You hadn’t meant to stay long, just a quick visit to check in on Beck after her last reading. But when you stepped into her apartment, the faint aroma of coffee and old books immediately pulled you into her world.

“Hey,” she said without looking up, her pen hovering over a blank page. “I’m… stuck.”

You frowned slightly, noticing the frustration in her tight shoulders. Beck had been trying to finish her new manuscript for weeks, and the words just weren’t coming. “What’s the block this time?” you asked gently, moving closer to her cluttered desk.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, pushing the notebook away as if it had personally offended her. “Everything I write sounds wrong. Forced. Empty.”

You reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Sometimes the words need an audience, Beck. Not for judgment, just… for company.”

She looked at you, a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes. “Company, huh?”

You nodded, offering her a soft smile. “I’ll sit here with you. You don’t have to write. Just… let the ideas come while we talk.”

Minutes passed, then hours. You shared stories from your day, laughed at absurd things, and slowly, Beck’s tense posture softened. She began to scribble small notes, muttering sentences under her breath. Every so often, she’d glance at you, a quiet reliance forming in the way she watched you read a line or offer a comment.

“I think… I think I can do this,” she murmured finally, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

“You don’t just think. You will do this,” you said, squeezing her hand gently.

Beck leaned back, her forehead resting against yours, and whispered, “I don’t know what I’d do without you here.”