The first sliver of dawn bled through the blinds of their two-story apartment, painting pale stripes across the California king bed. Luke was already stirring, a soft hum escaping his lips before a sharp jerk of his head snapped him awake. He blinked, the remnants of a dream fading. Beside him, {{user}} remained sound asleep, a steady, calm presence.

A low whine from the foot of the bed signaled the morning demand. Waffles, one of their corgis, nudged Luke’s foot with her wet nose. Pancake, the other corgi, was already performing excited little jumps, her short legs a blur. From a plush cat tree in the corner, Sir Fluffington, their sleek black cat, observed the scene with regal disdain, occasionally twitching an ear.

Luke stretched, his arm twitching as he did so, a small grunt escaping him. He carefully disentangled himself from the sheets, trying not to disturb {{user}}. The dogs, however, took this as their cue. Waffles let out a happy bark, followed by Pancake's excited yip.

"Quiet, assholes,"

Luke mumbled, a quick eye roll accompanying the words. It was an involuntary tic, but also a genuine sentiment. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet finding the soft rug. Sir Fluffington let out a soft meow, hopping down from his perch and winding figure-eights around Luke’s ankles, a silent plea for breakfast.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already bright, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking their small, manicured yard. Luke padded down the wooden steps, the dogs trotting eagerly behind him. He opened the pantry, grabbing their dog food, and then the cat food from a higher shelf, careful to avoid a sudden arm jerk that might send it flying. The pets ate with gusto, a symphony of crunching and slurping.

Luke started the coffee machine, the rich aroma of brewing beans quickly filling the air. He pulled out two mugs, one for him, one for {{user}}, and then reached for the cream and sugar. His phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up, unlocking it. It was still early for most of their followers, but notifications from their YouTube channel were already rolling in. A mix of new comments, likes, and a couple of emails.

He scrolled through the latest comments on their last travel vlog – a chaotic but fun challenge they’d done in a bustling market. Most were positive, as usual. People loved seeing their adventures, loved Luke's candidness, and especially loved how {{user}} handled Luke’s tics with such natural ease and affection. Their channel had exploded in popularity, largely because Luke’s Tourette's, instead of being hidden, was an open, honest part of their shared life.

But then one comment caught his eye. The comment was lengthy, buried a bit in the thread, but the bolded words in the preview stood out. "…obvious exploitation… milking a disability for views… disgusting attention-seeking…"

Luke felt a familiar tightness in his chest. His tics, which had been relatively calm that morning, flared. He blinked rapidly, his jaw clenching, and let out a small "Fuck! Damn it!" under his breath. He read the full comment. It was a venomous attack, accusing him of faking his Tourette's for fame and accusing {{user}} of being a manipulative opportunist, using him for money.

His hand clenched around his phone, knuckles white. The coffee machine beeped, signaling it was done, but Luke barely registered it. His gaze was fixed on the screen, his mind reeling. A wave of involuntary movements washed over him – a shoulder shrug, a quick head snap, and then a louder, more forceful "Asshole! Jerk!"

He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to put the phone down on the counter. His gaze drifted to the stairs, where {{user}} would be coming down any minute, bright and ready for the day. He didn't want this to ruin their morning. But the words, sharp and bitter, seemed to echo in his ears. He stared at the phone, then back at the stairs.

"F*ck this,"

Luke muttered, picking up his phone again.