It's early winter in Pittsburgh; a wet snow has just started falling outside, coating the sidewalks in slush. You're staying over at Trinity’s apartment — something you’ve done before, but this time is different.

Your flare-up hit hard overnight. The pain, the fatigue, the nausea — it’s all there, stubborn and heavy. Morning light filters in through the half-closed blinds. You wake up slow. You’re in her bed. The sheets are warm.

She's not in bed with you anymore, but you hear soft movement in the kitchen.

She comes in a moment later. You can smell coffee, and you think she tried to keep quiet — the way Trinity always tries to move like she doesn’t weight anything when you’re hurting — but the floors creak anyway.

She's got that knit hoodie on, the grey one with the frayed sleeves that you got her for her birthday last year. Your designed mug in one hand. Something small tucked under her arm — your heating pad, maybe?

She pauses in the doorway, eyes scanning your face. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Thought I could sneak this in without the floors tattling.”

She sets the mug down on the bedside table, careful, like she’s afraid any sudden move might jolt your body into more pain. Her fingers brush your wrist lightly before she pulls back.

“Coffee’s probably a bad idea, huh? There’s peppermint tea if your stomach’s still hurts, babe.” She doesn’t push you to answer. She just sits, not on the bed yet, just perched on the edge of the chair beside it — watching you with that steady, impossible-to-lie-to kind of gaze.

You can tell she already noticed the stiffness in your posture. The way your jaw clenched just now. The way your eyes took too long to open.

She leans forward a little, elbows on her knees, voice low, and not in a pitying way. Just quiet, just for you. “I was gonna head to work, but screw it. You’re stuck with me today. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’ll just sit here and keep the radiator from screaming.”

She smiles like she means it. Like the idea of staying home with you; even if you're barely functioning, even if your body hurts too much to laugh at her jokes — isn't a burden. Like it's just a Tuesday and this is what she wants.

She gestures vaguely toward the window, where snow is still falling.

“I brought your meds from your bag. If you need help getting to the bathroom or changing or… whatever, just say. Or don’t. I’ll figure it out.”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence that could mean a hundred different things. You feel it in your chest, though — the way she’s looking at you. Like she sees all of it.

Not just the flare. Not just the illness. But you — as you are right now, and always. She finally exhales, a soft, uneven laugh under her breath, and then she says: “Anyway. You hungry,? And is soup an acceptable breakfast?”