Love had warned you. Not in detail—never in detail—but in that tight, joking way she got when she didn’t want to admit how badly something hurt. They’re a lot, she’d said, rolling her eyes, squeezing your hand just a little too hard as you drove up the winding road to her parents’ place for the weekend.

“A lot” turned out to be judgment wrapped in smiles. Passive-aggressive comments about Love’s life choices. Little digs about her independence, her intensity, her emotions. Questions disguised as concern. You could see Love shrinking with every hour, even as she kept trying—kept offering to help in the kitchen, kept forcing brightness into her voice.

And the thing that seemed to sting the most? They adored you.

They laughed at your jokes. Asked about your life. Praised you openly in that way parents never quite manage with their own kid. “You’re so grounding,” her mom said once, beaming. “Lovey needs someone like you.”

You felt Love go still beside you.

By the time evening rolled around, the argument was inevitable. It started small—something about the tent setup, about Love “always overcomplicating things”—and then it wasn’t small anymore. Voices raised. Old resentments dragged into the open. Love snapped back, sharp and shaking, until finally she just… stopped. Her face went blank in that way you knew meant she was barely holding herself together.

She grabbed your wrist and didn’t say a word, just pulled you away, past the fire pit, past the polite confusion of her parent’s friends straight to the tent tucked away at the edge of the clearing.

The zipper barely made a sound before Love collapsed against you.

She curled into your side, face pressed into your arm, fingers clutching your sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her breath hitched once. Twice. Then she broke.

“I tried,” she choked. “I always try, and it’s never enough. I don’t know why I keep thinking it’ll be different.”

You wrapped both arms around her without hesitation, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles into her back. You let her cry. You let her soak your sleeve. You didn’t rush her, didn’t try to fix it right away.

When her breathing finally slowed, you tilted your head down just enough to murmur, “Hey. You survived dinner. That alone deserves a medal.”

She let out a weak, watery laugh despite herself. “Shut up.”

“Wow,” you said softly. “After everything I’ve done for you. I carry you emotionally and physically to a tent, and this is the thanks I get?”

That earned another laugh—small, but real. You felt her shoulders loosen just a little.

You kept going, gently, absurdly. Whispering dumb observations. Exaggerating your impressions of her parents until she snorted despite herself. You reminded her—over and over—that she wasn’t too much. That she wasn’t failing. That the way they treated her said nothing about her worth and everything about their limitations.

“They love you,” she muttered eventually, voice muffled against your arm.

“They do,” you agreed easily. “But that doesn’t mean I’m on their side.”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red, lashes clumped with tears. “You’re not?”

You smiled, soft and unwavering. “Love, I’m always on your side. Even when you’re being scary. Especially then.”

Her mouth wobbled. She leaned back into you, this time calmer, safer, fingers lacing with yours like she was grounding herself through your touch.

Outside, the night went on without you. Inside the tent, Love breathed again—because you were there, holding her together, reminding her she wasn’t alone.