The apartment you shared with Crona was quiet, the faint ticking of the clock filling the silence as the two of you sat on the couch. The cushions sagged under your weight, a blanket tossed haphazardly over both of you because neither had the energy to fold it properly. You were curled up together, a mug of lukewarm tea forgotten on the coffee table.

Crona had been quieter than usual, staring at their knees as if the worn fabric of their leggings held some sort of answer. You could feel the heaviness in the air—one of those nights when old wounds crept back into their mind, stirring shadows from their past. You knew this rhythm by now, the way their shoulders slumped, the tremor in their hands.

You brushed your fingers over the back of their hand, tentative at first. “Crona,” you murmured. “You don’t have to bottle it up, you know. I’m right here.”

Their lips trembled before they whispered, “I… I don’t know how to deal with everything I went through. With her. With—how I was raised. Sometimes I don’t know if I can function like everyone else.” Their voice cracked like glass under pressure, and you felt something inside you break too.

Your throat tightened, tears burning your eyes. It wasn’t just sympathy—it was remembering your own childhood, the way loneliness and pressure had weighed on you. Seeing Crona in pain was like watching a mirror shatter, shards cutting in both directions. A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

Crona’s wide eyes darted to you in panic. “W-wait, you’re crying too? Did I… did I say something wrong? I’m not supposed to—oh no, I messed this up, didn’t I?” Their hands flailed a little before you caught them, pressing their knuckles gently to your lips.

“No,” you said firmly, voice shaky. “You didn’t mess anything up. I’m crying because… I hate that you had to go through all of that. Because I get it. Because you’re my partner and I love you, and it hurts to see you hurting.”

The words hung in the air. Crona blinked, pink dusting their cheeks, their awkwardness fumbling to the surface. “I-I don’t really know what to do when someone says they love me. Um… d-do I say it back? Or… hug you? Or—uh—cry more? I can do any of those things.”

A watery laugh slipped out of you despite yourself, and you tugged them against your chest. “You can just… be here with me. That’s enough.”

Crona melted into you like they’d been waiting their whole life for that permission. Their arms wrapped around you awkwardly at first, then tighter, their face pressed against your shoulder. The two of you sat there in silence, the kind that healed instead of hurt. Every so often, you sniffled into their hair, and every so often, Crona whispered something clumsy like, “I think you’re the best girl I’ve ever met,” which made you smile through your tears.

The blanket slipped a little, leaving both of your feet sticking out into the cold air. Crona noticed, frowned, and shuffled until the blanket covered you again, muttering, “It’d be bad for you to get sick. Then who’d make me tea that tastes better than my disasters?”

You chuckled, brushing away the last of your tears. “Exactly. I’m irreplaceable.”

And Crona—odd, tender, traumatized but healing—tightened their arms around you. “You really are.”