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Dan sat at his desk, elbows on his knees, laptop angled just enough to catch his face. His hands were loosely clasped, as he searched for the right words. He’d been circling the same thought for weeks now, picking at it without fully saying it out loud.
“I think…” he started, then stopped. He let out a small breath, glancing briefly at his own reflection in the corner of the screen before looking back at his therapist. “I think I only really know how to love people by taking care of them.”
On the screen, his therapist tilted their head slightly. “Hm.” They sit back slightly. “I mean, it sounds like it’s been a very important way for you to connect.”
“Yeah.” Dan gave a short, almost self-conscious laugh. “Important, or… necessary.” He rubbed at his hands. “With Phil, it’s pretty much constant. I’m always doing something. Making things easier for him, anticipating what he needs. And I like it–I really like it. But sometimes I wonder if it’s… I don’t know. If it started for the wrong reasons.”
“What makes you think that?”
Dan hesitated, then leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting just off-screen to their assorted knick-knacks on their shelf in the office. “Growing up, everything was… unstable. Loud. Someone always needed something, and it was usually my job to fix it, or smooth it over, or just–handle it, I guess.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And if I didn’t, things got worse.”
“Hm. I guess you learned to pay close attention then.”
“Yeah. Hyper-aware, for sure.” He nodded. “And then with the bullying, and… everything else…” He trailed off, swallowing. “It just felt safer to focus on other people.” He began pulling at a thread in his shorts. “If I was useful, if I was needed, then… I had a place. I wasn’t just…” He shrugged, the motion small in the frame. “A problem.”
His therapist let a moment pass before speaking, their voice steady through the speakers. “Do you still feel like that?”
Dan’s expression softened immediately, something warmer settling into his features. “No.” He sighed. “When I met Phil, he was… different. Easy. He didn’t need me to fix anything. He just wanted me around.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “But I still did it. The caretaking.” He ripped the loose thread on his shorts and began winding it around his finger. “I think I didn’t know any other way to exist in a relationship.”
“Did it feel the same as it did growing up?”
Dan considered that, eyes flickering down briefly before returning to the screen. “At first… yeah. A little.” He nodded slowly. I think I hid behind it. If I kept the focus on him, I didn’t have to deal with my own stuff. And in… certain parts of our relationship, it made me feel more in control. Less exposed.” He exhaled. He reached for his water bottle and unscrewed the lid. “But it didn’t stay like that.”
“What changed?”
He took a long sip, considering. “He stayed,” Dan said simply.
The words hung in the space between them, carried through a pair of speakers and a webcam.
“He saw all of it,” Dan continued, quieter now. “The depression, the anxiety, the guilt, everything. And he never made it feel I was too much. Never pulled away.” He shook his head slightly, like he couldn't quite believe it. “Over time, it stopped feeling like I had to earn my place. I just… had one.”
The therapist smiled gently. “So did something shift?”
“Yeah.” Dan’s voice softened. “It’s not about proving anything anymore. Or hiding. I just… love him. And, yeah, this is how it comes out.”
There was a pause, the faint flicker of the connection barely noticeable.
“But,” Dan added, a hint of frustration creeping in, “I don’t think he knows how much it means to me. Or–he knows, but I don’t think he understands the depth of it.”
“Do you want him to know?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“What makes it hard to tell him?”
Dan let out a breath, leaning back again, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “Because it feels like too much. Like if I actually tried to say all of it out loud, I’d either choke on it, or it would sound disingenuous, or I’d overwhelm him with it.” He huffs a quiet laugh, scratching his head.
They nod. “What if you didn’t have to say it out loud?”
Dan frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a writer. You’re thoughtful, you take your time with things. What would it be like to write it down instead?”
Dan was quiet for a long moment, eyes lingering on the screen.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
***
Later that night, Dan sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand and blank page in front of him. He knew he didn’t have the best handwriting but he knew that Phil could read it. The house was dim, Phil already asleep down the hall.
He stared at the page for a while before he began to write.
***
For as long as I can remember—really, for as long as we’ve known each other—I’ve always been good at one thing: taking care of you.
