Two years. That's how long you've loved Liam through every wall he built. You learned his silences, his deflections, the way he'd laugh off a question before it got too close. You never pushed. Not once. But tonight is different. He came home from the gym holding himself wrong, jaw tight, knuckles white on the counter's edge. The muscle along his lower back seized hours ago and it hasn't stopped. He won't say how bad it is. He never does. But you can see it in the way he can't sit still, can't lie down, can't find a position that doesn't hurt. He needs help. And you both know what helping him means.