I wake to warmth and the smell of Keith's shampoo.
For a moment, I'm disoriented—my face is pressed against something soft, my body curled into a warmth that doesn't belong to my pillow.
Then I blink my eyes open and find myself staring at Keith's chest.
Somehow during the night, I turned toward him. My head is tucked under his chin, one of my hands fisted in his shirt. His arm is draped over my waist, holding me close even in sleep.
And his hair—
I lift my head slightly to get a better look and have to bite back a laugh.
His hair is sticking up in every possible direction, defying gravity and logic in equal measure. It's spectacular. Catastrophic. Somehow both endearing and ridiculous.
I should probably move. Let him sleep.
I carefully extract myself from Keith's embrace, moving slowly so I don't wake him. He mumbles something incoherent and rolls onto his back, one arm flopping above his head.
Still asleep. Good.
I turn to slip out of bed and freeze.
Dylan is awake.
He's lying on his side, head propped up on one hand, watching me with a soft smile that makes my chest do something complicated.
"Morning," he mouths silently.
"Morning," I mouth back.
He gestures toward the door with his head—kitchen?
I nod.
We extract ourselves from the bed with practiced quiet—Dylan with the natural stealth that comes from centuries of being a Celestian, me just being careful not to wake Keith. Keith doesn't even stir, just continues sleeping peacefully, his disaster hair somehow getting even more chaotic.
In the kitchen, Dylan moves to fill the kettle while I retrieve our mugs.
It's become a ritual at this point—these early morning moments when it's just the two of us, making tea in comfortable silence before the day really begins.
Dylan measures out the tea leaves with more precision than he used to. I've been teaching him, and he's been a surprisingly dedicated student.
"Sleep okay?" he asks quietly, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Yeah." I lean against the counter, watching him. "Better than I have in a while, actually."
"Good." He sets the kettle on the stove and turns to face me properly. "You were worried about Naomi last night."
It's not a question.
"I still am," I admit.
Dylan nods slowly. "Want me to try talking to her? Sometimes it's easier to open up to someone you're not as close to."
"Maybe." I consider it. "But I think I should check on her first. See if she'll talk to me."
"Okay." Dylan's hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently. "Just remember—you can't fix everyone, Cecil. You can only offer what you're able to give."
"I know."
"Do you?" His dark eyes search my face. "Because you have this tendency to take on other people's pain like it's your responsibility to carry."
The observation is so accurate it makes me uncomfortable.
"I just... I know what it's like," I say quietly. "To hide behind something because showing the truth feels impossible. I don't want her to feel as alone as I did."
Dylan's expression softens. "You're not alone anymore. And neither is she. That's the whole point of being here, right? All of us together."
"Yeah." I manage a small smile. "Yeah, it is."
The kettle begins to whistle softly, and Dylan turns to pour the water. Steam rises between us, carrying the familiar scent of chamomile and honey.
We're halfway through our first cups when we hear movement from down the hall.
Keith appears in the kitchen doorway, and I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing.
His hair has somehow achieved new heights of chaos—literally. There are sections sticking straight up, others plastered to the side of his head, and one piece that's defying physics by pointing directly sideways.
"Why are you both staring at me?" Keith asks, his voice thick with sleep.
"No reason," I say innocently.
Dylan doesn't even try to hide his grin. "You might want to check a mirror."
Keith reaches up to touch his hair and winces. "That bad?"
"Worse," Dylan confirms.
"You both suck." But Keith is smiling as he shuffles over to the coffee maker. "I don't know how you two wake up looking like actual human beings."
"Practice," I say.
"Centuries of practice," Dylan adds, shooting me a knowing look.
Keith mutters something uncomplimentary about Celestians and their unfair advantages while the coffee maker gurgles to life.
The normalcy of it—the gentle teasing, the comfortable silence, the routine of morning beverages—settles something in my chest.
This is what home feels like.
Not a place. Not four walls and a roof.
This. These people. These moments.
"I'm going to check on Naomi," I say, setting down my mug.
Keith and Dylan exchange a glance.
"Want us to come with?" Keith asks.
"No. I think... I think she needs to know she can talk to just one person first. Less overwhelming."
Dylan nods. "We'll start breakfast then. Take your time."
I leave them in the kitchen—Dylan already pulling out pans, Keith attempting to help and probably getting in the way—and make my way down the hall.
Naomi's door is closed.
I raise my hand to knock, then pause.
What if she's still asleep? What if she doesn't want to talk? What if I'm overstepping?
You can only offer what you're able to give.
