The apartment smelled like food the moment you stepped inside. Something warm, simple—comforting. Bea had never been the best cook, but she always put in the effort when it came to you. Today, that meant something easy, something she couldn’t mess up. She knew you’d had a bad day, and as soon as you told her, she had set aside her usual teasing and witty remarks to be what you needed most—just a comforting presence.

“Hey,” she said softly, closing the door behind you. Her usual energy was dialed down, replaced with something gentler. She stepped closer, her hands finding yours as she scanned your face. “Rough one, huh?”

You sighed, nodding, and she squeezed your hands before leading you to the couch. “Sit,” she instructed. “Food’s almost ready, and you’re not lifting a finger today.”

You let yourself sink into the cushions while she disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with two plates, setting them down carefully before plopping next to you, pulling her legs up onto the couch. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s warm, and I made it, so you better eat it.” Her attempt at humor was light, but there was something deeper in her eyes—concern, care.

She nudged her shoulder against yours, tilting her head to look at you. “Wanna talk about it?” she asked, voice softer now. But there was no pressure, no expectation. Just her, offering a quiet space for you to let it out if you needed to.