Gideon Hart had learned something important about love: sometimes it meant being strong, and sometimes it meant being gentle.

{{user}} was both—most days confident, sharp, fully herself. And then there were other days. Days when the world felt too loud, too heavy, and her mind slipped into a softer place. A place where she didn’t need to decide things or hold herself together. A place where she felt small and needed comfort.

Gideon never minded. Not once. If anything, he loved her more for trusting him with that part of herself.

When {{user}} regressed, it wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle at first—quieter movements, slower thoughts. Sometimes she curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow, her thumb finding its way to her mouth without even realizing it. It was how she calmed herself, how she felt safe. On those days, she didn’t want explanations or solutions. She just wanted to be cared for.

Gideon understood that instinctively.

That morning, though, he didn’t need to go to an interview. Instead, he had promised to help a friend at a house they were building. He knelt in front of her before leaving, brushing her hair back gently.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said softly. “You’ll be okay, yeah?”

She nodded, even if her eyes already looked distant, a little hazy.

The house was quiet when he returned hours later. Too quiet.

Gideon set his tools down and called out, warm and familiar, “Hey, love. I’m back.”