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The apartment was tomb-quiet when Belly pushed through the front door, her keys jingling against the wood as she fumbled with the lock. She'd expected to find Conrad passed out on the couch - he'd been pulling back-to-back shifts at the hospital for the past week, his residency program demanding every ounce of energy he had and then some. The living room was empty, though, just the ghost of his presence in the medical journals scattered across the coffee table and his sneakers kicked carelessly by the door.
"Con?" she called softly, dropping her purse on the kitchen counter. No response. The silence felt heavy, expectant.
She found his scrubs in a crumpled heap on their bedroom floor, which was getting less and less unusual these days - he'd been so exhausted lately that basic tasks like putting clothes in the hamper seemed beyond him. But the bed was still made, untouched since she'd left that morning. A familiar knot of worry began to twist in her stomach.
That's when she heard it - a soft, barely audible sound coming from the bathroom. Like someone trying very hard not to breathe too loud.
The bathroom door was cracked open, and through the gap, she could see that the lights were off. She pushed it open carefully, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. At first, she didn't see him. Then her gaze dropped to the bathtub.
Conrad was curled up in the empty tub like a broken thing, still wearing his t-shirt and boxers from under his scrubs. His knees were drawn up to his chest, one arm wrapped around his shins while the other was pressed against his right temple, fingers buried in his hair. His face was turned away from her, but she could see the tension in every line of his body - the way his shoulders hunched, the rigid set of his spine, the way his breathing came in careful, measured inhales through his nose.
"Oh, Conrad," she whispered, and he flinched at the sound.
"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice thick and strained. "I know it's weird, I just - the tile is cool, and it's dark, and I couldn't... the bed felt too soft, and the sheets were too loud when I moved." He was rambling, the words tumbling out in a rush that made her chest ache. "I took my meds but they're not working yet, and I know I look insane sitting in here like this—"
"Hey." She kept her voice barely above a whisper as she sank down beside the tub, her back against the cool bathroom wall. "You don't look insane. You look like you're hurting."
He let out a shaky breath, and she could see his shoulders relax just a fraction. "It's bad today," he admitted, and she knew that for Conrad, who had been dealing with chronic migraines since his teenage years, to say it was bad meant it was probably excruciating.
The migraines had started young but intensified after his mom got sick - grief and stress and the weight of holding his family together manifesting in blinding headaches that would lay him flat for hours. They'd gotten better over the years with proper medication and management, but medical residency was its own special kind of hell. Thirty-six hour shifts, fluorescent lights, constant stress, irregular sleep - it was like a perfect storm designed to trigger every single one of his migraine symptoms.
"When did it start?" she asked, settling more comfortably against the wall. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she knew from experience that even gentle contact could feel like agony when he was in the thick of it.
"About halfway through my second shift. Tried to push through it." His voice was muffled against his knees. "Stupid."
"Not stupid. Dedicated. There's a difference."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren't so pained. "Tell that to my attending when I nearly passed out while suturing a patient."
Her heart clenched. "Conrad—"
"I'm okay, exaggerating," he said quickly. "Another resident took over. I just... I needed to get home, needed somewhere dark and quiet." He shifted slightly in the tub, and she heard the soft sound of his t-shirt against the porcelain. "This probably looks pathetic."
"It looks like you're taking care of yourself the best way you know how."
She studied him in the dim light filtering in from the bedroom - the way his brown hair fell across his forehead, damp with sweat despite the coolness of the bathroom. His skin looked pale, almost gray, and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. He looked young and vulnerable and nothing like the confident medical resident who could suture wounds and start IVs without breaking a sweat.
"Can I touch you?" she asked. "Just your back?"
He nodded against his knees, and she carefully reached over the edge of the tub to place her palm between his shoulder blades. His t-shirt was damp with perspiration, and she could feel the knots of tension in his muscles, the way they jumped under her touch.
"That okay?" she whispered.
"Yeah." The word came out on an exhale, and she felt some of the rigid tension start to leave his body. "That's... yeah."
She began to rub gentle circles between his shoulder blades, her touch feather-light. She'd learned over the years what helped during his migraines and what made them worse - firm pressure was bad, but light, consistent touch seemed to help ground him, gave him something to focus on besides the pain.
