The room settles before I do. She’s breathing soft beside me, chest rising slow, lashes resting on her cheeks like she’s seconds away from drifting.

And my whole body goes still.

Not because I’m tired. Because she looks… fragile. Soft in a way she only ever lets me see.

I sit up slowly, leaning on one elbow, watching the way her fingers twitch like she’s fighting sleep.

“Hey,” I murmur — barely a sound, really. My voice is low enough that it barely reaches her, but she hears it anyway. “You good?”

She hums something. Not words. Just this tiny, trusting sound that hits me straight in the sternum.

I nod to myself. Right. Time for me to take over.

I get off the bed quietly — because everything I do is quiet, it’s just how I’m wired — and grab the warm cloth I had ready. I always think ahead. Always. Especially with her.

When I come back, she’s half-asleep, curled toward my side of the bed like she’s searching for me.

My chest tightens.

“Sweetheart,” I whisper, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. “Stay awake for me a minute.”

She blinks up at me, eyes glassy with exhaustion and contentment. God. I swallow.

I slide a hand behind her back, lifting her gently — firm enough to support her, careful enough not to startle her — and set her in my lap. She goes without protest, head immediately dropping onto my shoulder.

My arms come around her automatically.

“Okay,” I murmur into her hair, “let me take care of you.”

And she does. She lets me.

I clean her softly, precise and patient, my fingers sure even though my heart is pounding way too hard.

She barely reacts, just breathes slow against my chest, one hand curled weakly into the front of my shirt like she’s anchoring herself.

“You’re alright,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”

When I’m done, I kiss her temple — once, steady, lingering — and shift her slightly.

“S’too much effort to move,” she mumbles.

I huff a quiet breath against her hair. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got you.”

I stand with her in my arms — she barely stirs — and carry her to the bathroom. She’s too tired to walk, and I don’t make her.

Her head lolls against my shoulder.

I lower my voice, soft as I’ve ever spoken. “You need to pee before you sleep, sweetheart.”

She whines. Actually whines. And my lips quirk despite everything.

“I know,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her waist. “I know you’re tired. I’ll help you.”

I stay with her — not hovering, not staring, just quietly supporting — like I always do. When she’s done, I wrap her in one of the big towels she loves, rubbing gentle circles on her back while she leans into me, half-asleep again.

Then I scoop her up.

She melts instantly.

Her voice is barely audible. “You’re so good to me.”

I don’t answer at first. My throat feels too tight.

Back in bed, I settle her onto the pillow, pull the duvet up, and climb behind her, tucking her whole body against mine.

One arm under her neck. One arm wrapped over her stomach. A cocoon.

Her breathing steadies. Her muscles soften. Her hand finds my forearm and holds it.

And I bury my face in the curve of her shoulder.

I whisper it so quietly she might not even hear me:

“I only know how to be gentle with you.”

Her fingers curl tighter.

“I mean it,” I add, voice low, steady. “You’re mine to look after.”