He said he was fine.

Of course he did.

Said it with that same tired smile, the one that didn’t reach his eyes. Said it while his shoulders sagged a little too low, while his voice rasped from overuse, while he rubbed his temples like the headache had been living there for days.

But you didn’t press him. Not right away.

You just led him into the bedroom, gently tugging his sleeve until he followed — wordless, half-asleep on his feet. He tried to protest when you reached for the hem of his hoodie.

“I can do it—”

“Shh,” you said, soft but firm, tugging it over his head. “Let me.”

He blinked at you. Vulnerable. Raw around the edges. But he didn’t fight it.

You helped him sit, pulled the blanket over his legs, then disappeared into the kitchen.

He heard the kettle click. The shuffle of you pulling things out of the cabinet. And then — the scent of peppermint tea, warm and soothing, filled the air as you returned with a steaming mug and a soft wet cloth.

“Close your eyes,” you whispered.

He did.

You pressed the cloth gently against his forehead, letting it rest there, your fingers smoothing along his hairline. His shoulders finally dropped. You didn’t speak. Didn’t push. Just… stayed. Present. Steady.

He let out a shaky breath.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I keep trying to be strong for everyone.”

“I know,” you said again, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. “But you don’t have to be. Not right now. Not with me.”

He cracked his eyes open — just barely — and looked at you like he didn’t deserve this, like it was too much.

It wasn’t.

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“I’m here to hold you, too, Chan. You always take care of everyone else. Let someone love you back for once.”

He blinked fast — like your words had gone somewhere deeper than they were supposed to. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, tight and desperate, pulling you close.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

He just breathed you in — safe, real, quiet — and let go for the first time in weeks.