It started small.

At first, Matt only noticed the silences. You skipped over stories at dinner, answering your siblings’ chatter with a nod or a shrug. You smiled when you were supposed to, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Then he noticed the things that used to light you up - books you hadn’t touched in weeks, your guitar leaning untouched against the wall, even your favourite Saturday pancakes left half-eaten.

He didn’t press. Not right away. Years of profiling had taught him that sometimes, silence said more than words. So he watched. He made mental notes. He listened.

Three nights in a row, he came home late and found you in the same place - on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, the TV flickering but your gaze unfocused. When he asked why you weren’t in bed, you’d shrug, mumble something about not being tired, and he’d let it go.

But it weighed on him.

By the fourth night, he didn’t just pass by. He set his bag down, loosened his tie, and eased himself onto the couch beside you.

“Hey,” he said softly, like he was afraid of scaring you off. “Mind if I sit?”

You shook your head, though you didn’t look at him.

For a while, you sat in silence. He didn’t fill it. Just rested back, hands clasped in his lap, the way he did when waiting for a suspect to decide whether to talk. Only this time, his gaze was gentler, patient.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he finally said. “Quieter than usual.”

You shifted under the blanket, pulling it closer. “Just tired.”

He hummed, not challenging the answer. “Tired, huh? Okay.” He let it sit there like he believed you - even though he didn’t.

The next day, he came home earlier than usual. He found you in your room, the blinds still drawn even though the sun was spilling across the rest of the house. You were sitting on your bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said gently from the doorway.

“Not hungry,” you muttered without looking up.

He leaned on the doorframe, studying you for a beat. “You’ve been saying that a lot.”

This time, you looked up, caught by the softness in his tone. There wasn’t any accusation there. Just concern.

Something in your chest twisted. You wanted to tell him everything but couldn’t find the words. So instead, you looked away again, cheeks burning.

Matt crossed the room slowly, crouching down so he was level with you. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready,” he said quietly. “But I need you to know - I see you. And I’m here. Always.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. The words lodged in your chest like stones. All you could manage was a weak, “Okay.”

He reached out, brushed his hand lightly over your arm, then stood. “I’ll save you a plate,” he said gently, and left the door cracked on his way out.

It wasn’t a breakthrough. But it was something.

And for the first time in days, when you finally crept into the kitchen later that night to heat up the food he’d saved, the weight on your chest felt just a little less crushing.

--

It happened late one night, a few days after you’d found the cold plate waiting for you in the kitchen.

The house was asleep. You sat in your room, blanket wrapped tight around you, staring at the ceiling while the same thoughts circled in your head: heavy, endless, impossible to name.

Finally, you slipped out of bed, bare feet quiet on the floor. You padded down the hall, stopping outside your parents’ room. The light was still on.

You hesitated, your hand hovering just above the doorframe. Knocking felt too loud. Too final. Instead, you pushed gently, and the door creaked open.

Your dad was sitting at the small desk in the corner, papers spread out, glasses perched on his nose. He looked up immediately when he heard the door, and his expression softened. “Hey. Can’t sleep?”

You froze, suddenly wishing you’d just stayed in bed. “I… um.” You shifted from one foot to the other, pulling your sleeves down over your hands. “Never mind.”

You started to turn, but Matt’s voice stopped you - gentle, steady, not prying. “Hey. You came in here for a reason.”