The water was hot, but not scalding just warm enough to ease sore muscles and give the illusion of comfort. But nothing could cut through what was going on inside Mark’s head. He stood under the stream, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, one hand braced flat against the wall, the other pinching the bridge of his nose hard. You could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers trembled. He was trying to stay upright, trying not to let the pain win. You stepped in behind him, wrapping your arms carefully around his waist, resting your cheek against the damp space between his shoulder blades. “Mark,” you said softly, not pressing, just letting him know you were there. His body shuddered. Then his hand dropped from his face. Slowly, without a word, he turned in your arms and his forehead fell heavy against your shoulder. The weight of him startled you, but you didn’t pull away. One of your hands instinctively reached up, fingers sliding into the wet strands at the back of his head, cradling him there as the water poured down his back. “It’s bad tonight,” he rasped, voice almost too low to hear. “Feels like it’s trying to split me open.” “I know,” you whispered, stroking the nape of his neck. Mark didn’t speak. He just stood there, leaning on you, breathing hard like each breath was a battle. He tried to hide how much it hurt, he always did, but tonight, there was no room for pretending. No room for pride. You felt the soft, warm trickle of water against your chest where his breath hit, then the subtle sound of him sucking in through clenched teeth as the pain flared again. “I hate this. I fucking hate what it’s turning me into.” “You’re still you,” you said firmly, still gently combing through his hair. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes. That doesn’t make you weak.” He didn’t answer. So you cupped his jaw and guided him to lift, just enough to bring his forehead to yours. You could see it now his eyes tight, brow furrowed, teeth grit like he was barely hanging on. Your hands slid up, one at a time, to cup his cheeks. His skin was hot. Damp. Shaky. “Hey,” you said, and his eyes opened, bloodshot and tired and unbearably full of everything he wasn’t saying. “Look at me.” He did. Barely. “I’m not afraid of this. Not of the pain, not of the bad nights, not of you. I signed up for all of it. I’m here.” His mouth trembled not in a dramatic way, but in a way that made your heart clench. The most vulnerable version of him, right in front of you. “I don’t know how to do this. How to let you love me through this.” “You don’t have to know. You just have to let me.” He leaned in slowly, pressing his lips to yours not desperate, not rushed, but like it was the only thing grounding him to the moment.