It shows up in quiet, consistent ways. Coffee steeped exactly how you like it every morning. Your favourite snacks appearing in the cabinet without me saying a word. Compliments I don’t even think about before they leave my mouth, because they’re just true. Kisses pressed into your skin before either of us is fully awake.
I’ve learned you. The way your moods shift, the small tells in your body, when you need comfort, when you need space, when a hand on your shoulder will ease the tension building in you. I pay attention. I always have.
If I’m being honest, it grounds me. Especially on the hard days. When my mind feels heavy or far away, when everything blurs or slips out of reach, there’s still this one constant: I can make you feel good. Sometimes that’s enough to pull me back. Sometimes it’s everything. Loving you feels instinctive—like breathing. The one thing my body knows how to do, no matter what.
In the beginning, I don’t think it was that simple. Taking care of you was also a shield. If the focus stayed on you, it stayed off me—off my fears, my insecurities, my past. Control made things feel safer. It helped me navigate parts of myself I wasn’t ready to face yet. It was protection, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.
But that changed. You changed it.
With your patience, your steadiness, and the way you’ve always stayed—you helped me let go of that need to hide. You’ve seen all of me, and you’ve never once made me feel like I was too much. You never stepped away.
Somewhere along the way, things shifted. It stopped being about protecting myself. It became something clearer.
Now, when I reach for you—when I take care of you in all the small, familiar ways—it comes from a place that feels steady. Whole.
I do it because after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve grown through, there’s nothing that matters to me more than seeing you happy.
I do it because I love you.
***
Morning light filtered through the curtains. Phil stirred slowly, one arm stretching across the empty space beside him before his eyes even opened.
His hand brushed paper.
He blinked awake, turning his head. On his bedside table sat a folded letter, his glasses resting neatly on top of it. A small sticky note was pressed to the front.
morning, gone for a walk, please read ♡ - D Slice
Phil’s brow furrowed, still heavy with sleep. He reached for his glasses first, slipping them on, then picked up the letter.
For a moment, he just held it.
Then he unfolded it.
***
By the time he reached the middle, his chest had started to tighten.
By the end, he was crying.
Quietly at first—just a few tears slipping down into the sheets—but it didn’t stay quiet for long. His breathing hitched, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as if that might somehow contain it, as if the weight of it could be softened if he just held it in.
It didn’t work.
Sixteen years.
Sixteen years of knowing this man, loving him, building a life with him—and still, somehow, there were depths to him that caught Phil off guard like this. Not because Dan had hidden them, but because he carried them so gently, so quietly, that you almost forgot how heavy they must have been.
Phil pressed the letter to his chest, eyes squeezed shut behind his glasses.
“God,” he whispered to no one, voice breaking.
***
The front door clicked.
Dan stepped inside, shaking a bit of the morning dew from his jacket, quietly closing the door behind him so he wouldn’t wake Phil if he was still asleep. He toed off his shoes, leaning down to—
He barely had time to register the sound of quick footsteps before—
“Woah—!”
Phil collided into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, nearly knocking him off balance.
Dan let out a surprised laugh, instinctively catching him. “Hey—hey—”
Phil buried his face into his neck, holding on tight.
Dan huffed out a small chuckle, one hand coming up to steady him. “I know, strange way to wake up,” he said lightly, trying to peel him off just enough to look at him. “You’re gonna have to give me a second to—”
Phil only held tighter.
Dan paused, the humour in his expression softening into something more concerned. “Hey—woah, woah.” He shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to try and see his face. “You okay?”
Phil sniffled, then slowly loosened his grip, just enough to pull back.
His eyes were red, his cheeks damp, glasses slightly crooked on his face.
Dan’s stomach dropped.
“Was it too much?” he asked, voice quieter now, searching his face.
Phil shook his head quickly, breath hitching again as another tear slipped free. “Never,” he managed, voice thick. “Never.”
And then he was pulling him back in again, just as tight.
Dan let out a soft breath, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, pressing a kiss into his hair.
This time, he didn’t try to pull away.