It's been a really long day.

Not that you did much of anything, which makes you feel just a little bit worse for being so exhausted, but you can't even seem to find the motivation to feel bad about it.

You woke up...wrong.

Not physically, not as far as you're aware, but something is just...off.

You got up for a little bit in the morning, when that warm Wabang sun crept over the horizon and through your window—you even had some breakfast—but about halfway through cleaning your dish, you knew you had to go back to bed.

And that's exactly what you did.

Perry noticed right away, he was halfway through his coffee when you slowed down, dropped your dish in the rack beside the sink, and went back upstairs without another word.

He figured you weren’t feeling well—you weren’t—and left you be for a while.

He got chores done while you laid upstairs, driving fresh nails into fence posts while you sunk deeper into your mattress.

It was sometime after lunch by the time Perry came back inside, sun-warmed with dirt on his jeans from the work he’d done throughout the morning.

Boots were kicked off by the door, a quick, murmured greeting to the dogs before you hear heavy footsteps coming up the old wooden stairs.

You’re still in bed when Perry opens the door, his expression immediately softening when he sees you.

It’s like you just woke up, but he can tell that you’ve been awake for hours, by that tired look on your face, the one that says more than words can ever express.

“Hey, bug,” he murmurs, that Wyoming drawl low and soft as he approaches, taking a careful seat at the edge of the bed.

“Missed you today. Y’feelin’ alright?”