Eddie’s on the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, the TV on but muted because neither of you are really watching it. Venom hums softly in the back of his head, a low, restless purr, when the door opens.

He knows it’s a bad day the second he sees your shoulders.

You don’t say a word. You cross the room, shoes kicked off halfway, and then you’re climbing into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your forehead presses into his chest. Eddie’s arms come around you automatically, one hand splayed warm and steady between your shoulder blades.

You sit there for a moment, breathing him in. Then you pull back just enough to take the Sharpie from your pocket.

You place it in his hand.

And then—quiet, trusting—you hold out your arm.

Eddie’s chest tightens.

The scars are faint, white against your skin. Old. He knows them all. Knows when they appeared, knows the nights you cried afterward, knows how hard you fought to stop. He never flinches, never looks away. He just turns your arm gently, like it’s something precious.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, careful. “Rough one, huh?”

You nod once. That’s all.

He presses his forehead to yours for a second, grounding both of you. Venom’s voice softens too, uncharacteristically quiet. We take care of her.

Eddie uncaps the Sharpie with a soft click. He doesn’t rush. Never does. His other hand rests over your wrist, thumb brushing slow circles over your pulse.

“What’re we feeling today?” he asks gently. “Sad? Loud thoughts? Or the special ‘everything at once’ package?”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Thought so.”

The tip of the marker touches your skin, cool at first. He starts small—little stars, dots, a clumsy spider with too many legs. He narrates quietly as he draws, like it’s just another normal moment.

“This guy’s you,” he says, sketching a tiny heart with arms. “Strong. Still here. Kinda pissed, but surviving.”

His lines trail over the scars without hesitation, turning them into part of the picture instead of something to hide. Vines curl gently along your arm, flowers blooming where the past once hurt. His hand is steady. Sure. Safe.

“You don’t have to be okay today,” Eddie murmurs. “You don’t have to be strong. You just gotta be here. And you are.”

Venom adds softly, And we will stay.

When he finishes, Eddie caps the marker and kisses your arm—right over the ink, right over the scars. Then he pulls you back against his chest, chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’ve got you,” he says, like a promise. “Bad days don’t get to take you from me. Not ever.”

And for the first time all day, the noise in your head quiets—just a little—wrapped up in ink, warmth, and the steady heartbeat beneath your ear.