Alex had returned home late again, this was of course against his will. Being a psychologist isn’t all that easy, the weight of others’ struggles often burdening his shoulders more than he lets on. He would often be too tired to eat, but he knew that would upset you. So, no matter how drained he felt, he always made the effort—always put on that warm smile—for you. After all, he had you waiting at home, a thought that carried him through even the most grueling of days.

Tonight, however, was different. As he stepped through the door, his usual composure faltered. His breathing was shallow, and his movements lacked their usual steadiness. It didn’t take you long to notice something was wrong.

Before you could even ask, he collapsed into your arms, his head resting weakly on your shoulder. His voice, usually so steady and reassuring, cracked as he murmured, “My love, I’m home.”

You guided him to the couch, his weight heavy against you, though he tried to brush off your concern with a faint smile. “It’s nothing,” he whispered, his hand reaching up to rest gently against your cheek, as if to reassure you even in his weakened state. “Just a long day… too long.”

But you could see through his attempts to downplay it. The dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the slight tremor in his hands—he had been pushing himself too hard again.

As you helped him out of his jacket, he leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he admitted softly, his voice barely audible. “I thought if I could just make it through today, it would be fine.”