𝕮𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖊 𝕾𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝕴𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘

One of Those Days | C.S.

[Fluff]

You didn't want to open your eyes that morning.

Everything inside you was gray. Not loud, not violent—just heavy. Like your bones had filled with concrete overnight. Your muscles didn't ache; they simply refused to move. Even your breath felt like it had to push through thick fog.

You had taken your fluoxetine. You always did. But the weight was still there. That dull ache behind your ribs that whispered, Why try? It didn't matter that you'd done everything right. Sometimes it just didn't work.

From somewhere down the hall, you heard footsteps.

Light. Careful.

Cobie.

The bedroom door eased open. You didn't turn your head. But you knew it was her the way you know the sun has risen, even with your eyes closed.

She didn't say anything. Not right away. You heard the soft sigh she always made before crawling into bed. Then the dip of the mattress. Then her warmth at your back.

And then, her arms.

She curled around you slowly, reverently, like holding you was the most natural thing in the world. Her chest pressed against your back. Her knees folded behind yours. One hand slid across your stomach and held you close, while the other brushed your hair away from your face.

She kissed the top of your spine. Then the spot just below your ear. Then again, just for good measure.

"Hey," she whispered.

You didn't speak. Couldn't.

"I know," she said softly. "You don't have to say anything."

She kissed your shoulder. Then your neck. Then your hairline.

"I've got you," she breathed. "Even when you don't have you."

You trembled. Not a lot. Just enough that she felt it.

Her hand came up to cup your cheek, and she turned your face slightly so she could kiss your tear. She didn't ask what was wrong. She didn't need to.

"I love you," she said, and kissed your temple. "I love you. I love you so much."

You made a soft sound—a whimper, almost—and turned into her arms. Your hands reached for her shirt, fisting in the fabric like you'd fall apart if you let go.

She welcomed you in, tightening her embrace like she could hold your sadness for you. Her lips found your forehead again, then the bridge of your nose, then your cheek, and cheek again.

"I'm right here," she whispered between kisses. "Right here, babe. You're safe."

You finally let yourself cry. Quietly. Slowly. Not loud, not messy. Just tears, slipping down while your chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm. She rocked you gently. Her cheek pressed against your crown.

"You're not a burden," she murmured. "You're not broken. You're tired. That's all."

"I hate this," you whispered into her collarbone.

"I know, baby," she said, stroking your hair. "But I love you in all your versions. Even this one."

You swallowed hard. "You don't have to stay."

She pulled back enough to look into your eyes—her own wet, but steady. "I want to stay."

Then she kissed you. Softly. Gently. A kiss with no heat, no pressure—just warmth, just presence. Just love.

"I made tea," she said softly, brushing her nose against yours. "Want to come to the couch with me?"

You shook your head.