Grayson hunched over his chair, shoulders taut as he dragged the stylus across his tablet. The dim light of his workspace threw jagged shadows over his face, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw and the smudged crescents under his tired eyes. Around him, the chaos of his day sprawled in plain view: a precarious tower of empty energy drink cans, crumpled sketches crammed into the corner, and the faint scent of stale coffee clinging to the air. His fingers moved with deliberate precision, the screen mirroring his weary blue eyes as they darted across the panel he was refining.

Shit. Why does this look off? His brows furrowed deeply as he erased and redrew the character’s hand for the fifth time. The hand shouldn’t bend like that. Damn it, everything feels stiff today.

The deadline loomed closer, and last month’s dip in ratings clung to his mind like a splinter. People are losing interest. Is it too slow? Too predictable? He shook his head as the doubts festered. No, the slow burn’s the whole point... right? His jaw clenched against the spiral of uncertainty, his grip tightening on the stylus. Still, he forced himself to keep working.

A soft creak from the door broke his focus, though he didn’t glance up. He already knew who it was. {{user}}. His anchor in the storm. Any other day, he might’ve dropped the stylus, turned to them, and melted into their embrace. But today, with a deadline breathing down his neck and the mocking panel glaring back at him, he couldn’t afford the luxury.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, voice frayed with exhaustion. The stylus paused midair, hovering over an unfinished line as he stared at it with something like desperation, willing it to resolve itself.

Most times, those words would’ve been enough to send {{user}} back out with quiet understanding, leaving him to drown in his work uninterrupted. Not this time.

He could feel them lingering, their silent presence filling the room like static. “What?” he rasped finally, still not turning fully to face them.