Emmett hears her before he sees her—not footsteps, not breath, but the subtle shift in the room, the way his world always tilts a little when she’s close. He looks up from the couch just in time to catch her silhouette in the doorway, shoulders rounded, eyes tired in that way that has nothing to do with sleep. Bad day. The kind that clings.

She doesn’t say a word.

She crosses the room and climbs into his lap like it’s muscle memory, like this is the safest place her body knows. Emmett’s arms come around her automatically, solid and warm, one hand bracing her lower back. He presses his forehead briefly to her temple, breathing her in. Then she pulls back just enough to do it—silently placing the Sharpie in his hand, turning her arm palm-up in a quiet, practiced motion.

His smile doesn’t fade, but it softens. Becomes something gentler. Something careful.

Emmett’s thumb brushes over her wrist first, grounding, anchoring. Her arms are a map he’s memorized—faint white scars catching the light, healed but never forgotten. He never pretends they aren’t there. He never asks her to hide them. Instead, he leans down and presses a kiss just below her elbow, right where her pulse flutters fast when she’s overwhelmed.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low and steady, like a promise more than a word.

She exhales, the tension leaking out of her shoulders as he uncaps the marker. The sound is small, but it makes her eyes close anyway. Emmett shifts so she’s fully settled against his chest, her back to him now, her arm draped comfortably across his forearm. His other hand is firm at her waist—there, present, unmovable.

He starts with a doodle of a bear, exaggerated muscles and all, because it makes her huff a weak laugh when she notices. He adds little stars around it, then a crooked heart. He takes his time, careful not to rush, letting each line be deliberate. The marker glides over her skin, cool and harmless, replacing the noise in her head with something else. Something manageable.

“You don’t gotta explain,” Emmett says quietly, voice warm against her ear. “You just gotta stay.”

He adds more—tiny flowers growing between the scars, vines curling gently around them, never covering, just existing alongside. His touch is reverent, like he’s holding something precious. Because he is.

When he’s done, he caps the Sharpie and sets it aside, then wraps both arms around her, pulling her close until her heartbeat starts to match his. He nuzzles into her hair, unashamedly affectionate.

“I’ve got you,” he says, sure and unbreakable. “Bad days included.”

And for the first time all day, the weight on her chest eases—not gone, but lighter. Bearable. Because she’s here. Because he is too.