He comes back from a race after two long months apart — two months of distance, missed calls, and words that never quite filled the space between you. The moment he steps through the door, expecting to see your usual smile, the sight before him knocks the air from his chest.

You’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that seems to swallow you whole. The soft light from the window falls over your face, pale and fragile, and his heart sinks as he notices how thin you’ve become — too thin. The outline of your collarbone catches the light in a way it shouldn’t.

For a second, he just stands there, frozen — guilt, worry, and heartbreak all tangled in his chest. This has happened before. He knows the signs. The silence. The way you shrink into yourself when things get too heavy.

Without a word, he crosses the room and kneels in front of you, his hands trembling slightly as they reach for yours. Your skin feels cold.

“What happened, mon ange?” he whispers, his voice breaking into the quiet, soft but full of fear. His thumb brushes against your knuckles as if grounding you — or maybe himself.

You try to speak, but your throat tightens, words refusing to come. He shakes his head gently, as if to say you don’t have to explain right now.