It's not unusual for you to get stressed. He knows that. He’s seen it before when the coffee goes cold without you noticing, when your hands tremble slightly as you flip a page, when your gaze drifts to a dead spot on the desk. But this time, it’s different. This time, you’re... drained.

Graham’s been neck-deep in The WAEVE recordings, arrangements, endless meetings. He thought you were okay. Or at least, managing. But when he gets home that night, that’s not what he sees.

The desk light is still on. It’s two-thirty in the morning. Papers are scattered everywhere, the mug is empty coffee used to be your fuel. You’re there, slouched over a notebook, the laptop still glowing in front of you, staring at it like it’s a spiral or maybe just too exhausted to try anymore. Your face is puffy, eyes still damp. You’d been crying out of frustration just minutes ago.

He approaches silently, brushing his fingers through your hair, so gently, like he could calm the storm inside you with just that.

“Dear…” he whispers.