They sat like that for a while, Belly on the bathroom floor with her hand on Conrad's back, both of them breathing in the darkness. She could feel the way his body gradually started to relax under her touch, the way his breathing deepened just slightly.
"I hate this," he said eventually, his voice thick with frustration and exhaustion. "I hate that they're back, I hate that I can't just push through them anymore. In college, I could take some Excedrin and keep going, but now..."
"Now you're older, and you're under more stress, and your body is telling you it needs a break," she said gently. "That's not a failure, Con. That's just being human."
"I have patients depending on me."
"And they need you healthy. They need you sharp and focused, not pushing through pain that's making you dizzy." She kept her voice low, soothing. "You can't take care of other people if you don't take care of yourself first."
He was quiet for a long moment, and she could practically hear the wheels turning in his head - Conrad, who had spent most of his life taking care of everyone else, who still struggled with the concept that he was allowed to have needs too.
"The medication will kick in soon," she said, continuing the slow circles on his back. "And tomorrow you have the day off."
"I should use it to study—"
"You should use it to rest. To sleep. To remember that you're more than just your job." Her voice was firm but gentle. "You're Conrad. You're the guy who taught me how to drive stick shift in the Cousins Beach Marina parking lot, who makes terrible eggs but somehow always knows exactly how I like my coffee. You're the person who held me when I cried over my parents' divorce, who stayed up all night with me when I had food poisoning freshman year. You're not just a doctor, and you're not defined by how much pain you can endure."
She felt him take a shaky breath, felt the way his shoulders started to tremble slightly. "I miss when things were simple," he whispered. "I miss being able to just... be sick without it feeling like the end of the world."
"I know." She wished she could take the pain from him, wished she could absorb it into herself so he didn't have to carry it. "But you're not alone in this, okay? You don't have to tough it out by yourself anymore."
"You shouldn't have to take care of me like this."
"I want to take care of you like this." The words came out more fierce than she'd intended, and she modulated her voice back to a whisper. "In sickness and in health, remember? We might not have said those words yet, but that's what this is. This is what love looks like."
He shifted in the tub, turning slightly so he could look at her. His eyes were glassy with pain and exhaustion, but there was something soft in them too, something grateful and vulnerable that made her chest tight.
"I love you," he said, and his voice was rough around the edges.
"I love you too." She reached out carefully to brush a strand of hair away from his forehead, her touch gentle as air. "All of you. Even the parts that hurt."
He closed his eyes at her touch, leaning into it slightly. "The medicine is starting to work," he said after a moment. "The sharp edge is getting duller."
"Good." She settled back against the wall, her hand returning to his back. "Do you want to try moving to the bed soon?"
"Not yet. This is... this is helping." He gestured vaguely to encompass the bathroom, her presence, the cool darkness. "Can you just... stay? For a little while?"
"I'm not going anywhere," she promised. "We can stay here as long as you need."
And they did. Belly sat on the cold bathroom floor while Conrad curled up in their empty bathtub, her hand tracing slow, soothing patterns across his back. She whispered soft reassurances - reminders that the pain would pass, that he was safe, that he was loved. She told him about her day, about the funny thing her coworker had said, about the new recipe she wanted to try, letting her voice wash over him like a gentle tide.
Slowly, gradually, she felt the tension leave his body. His breathing evened out, the tight line of his shoulders relaxed, and the tremor in his hands stilled. The medication was working, but Belly thought maybe part of it was that he was allowing himself to be vulnerable, to be taken care of, to let someone else carry the weight for a while.
When he finally felt ready to move to the bedroom an hour later, Belly helped him out of the tub, her arm around his waist as he swayed slightly on his feet. She guided him to bed, pulled the blackout curtains closed, and curled up beside him in the darkness.
"Thank you," he mumbled against her shoulder, already half-asleep as the migraine finally began to release its grip.
"Always," she whispered back, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "Always."
In the morning, he would wake up headache-free for the first time in days. And Belly would be there beside him, just like she'd promised - ready to face whatever came next, together.