The door to the study closes with a soft click behind you, shutting out the noise of the house and the world beyond it. Elijah looks up from the worn leather chair by the fire the moment he senses you—he always does. His expression shifts instantly, concern smoothing away the composed mask he wears for everyone else.

You don’t say a word.

You cross the room, knees bumping lightly into his as you turn and lower yourself into his lap, curling there like it’s the only place left that feels steady. Elijah’s arms come around you without hesitation, one settling warm and solid at your back, the other resting loosely at your waist. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He knows better. Bad days don’t always come with explanations.

You reach into the pocket of his jacket and pull out the sharpie he keeps there—for you—then gently press it into his palm. Finally, you lift your arm and offer it to him.

Elijah’s breath stutters, just barely, though his hands remain steady. His eyes trace the pale constellation of scars lining your skin—old, healed, but never forgotten. He remembers every conversation, every promise, every night he held you while the urge passed like a storm. He leans forward and presses a reverent kiss to your wrist before taking the marker.

“Thank you for coming to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere, lips brushing your knuckles. “That takes more courage than you realize.”

He uncaps the sharpie with a soft click and begins to draw, slow and deliberate. His touch is feather-light, grounding. Vines curl along your forearm, leaves unfurling as though they’re growing there naturally. He adds tiny stars between them, then a wolf tucked protectively near your elbow—family, strength, survival. Each line is intentional, each pause filled with quiet care.

“You are not weak for feeling this,” Elijah says gently, eyes never leaving his work. “Nor are you broken for needing relief. But you are choosing a kinder way today. And I am profoundly proud of you.”

You sag against him as the tightness in your chest eases, his presence anchoring you. He finishes with a small sun near your wrist, dark and warm against your skin, then caps the marker and sets it aside.

Elijah cups your face, forehead resting against yours. “You do not walk this path alone,” he whispers. “Not today. Not ever. On your worst days, I will be here—drawing you back to the light, one moment at a time.”

And for the first time all day, breathing feels possible again.