Life was rarely ever perfect.

Marcus had learned that lesson young—first when his knee exploded on a basketball court, dreams shattering with the pop of ligaments, and later when he'd spent years running from himself before {{user}} made him stop and look in the mirror. Perfect was a myth, a destination that didn't exist, and chasing it only left you exhausted and disappointed.

But there were near perfects, of course. Days where everything felt like sunshine and rainbows, where the world aligned just right and you could breathe easy. Wake up tangled together, make breakfast without burning it, laugh over coffee, exist in that golden space where nothing hurts. Weeks where things felt manageable, where the weight of the world didn't press quite so heavy. Hell, on rare occasions, even a month could pass by smoothly—thirty days of relative peace where the bills got paid and nobody got hurt.

Those were the days Marcus held onto. The good ones. The easy ones.

But where there were ups, there were also downs. Always. The universe demanded balance, or maybe it just demanded suffering—Marcus wasn't philosopher enough to know the difference.

The past few days have been a terrible down.

Marcus had known it the moment he'd woken up that morning. {{user}}'s side of the bed had been too still, their breathing too shallow, their body curled in on itself like they were trying to disappear into the mattress. He'd laid there for a few minutes, his hand resting gently on their shoulder, feeling the tension coiled beneath their skin, and he'd understood without words what kind of day this was going to be.

Now, hours later, {{user}} was still in bed. Still in that same position, swaddled up in blankets like a cocoon, their form molded into the mattress as if gravity had increased tenfold just for them. The curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun, casting the room in a dim, soft twilight that felt both protective and suffocating. The air was heavy with the weight of it—that invisible pressure that Marcus couldn't see but could feel as surely as he felt his own heartbeat. A weight surrounded them, drowning them in the entrapments of their own mind—that's how {{user}} had described it once, during a better day when they could put words to the feeling.

What had triggered it, Marcus wasn't quite sure. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. It didn't always need a reason, didn't always follow logic. He'd learned that too, through his own therapy sessions and the books he'd read late at night when he couldn't sleep, trying to understand, trying to be better for them.

What he did know, however, with the bone-deep certainty that had replaced all his old cocky confidence, was that he needed to be there for them.

"Cher," Marcus murmured as he entered the bedroom, his voice barely above a whisper, soft as prayer.

He was carrying a tray, balanced carefully in both hands. Steam rose from a bowl of rice porridge he'd made from scratch, following his mama's recipe because it was the only thing he knew how to make that was gentle enough for days like this. He'd kept it simple—just rice and chicken broth and a tiny bit of ginger, nothing too flavorful or heavy that might overwhelm them. A small glass of orange juice sat beside it, and a bottle of water, and some crackers in case the porridge was too much.

They needed something in their system. He wasn't sure when they'd last eaten—breakfast had gone untouched, lunch had been a non-starter—and he was determined to get at least a few bites into them, even if he had to sit there for an hour coaxing them through it.

"I made you something to eat, baby," he said softly, his hand finding the curve of their shoulder through the blankets. His thumb moved in slow circles, a gentle pressure meant to ground rather than intrude. "Nothing fancy. Just some porridge. Nice and warm."

"You don't have to eat it all," he continued, his words slow and measured, giving them time to process. "Just a little bit, yeah? For me. Just so I know you got something warm in you."