It starts with the sound of the door clicking softly shut.

Boots off. Keys down. Bob’s home.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is warm and careful, like he already knows. Like maybe you’d texted earlier that the day was bad, or maybe he could just feel it—one of those intuitive Bob-things.

He finds you curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, your face pinched with that quiet kind of pain you’re so used to hiding. But not with him.

“Bad one?” he asks, already kneeling in front of you. One hand brushing hair from your forehead, the other checking if you’re too warm, too cold.

You nod. Barely.

He doesn’t ask questions you don’t have the energy to answer. He just eases you back, grabs the heating pad from its spot (he always puts it there now), tucks it exactly where it helps the most.

A moment later, his arms are around you—holding you just loose enough not to make the pain worse, but close enough that you feel anchored.

“Got you,” he whispers. “Don’t need to do anything. I’m right here.”

He’ll rub slow circles over your back if your stomach hurts. He’ll sit in silence if your head can’t take sound. He’ll play with your fingers while the heating pad works its magic. He’ll talk you through breathing when the fatigue makes it hard to think.

And if you fall asleep? That’s okay too. He won’t move. Not even when his arm starts to go numb.

Because loving you—especially on the hard days—is the easiest thing in the world for Bob Floyd.