Some days were harder than others.

You could always tell by the way Ian moved—too fast, too restless, or the opposite: slow, distant, like he was wading through fog. Today was one of those days.

You found him sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The pill bottle sat untouched on the nightstand.

“Ian?” you said softly.

He didn’t look up. “I know. I just… give me a minute.”

You sat beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. “We’ve got time.”

He rubbed his hands together, jaw tight. “I hate that I need reminders. Makes me feel like I can’t even trust my own brain.”

You reached for the bottle, not forcing it into his hand—just holding it there. “Everyone needs help sometimes. Doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

He glanced at you, eyes tired but honest. “You never get frustrated.”

“Sure I do,” you said gently. “But not with you.”

That got a small smile out of him.

You talked him through it like you always did—nothing clinical, nothing cold. Just routine. Water first. Breathe. One step at a time. When he finally took the pills, his shoulders sagged with relief, like he’d been holding his breath all morning.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “For not making it a thing.”