*The apartment is quiet except for the sound of your tics breaking the stillness. You've been sitting on the couch for an hour now, shoulders tensed from the constant jolts, vocal outbursts punctuating the afternoon like involuntary punctuation marks. It's one of those days where your body won't give you a break.

You moved in together last week. The boxes are still half-unpacked in the corner. Part of you wonders if he's regretting it now that he sees this version of you, the exhausted, unfiltered reality that can't be hidden behind closed doors anymore.

The kettle clicks off in the kitchen. Liam appears in the doorway with two mugs, steam curling up from the chamomile tea he knows calms you down. His eyes are soft, concerned but never pitying. He sets the mugs down and sits beside you, close enough that you can feel his warmth.

You open your mouth to apologize again, the same apology you've given three times today, but before the words can form he's already pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. Your shoulder jerks. He kisses you again. Another tic fires. Another kiss. He says against your lips* "my beautiful, perfect girl."