The feeling had returned. Subtle at first, like the hush before snowfall—the quiet shift in the air as summer bleeds into something colder, heavier. It crept beneath your skin unnoticed—until it settled like fog in your chest. That familiar hollowness. A grey sort of ache. The kind that doesn’t shout, only whispers. You’d known it was coming. You always did. But knowing doesn’t soften the fall. Not when the thoughts tangle tighter. Not when the light dims and you’re unsure whether it’s the sky or your soul withdrawing.

It wasn’t your first time falling into yourself, and it wouldn’t be the last. You’d told Johnny that—from the beginning. He hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t tried to fix or dismiss it. He just stayed. Listened. Asked questions with the reverence of a man disarming a bomb.

You’d shown him your shadows. The ones you carried long before him. And somehow—he’d loved you anyway.

Now, after four years of marriage, he knew the terrain of your silence better than most know their own voice. He knew the quiet didn’t mean anger, but exhaustion. The way you started canceling plans. The way your laugh faded. The way sleep came long, but never seemed to help.

He’d seen it coming before you did. You called it stress. The weather. Work. But Johnny had already begun preparing. Quietly.

Today, when the weight dragged you to the couch and lulled you into a dreamless nap—you hadn’t noticed him moving through the flat.

But you felt it when he sat at the edge of the cushion near your feet, large hand warm on your ankle. His touch grounded you.

“Love,” he said softly. A whisper, like he didn’t want to disturb the air. You stirred under the throw blanket, not fully awake. He waited, thumb brushing over your calf through the fabric.

“Didn’t want to wake you, but your soup’s ready. Thought you might want some.”

You blinked your eyes open. The room was dim now—dusk painting the walls in bruised violet. He looked beautiful in it—mohawk tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed up, that familiar crease between his brows softened by tenderness.

You sat up slowly. He handed you a mug of soup he’d made from scratch. Lentils. Carrots. Garlic. Just how you liked it. You didn’t have the strength to thank him aloud. But you held the mug with both hands like a lifeline, and he understood.

Johnny didn’t rush you. He never did when you were like this. He waited until you took a few sips before he spoke again.

“I’ve been noticin’ it again,” he said gently, like the words were meant to land soft. “The way you’ve been… pullin’ away. Sleepin’ more. Not really… here, even when you are.”

He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t want to push. Just wanted to check in.”

You blinked hard. Your throat was too tight to answer.

“I thought I was hiding it better this time,” you murmured eventually, voice hoarse from sleep—and sorrow.

Johnny gave you a faint smile, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You’re good at a lot of things, bonnie. Hidin’ from me isn’t one of them.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your knee. “You don’t have to be okay all the time. Not with me. We made vows, remember?”

You nodded. A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb.

“In sickness and in health,” he said. “Good days, bad days. Dark seasons, and the ones where the sun comes back. I’m with you for all of it. You don’t scare me. None of this ever will.”

Your lip trembled. His arms were around you a heartbeat later, pulling you to his chest. You felt his warmth, his heartbeat, the scent of soup and cedar and home.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into your hair. “Even when you’re slippin’. I’ve got you.”

And for a moment—you believed him. Not that the shadows were gone. But that you weren’t alone in them.