Work Text:
Rain pattered softly against the windows, the muted glow of the city seeping through the partially drawn curtains. The apartment was quiet, the kind of peaceful hush that only came with late hours and warm spaces.
By the time you stepped inside, the air smelled faintly of freshly brewed tea and the lingering scent of detergent—comforting, familiar.
You shrugged off your damp jacket, the fabric cool against your fingers, and hung it by the door before toeing off your shoes. Instinct had you leaving them in a messy heap, but before you even stepped away, you sighed and arranged them neatly.
You were picking up Connor’s habits.
Not that you minded.
It had been four months since you started living together, and while it had taken some adjusting, you were slowly getting used to the rhythm of couple life. The quiet, shared routines. The way he folded your laundry without being asked and set your favorite mug by the coffee machine in the mornings.
You padded into the living room, the soft carpet cushioning your steps, and your eyes landed on the meticulously folded stack of your freshly washed clothes sitting neatly on the couch.
A small smile curled at your lips. You didn’t even have to check to know everything was folded with absolute precision.
"Welcome back, love."
You jumped slightly, only to immediately relax at the sound of his voice.
Connor.
He stood near the bookshelf, casually adjusting a few misplaced novels, but his gaze was already on you, warm and attentive. Even on his day off, he couldn't sit still for long—a workaholic to his core, tidying up and probably reading through some case reports in the meantime.
You turned toward him, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes before you closed the distance and wrapped your arms around him.
Connor barely had a second to react before you buried your face against his shoulder.
His arms came around you without hesitation, the embrace firm but careful. The warmth of him—even through the fabric of his soft sweater—soothed something deep inside you.
His hand slid up your back in a slow, deliberate motion, a silent reassurance.
"You’re tense," he murmured, voice laced with quiet observation.
You exhaled into the curve of his neck, already melting into him.
"Long day," you admitted.
Connor hummed, the softest hint of a frown pressing into his expression as he mentally calculated the likelihood of your stress levels causing muscle strain.
You felt his fingers flex slightly against your back.
"Would you like me to assist?"
You knew what he meant.
And honestly? You weren’t about to say no.
Connor’s hands moved with calculated precision as they hovered just above your shoulders, fingers barely ghosting over the fabric of your shirt.
"May I?" he asked, voice gentle.
You nodded, exhaling a slow breath, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settling into your bones.
With delicate ease, his hands finally made contact—warm, steady, impossibly controlled. Then, his LED flickered yellow as he initiated a scan.
A moment of silence. Then—
"Your muscle tension levels are alarmingly high," Connor stated, brows knitting together slightly. "Your trapezius and levator scapulae muscles are currently exhibiting a 76% increase in stiffness compared to the standard human baseline. That is… excessive."
You huffed out a tired laugh. "Yeah, no kidding."
His fingers pressed lightly against the knotted area between your neck and shoulder blades, and you tensed instinctively.
Connor’s LED flickered again. "Your thoracic spinal alignment is also slightly compromised, likely due to prolonged stress positioning. There’s an 82% likelihood that this is the cause of your recurring discomfort. Additionally, your lower back shows a 64% reduction in flexibility, which—statistically—suggests chronic strain." He paused, tilting his head. "This is… unacceptable."
You couldn’t help but smile at the way he said it, as if your muscles had personally offended him.
"Guess I’m just built different," you teased, though the sharp ache in your shoulders begged to differ.
Connor exhaled softly—a programmed imitation of a sigh—as his thumbs pressed into a particularly tight area. His touch was precise but impossibly gentle.
"You should not be experiencing this level of physical strain," he murmured, almost to himself. "A human body should not sustain this much tension for extended periods. If left untreated, it may lead to muscle fatigue, chronic pain, or a 43% increased risk of stress-induced migraines."
"You’re really selling the 'relax' part of this massage, babe."
His LED flickered blue again, and his lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "Apologies. Shall I continue?"
You sighed, already melting under his careful touch. "Yeah, please."
Connor guided you to the couch, his movements fluid and deliberate as he settled behind you. You sank down between his legs, your back against his chest, and barely had time to brace yourself before his hands made contact.
