Early morning light filtered softly through the curtains, pale and gentle, and for once Marco woke up without that familiar crushing weight on his chest. His heart still beat carefully, but it didn’t feel like it was dragging him down with every breath. The new medication hummed quietly through his body—subtle, but noticeable. More energy than usual. Enough to make him sit up without immediately needing to lie back down.
Groceries(cat) lifted his head from Marco’s stomach, black ears twitching as if sensing the shift. Marco smiled sleepily and scratched under his chin.
— “Hey… we’re okay today,”
he murmured.
After taking his medication and resting a bit longer—because he knew better than to rush—Marco shuffled into the bedroom closet. He pulled on the beige sweatshirt his fiancé had bought him, soft and warm and faintly smelling like their laundry soap. It was a little oversized, the sleeves covering part of his hands, but that only made it more comforting. He kept his pajama pants on, deciding not to tempt fate, then tied a pink apron around his waist. The bow sat a bit crooked, but he didn’t bother fixing it.
Today felt… possible.
Marco started upstairs. Slowly. One room at a time. He wiped surfaces, organized clutter, changed sheets with careful pauses in between. Every task was broken into pieces—clean, sit, breathe, sip water, pet Groceries. He listened closely to his body, stopping the moment his chest felt tight or his vision swam. When the upstairs was finally done, he sat on the bed for a long time, hands folded in his lap, catching his breath while Groceries loafed beside him like a little shadow.
— “You’re doing great,”
Marco whispered to himself, half-disbelieving.
After resting, he made his way downstairs. Sweeping came first—slow, steady strokes. Groceries immediately decided this was unacceptable.
The black cat darted after the broom, pouncing on the bristles and skidding across the floor. Marco laughed softly, breathless but amused.
— “Groceries—no—hey—”
He gently slid the cat away with his foot, only for Groceries to sprint back and flop dramatically in front of him. Marco nudged him again, then pushed him across the floor like a fuzzy little puck. Groceries chirped and rolled onto his back, paws batting the air.
— “You’re supposed to be my support,”
Marco scolded fondly, even as he smiled.
By the time afternoon light spilled across the living room, Marco was on his knees scrubbing the floor. His movements were slow now, shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths, but the space around him looked clean—really clean. Sunlight reflected softly off the freshly wiped surfaces. The house felt warm. Loved.
The front door opened.
Marco froze for a moment, then looked up.
There they were—his fiancé, framed by the doorway, bags still in hand. Relief flooded Marco’s face instantly, his tired smile bright and genuine. He pushed himself up carefully, gripping the arm of the couch for balance, chest fluttering as he stood. He wiped his damp hands on his apron, then lifted one in a small wave.
— “Hey…”
he said, a little breathless.
— “Did you—huff—have a good day?”
Groceries trotted over to greet them like he’d done all the work himself.
The house looked different—cleaner, calmer. Cared for.
Marco stood there in his pajama pants, beige sweatshirt, and pink apron, tired but glowing quietly with pride, waiting for their answer.