Gareth is halfway through his English homework when he feels the shift in the room before he even sees you.

The door clicks shut softly. No dramatic entrance, no words. Just you. He glances up automatically, ready with a crooked smile—until he sees your face. Your shoulders are slumped, eyes distant, like you’re holding yourself together with sheer will alone. The smile fades instantly.

“Hey,” he says gently, setting the guitar aside. “What’s—”

You don’t answer. You just walk straight to him and climb into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, knees bracketing his hips, forehead dropping to his shoulder for half a second. He wraps an arm around your waist without thinking, grounding you there, solid and warm.

Then you pull back just enough to press something cold into his hand.

A Sharpie.

Gareth’s chest tightens—not with fear, not anymore, but with that familiar ache of understanding. You lift your arm toward him, resting it across his thigh. The skin is pale, marked with faint white scars that crisscross softly—old, healed, but never forgotten. He knows every inch of them. Knows which days they came from. Knows how hard you fought to stop.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

“Oh,” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

He shifts so you’re more comfortable, one hand steadying your arm, the other uncapping the marker with a quiet click. He doesn’t rush. Never rushes. He presses a soft kiss to your temple first, lingering there like he’s reminding both of you that you’re here. That you’re safe.

“Bad day?” he asks quietly.

You nod against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he sighs, not disappointed, not upset—just present. “Okay. We can handle bad days.”

He starts with gentle lines, careful and slow, letting the cool ink replace the sharp thoughts buzzing under your skin. Little doodles bloom beneath his touch—tiny bats with stupid fangs, crooked stars, a guitar with wings, a smiley face wearing a helmet. Things that make you huff out the tiniest breath of laughter despite yourself.

“There,” he murmurs as he draws. “This one’s you. See? Still standing. Still metal as hell.”

His thumb brushes over your wrist, grounding, steady. He keeps talking softly as he works, telling you about Dustin arguing with Steve over cereal brands, about Eddie’s newest ridiculous idea for the band, about absolutely nothing and everything all at once—just enough to keep your mind anchored here, with him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he adds quietly, like he knows the guilt is there even if you haven’t said it. “And you didn’t fail. You came to me. That counts.”

When he finishes, he caps the marker and sets it aside, then pulls you closer until your head tucks under his chin. His arms hold you like he’s not letting go anytime soon.

“I’ve got you,” Gareth whispers. “As long as you need. Even on the quiet days.”