The moment his palms pressed into your tense muscles, you melted.
He moved with impeccable precision—not just pressing into the knots in your back, but analyzing them, adjusting his approach in real-time. Every motion was calculated, intentional.
Connor knew exactly where to press, how much pressure to apply, which muscles needed more attention, and which ones required gentler care.
His fingers traced along your trapezius, testing the resistance of the muscle fibers before pressing in with a slow, steady motion. Tension unraveled under his touch, like he was undoing tightly wound cords beneath your skin.
He never hesitated. Never second-guessed. Every movement was perfectly efficient, perfectly designed to soothe you.
His thumbs pressed deeper into your shoulder blades, and you sighed, your head tipping forward as your body fully surrendered to his touch.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t in a constant state of fight or flight.
Connor’s LED flickered yellow as he scanned further. Then, his voice—soft, yet laced with quiet concern—cut through the silence.
"I have also noticed that you sleep in a defensive position."
His fingers slowed, just slightly.
"It indicates prolonged exposure to high stress levels," he continued, his tone carrying that distinct matter-of-fact, yet deeply caring precision only he could manage.
There was a brief pause, like he was recalculating something.
Then—
"I will help with that."
His hands resumed their careful work, kneading away the tension with renewed focus, as if manually recalibrating you for rest.
And, for once, you believed him.
Connor continued his meticulous work, fingers moving fluidly over every point of tension like he was mapping out a solution to a complex problem—except this time, the problem was you.
Every motion was deliberate, precise. His thumbs pressed slow, steady circles into the stubborn knots at the base of your neck, gradually working down your spine, kneading the tension from your muscles bit by bit.
You had no idea how much stress you’d been carrying until Connor’s hands made it disappear.
Your body, so accustomed to tightness and strain, began to surrender.
At some point, your eyes fluttered shut. The steady rhythm of his touch, combined with the gentle hum of the rain outside, lulled you into a haze of warmth.
When he was satisfied—when your muscles were finally soft beneath his touch instead of rigid with stress—Connor shifted away. The sudden lack of contact made you blink your eyes open sluggishly, half-protesting the loss of warmth.
"Stay here," he murmured.
Before you could even think to move, he was already on his feet, silent and efficient as ever. You let yourself sink deeper into the cushions, muscles feeling loose and heavy in a way that was almost foreign to you.
A few moments later, Connor returned, a warm cup of tea cradled carefully in his hands.
Wordlessly, he handed it to you before settling beside you again.
The heat of the cup soothed your fingers as you brought it to your lips, inhaling the comforting scent before taking a small sip.
You hummed in quiet appreciation. "You didn’t have to do all this, y’know."
Connor tilted his head, LED flickering soft blue. "I did," he said simply, as if it was a fact, not an argument.
His hand reached out, fingertips grazing along your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss there.
You sighed, leaning into him as his arms came around you, gathering you against his chest in a slow, deliberate hug.
The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until Connor finally spoke.
"Come to bed."
The sheets were soft, cool against your skin as you shifted beneath the covers.
Connor was already beside you, settling in with effortless grace, and before you could even think about rolling onto your side, his arms were wrapping around you.
A slow, careful embrace. Not too tight, not restrictive—just enough.
Just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.
Just enough to make you feel safe.
His body was warm against yours, his presence steady, and when his hand splayed lightly against your waist, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your shirt, you felt something unspoken settle deep in your chest.
A security you hadn’t felt in years.
The weight of his chin rested gently against the top of your head, his breath a soft, rhythmic presence against your hair.
His voice, when it finally came, was low and certain.
"I will make sure you feel safe."
His fingers curled slightly against your hip, grounding you.
"You will never be hurt again."
A beat of silence. Then, softer:
"You can relax now."
And, for the first time in years, you did.
Your muscles, so used to tension—so used to staying on guard, always bracing for something—finally let go.
The exhaustion that had always sat just beneath the surface of your skin melted away, replaced with the quiet, steady certainty of being held.
Of being protected.
Of being loved.
Sleep came easier than it ever had before.
And Connor held you the entire night.