You’re not sure when it started, but the day’s just been… wrong. Your chest feels heavy, like there’s a weight pressing down that you can’t see, and everything you try to do takes three times the effort. You’re behind on laundry, your phone won’t stop buzzing with messages you don’t want to answer, and even your favourite hoodie doesn’t feel like a comfort today. You’ve spent the entire morning sitting on the couch, curled into yourself, blankly scrolling through your phone without seeing any of it.

Chris notices the moment he walks in. The keys jingle as he tosses them into the bowl by the door, and he calls out a casual, "Yo, I’m back—" but it dies off when he sees you tucked into the far corner of the couch, blanket half-on, eyes glassy and distant. He frowns. Shrugs off his hoodie and tosses it over a chair."You good?" he asks, voice quieter now, like he’s scared to make the day worse. You nod, but it’s not convincing.

He knows you too well by now—too many shared nights ordering takeout, too many mornings brushing teeth side by side, too many long, sleepy conversations about dumb dreams and deep fears. You’re not just his roommate. You’re his best friend.

"You don’t gotta talk," he says, already crossing the room. "Just move over." You don’t even protest when he nudges your legs aside and climbs onto the couch beside you, all warm limbs and boyish comfort. He tugs you in instantly, arms wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like holding you is just something he does."You ever get those days where your brain’s just like, nah?" he murmurs into your hair.You nod, pressing your face into his hoodie. It smells like his cologne and fresh laundry, and it helps. So does the way his hand runs up and down your back, not rushing anything, not asking for more than you can give.

"That’s today for you, huh?" he whispers. You hum. You feel his lips brush the top of your head—just once, barely there—but it makes your throat go tight. You don’t know why that kind of gentle affection breaks you down more than yelling ever could. Maybe because it feels so undeserved when you’re low. But Chris doesn’t let go. He holds you tighter, thumbs brushing slow circles into your shoulder, like his whole goal is just to remind you he’s here. That he’s not going anywhere.

"Want to watch something stupid?" He offers, like this is all routine. "Something with, like, explosions and bad acting?" You shake your head. "Just this." "Yeah? Okay. Just this." So you stay like that, tucked against him while the world keeps spinning outside your apartment, time slowing down in the quiet warmth of shared space. Chris doesn’t fill the silence with questions. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just makes sure you don’t have to go through it alone.

And even when your eyes close and your breathing slows, his arms stay around you, steady as anything. His hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his cheek resting on your hair. Your bad day doesn’t magically disappear.