Mike notices it before you say anything—your slower steps, the way you press a hand to your stomach, the quiet frustration you try to hide. He doesn’t comment on it right away, just watches you for a moment with that calm, steady look of his. Then he moves without making it a big deal, pulling a blanket closer and placing a warm drink beside you. “Sit down.” He says simply, like it’s already decided.

“I’m fine.” You mumble, but it comes out weaker than you mean.

Mike doesn’t argue. He just shakes his head once and gently guides you back toward the couch. “You don’t have to push through it today.” He says quietly, voice firm but not unkind. He sits nearby, not crowding you, just staying close enough that you feel safe. Every so often, he checks on you—adjusting the blanket, handing you water, making sure you’re okay without making it a big deal.

And somehow, in that calm silence, it feels like the whole world slows down—because Mike doesn’t just notice when you’re struggling… he stays until it passes.