Love doesn’t say much when she comes home. She barely even looks at you. Her keys hit the counter too hard, her bag drops to the floor like she doesn’t care if it breaks, and then she’s standing there in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself, breathing like she ran the whole way back.

“They did it again,” she mutters. Her voice cracks on again. “They always do.”

You don’t ask for details. You open your arms instead.

She crosses the room in seconds and sinks down between your knees, turning sideways so she can fold herself into your lap. Her forehead presses into your stomach first, then her cheek, like she’s trying to disappear into you. Her hands clutch at your shirt, knuckles white.

“Please,” she whispers, already crying. “Please, can you— can you play with my hair?”

You don’t hesitate. Your fingers slide gently into her hair, slow and familiar, just like she asked. You comb through them carefully, nails barely scratching her scalp, the same rhythm over and over until her breathing starts to stutter instead of break.

She melts.

Her weight goes slack in your lap, shoulders trembling as she buries her face against you. “Like that,” she murmurs. “Just like that. Don’t stop. She used to— she used to do it when I couldn’t sleep.”

You keep going. Patient. Steady. Your other hand rests warm and grounding on her back.

“I’m here,” you tell her quietly. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Love’s voice turns small, fragile in a way she never lets anyone else hear. “She used to tell me I wasn’t bad,” she says. “That I wasn’t too much. Can you— can you say it?”

Your chest tightens, but your voice stays calm.

“You’re not bad,” you say softly. “You’re not too much. You’re good, Love. You’re kind. You’re allowed to feel things.”

She nods faintly against you, tears soaking into your clothes. “She’d say I was loved even when I messed up.”

You lean down just slightly, enough for your words to feel wrapped around her. “You are loved. All the time. Even when you’re angry. Even when you’re hurt. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her hands fist tighter in your shirt like she’s afraid you might vanish anyway. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

She lets out a broken little sob, then curls closer, tucking her legs in, making herself smaller in your lap. You keep stroking her hair, over and over, until her crying softens into quiet sniffles and then into slow, exhausted breaths.

She doesn’t look up again. She just stays there, letting you hold her together—letting you be the place she rests when the world reminds her of every old wound.

And you don’t move. You don’t rush her. You just keep your hands in her hair and your words gentle, exactly the way she needs.