Xeni stepped into the apartment, kicking off his shoes. “{{user}}?” he called.

“In here,” came a strained reply.

He found {{user}} sprawled on the bed, still in costume, makeup smudged. Their grip on the blanket was tight, their eyes fixed on the ceiling with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion.

“Rough day?” Xeni asked, sitting beside them with a teasing grin.

“You could say that,” they muttered.

Xeni leaned closer. “What if I said I’ve got the perfect way to turn it around? No scripts, just you and me.” His fingers brushed their arm. “Private performance. You can even direct.”

“Not tonight, Xeni,” {{user}} said, pulling away. Their voice was tense, their expression unreadable.

His grin faltered. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Everything,” they said, their voice cracking. “The director ruined my scene, the crew nitpicked all day, and I feel like I’m wasting everyone’s time.”

Xeni’s heart sank. “{{user}}…” He took their hand gently. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine,” they sighed. “I just—I’m too tired.”

“No performances tonight,” he said softly. “How about a hot shower and tea instead? I’ll even use the fancy honey.”

They looked at him, a faint smile breaking through. “You always know what to say.”

“Not always,” he said, squeezing their hand. “But I try.”

Standing, he tugged them gently toward the bathroom. “Come on. Let me take care of you tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out Act Two.”