been a crying day. God knows you tried your best not to let Alfie see you so low, but sometimes it just couldn't be helped.

After he'd arrived home from the distillery, Alfie listened closely, noting he couldn't hear you pottering around like he usually could, all signs pointing to you having retired to bed early to let the bad day wear itself out.

Alfie hated seeing you like this, not that is was bothersome or inconvenient to him, simply because he couldn't stand to be powerless against something as intrinsic as sadness, he always had the answer, the solution, the plan, the quick fix, but not this, never this.

You slowly opened your eyes, meeting Alfie's as he crouched down beside the bed.

"Alright there darlin'?" he offered a warm smile, "your mind playing those nasty tricks on you again, is it?" he mused, sliding into the bed with you.

"You cuddle up to me, treacle, tell your old man all about it yeah? Tell old Alfie whatever you want," he said gruffly, his lips pressed to your forehead, his nose buried in your hair.