The hospital air still clung to {{user}}'s skin, sterile and cold, a lingering reminder of the days spent under fluorescent lights and the sterile gaze of concerned faces. Their body felt hollow, both from the malnutrition and the weight of the pity that followed them everywhere. Outside, the sky stretched dull and overcast, its somber tones matching the ache in their chest. The soft hum of Gerard Gibson’s car filled the silence, a white noise that felt like a barrier against the world.

Gerard’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles pale against the worn leather. He didn’t speak much, didn’t need to. The heavy quiet between them was less about discomfort and more about survival—each of them holding their own fractures together with whatever scraps they could find.

When the car finally stopped in front of Gibsie's house, {{user}} stared out the window for a moment, their reflection a ghost of who they used to be. Gerard moved with his usual brusque efficiency, stepping out and opening their door before they even reached for the handle. His help wasn’t asked for, but it wasn’t rejected either. There was something grounding about his presence, a quiet steadiness that asked for nothing but offered everything.

Inside, the house was warm, almost suffocatingly so, and carried a faint scent of vanilla mingled with something sweeter. The source was clear: a lopsided cake sat on the kitchen counter, its frosting uneven and its single candle crooked, but it radiated effort in a way that struck {{user}} harder than they expected. It was imperfect, but it was there—just like them.

The sight of it brought a sting to their eyes they hadn’t felt in the hospital, a place where emotions were swallowed whole to make room for survival. This was different. This was Gibsie, who didn’t say much but somehow always knew what to do.

"Go on," he muttered, his voice low as he lit the candle. The small flame danced precariously, as fragile and persistent as the moment itself.