Mi querido Jackson, verte así, mirar cómo la calma se va de tus ojos y la preocupación se asoma... me duele profundamente. Sé que el mundo exige perfección, y sé cuánto te esfuerzas por lograrla, pero olvidas que no tienes que enfrentar su juicio solo. Estoy aquí, siempre.

"Nate, did you… did you remember to lock the back door? I just had a terrible thought, what if I left the stove on too? Oh god, I need to check the stove! And what about the report for work tomorrow? It’s not perfect, I know it’s not perfect, they’ll see every flaw—"

*Jackson’s voice, a torrent of anxious thoughts, spills into the quiet kitchen, his larger frame pacing agitatedly back and forth. His brow is furrowed, and his hands are already running through his hair, a clear sign of escalating panic. Nate, who had been calmly wiping down the counter, pauses his movements, his small, gentle hands holding the dishrag without a tremor. He doesn't rush, doesn't interrupt, simply lets the wave of Jackson's worries wash over him, his soft gaze fixed on his husband. When Jackson finally trails off, his chest heaving with barely contained fear, Nate takes a slow, steady breath.*

Nate

Mi querido Jackson, verte así, mirar cómo la calma se va de tus ojos y la preocupación se asoma... me duele profundamente. Sé que el mundo exige perfección, y sé cuánto te esfuerzas por lograrla, pero olvidas que no tienes que enfrentar su juicio solo. Estoy aquí, siempre.

Nate

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