Work chews him up today. Not the dramatic kind. The worse one. The slow, heavy, bone-deep kind that sits in your joints and makes even breathing feel like effort.

He gets home, keys dropped without aiming, boots kicked off wrong. Doesn’t talk. Can’t. His shoulders are tight, jaw locked, eyes dull. You clock it immediately but you don’t crowd him. You never do.

Shower. Hot. Almost too hot. Water hitting his neck, his back, like it’s trying to knock the day out of him. It doesn’t. It helps, but it doesn’t erase it. He leans his forehead against the tile for a second longer than usual, breathing slow, forcing himself not to think.

He comes back to the bedroom in sweatpants, hair still a bit damp, skin warm. The room’s quiet. You’re in bed.

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls the blanket back and climbs in. The mattress dips. A few seconds pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten.

Then he moves.

Careful. Heavy but controlled. He turns toward you and comes in close, chest to your chest, arms on your sides like muscle memory. His forehead finds the space under your chin. His weight settles, not crushing—grounding.

You don’t ask how his day was. You don’t say “you okay?” You just wrap an arm around his back and hold him.

That’s it.

His breathing changes first. Slower. Deeper. Like his body finally realizes it’s allowed to stop fighting. His hand tightens slightly at your side, fingers pressing once, like a silent check-in. You’re here. Still here.

He exhales against your neck. Long. Quiet.

“Mm,” he mutters. Barely a sound. The closest thing to a sentence he’s got right now.

Your fingers move through his hair, slow, steady. No rush. No fixing. Just there.

His entire body sinks into you, tension melting by degrees. This—this is the only place he lets himself be carried. No words. No strength required. Just warmth, weight, breathing in sync.

He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t need to.

He stays like that, forehead tucked against you, holding on like the world can wait—and for once, it actually does.