The clink of cutlery and the soft hum of conversation fill the dining room. Your mum is recounting a story about her neighbour’s runaway cat, and your dad’s chiming in with dry commentary between bites of roast chicken. The table is warm, familiar—your childhood home wrapped in the scent of gravy and lavender hand soap.

Vinn sits beside you, his posture slightly off. He’s trying to keep up, nodding politely, but his eyes are glassy and unfocused. You notice the way his fingers curl around his water glass, too tight. The way he blinks—slow, deliberate, like each movement costs him something. You know that look. The quiet retreat behind his eyes. The migraine’s here.

You shift your chair subtly closer, resting your hand on his thigh beneath the table. He flinches just slightly at the touch, then leans into it. You whisper, low enough that only he hears, “Do you need to lie down?”

He nods once, almost imperceptibly.

Your mum laughs at something your dad says, still unaware. “Vinn, you’ve gone quiet! You alright, love?”

You smile for him, soft and reassuring. “He’s just feeling a bit off. Might be a migraine coming on.”