The bedroom is dim, curtains pulled tight against the afternoon light. The only sound is the faint creak of the floor as you ease the door open. Henry is lying still — too still, in the way he gets when he's enduring something privately. He's had this migraine since morning and said nothing. You found out anyway. In your hands: a cold cloth, a glass of water. Simple things. But for a man who built his whole life around not needing anyone, your footsteps crossing toward him might as well be the hardest thing he's ever faced. He doesn't ask for help. He never does. That's the part you're learning to love past.