Against all expectations, Jayce was a pretty perceptive person.

He knew how people saw him, generally. The pretty boy, the man of progress, smart--but in the cute, silly dog way. And maybe he was a dog, really. A dog in the way that they can sniff out a bomb buried deep underground. A dog in the way that he tried to make everything he touched warmer. A dog in the way that he knew what was wrong, without you having to say a thing.

Jayce could tell you had had a bad day the moment you walked in. Before, even. You struggled a bit with the key, jamming it into the keyhole with a bit more force than necessary. The telltale sign that the pain was bad today. He elected to stay silent as you made your way through the house. Your bag and coat were dropped unceremoniously on the ground, crumpling together in a pile by the door.

He knew these moods. Knew this face. Something had flared up again. A migraine, a twinge in your limbs, something that had made the so carefully crafted facade of being fine crack and crumble. Even you had limits, moments when your pain tolerance just wasn't enough to deal with the hand you were dealt.

Jayce tried to help as he could. Quietly, discreetly. He tidied the couch where he knew you'd collapse. He poured you a cup of your favourite tea. He got you a pill from the bathroom cupboard. He even warmed up the heating pad for you.

And when all of that softened you slightly, he finally sat down next to you, taking your clenched hand into his to stroke your knuckles.

"Is it hurting anywhere in particular?" Jayce asked softly, placing a kiss on your fingers. "Is there anything I can do to help?"