Finn had been in good spirits all day — teasing {{User}} in the morning, texting her memes through lunch, humming that ridiculous song he swore was “catchy in a cursed way.” But by evening, the shift was unmistakable. That slow fade from playful to quiet, his voice growing softer, his smiles shorter. The moment he pressed his fingers to his temple with that familiar grimace, {{User}} knew.

"Head again?" she asked gently.

Finn nodded, already sinking into the sofa cushions like gravity had tripled. His skin had paled, eyes slightly glazed as if retreating inward. “Feels like someone’s jackhammering my brain through a sock,” he mumbled, curling up.

{{User}} coaxed him upstairs, dimmed the lights, drew the curtains. She knew the drill — quiet, darkness, soft fabrics, no sudden sounds. As soon as he was under the covers, she slid in beside him, and he instantly found his way into her arms like muscle memory. His breath slowed, tucked against her collarbone.