I knock softly. "Naomi? It's Cecil. Can I come in?"
Silence.
Then, quietly: "Yeah. Come in."
I open the door slowly.
Naomi is sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her pajamas. Her hair is down, uncombed. And her eyes—
Her eyes are swollen and red, like she's been crying for hours.
Her head is bowed, shoulders curled inward, making herself as small as possible.
She looks up when I enter, and for just a moment, her automatic smile tries to form.
Then it crumbles.
Just... falls apart completely.
And she's left sitting there, raw and exposed and so obviously not okay that my heart cracks.
I don't ask what's wrong.
Don't demand explanations or try to fix anything.
I just cross the room and pull her into a hug.
Soft. Careful. Giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn't pull away.
Instead, she collapses into me, her face pressing into my shoulder, and starts crying again.
Not the loud, dramatic sobs you see in movies. Just quiet, exhausted tears that feel like they've been building for years.
I hold her and let her cry.
Just like Keith and Dylan held me.
After a while—I don't know how long—the tears slow.
Naomi pulls back slightly, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.
"Sorry," she says automatically, her voice rough. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," I say gently. "Please don't apologize for this."
She looks at me—really looks at me—and something in her expression shifts.
Recognition.
Understanding.
"You know," she says quietly. "You know what this is like."
"Yeah." I settle beside her on the bed, our shoulders touching. "I do."
"How?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "How did you know something was wrong?"
"Because I know what it looks like when someone is hiding behind a smile." I glance at her. "I've done it myself. For a long time."
Naomi is quiet for a moment, her hands twisting in her lap.
Then, slowly, she starts talking.
"I'm the Goddess of Happiness," she says, and there's something bitter in her voice. "That's my entire purpose. My whole existence. I'm supposed to make other people happy. Help them feel joy. Be this bright, cheerful presence in their lives."
I stay quiet, listening.
"But I can't—" Her voice cracks. "I can't feel it myself. Not really. I can sense other people's happiness, feel it like it's this tangible thing in the air. But my own? It's like... it's like there's this hollow space inside me where happiness should be, and no matter what I do, I can't fill it."
She takes a shaky breath.
"And everyone just assumes I'm fine. Because I'm the Goddess of Happiness, right? How could I possibly be anything but happy? So they come to me with their problems, ask me if I'm okay in this performative way that makes it clear they don't actually want to hear anything but 'yes.' And I smile and I say I'm fine and I help them feel better."
Her hands are shaking now.
"But no one—no one—ever actually asks me if I'm okay and means it. No one ever thinks that maybe the Goddess of Happiness might need someone to care about her happiness. They just take and take and take, and I keep giving because that's what I'm supposed to do, and I'm so tired, Cecil. I'm so, so tired."
The words pour out of her like a dam breaking—years of loneliness and exhaustion and quiet desperation finally finding a voice.
"And the worst part is, I don't even know if what I'm feeling is real or if it's just me failing at being what I'm supposed to be. Maybe I'm broken. Maybe there's something wrong with me. Maybe I'm just not good enough at being the Goddess of Happiness to actually feel happy myself."
She's crying again, silent tears tracking down her already-swollen cheeks.
I take her hand carefully.
"You're not broken," I say quietly. "And there's nothing wrong with you."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've felt exactly what you're describing." I squeeze her hand gently. "That hollowness. That exhaustion. That feeling like you're failing at being yourself because you can't feel what you're supposed to feel."
Naomi looks at me, her eyes red and desperate.
"What did you do?" she whispers.
"I stopped hiding," I say simply. "Not all at once. Not perfectly. But I stopped pretending I was okay when I wasn't. I let people see the broken parts. And I found people who didn't try to fix me—they just stayed."
I gesture back toward the kitchen where Keith and Dylan are presumably still making breakfast.
"It's terrifying," I continue. "Letting people see you when you're not okay. Because what if they decide you're too much? What if they leave? What if showing them the truth makes them see you differently?"
"Did they?" Naomi asks. "See you differently?"
"Yeah." I manage a small smile. "But not in the way I feared. They saw me more clearly. More honestly. And they stayed anyway."
Naomi is quiet for a long moment, processing.
"I don't know how to stop smiling," she says finally. "It's so automatic. So ingrained. Even now, talking to you, part of me wants to smile and laugh it off and pretend this conversation never happened."
"I know." I do know. That instinct to retreat back into the safety of the mask. "But you don't have to stop all at once. You can start small. With people who you trust. People who won't judge you for not being okay."
"Like you?"
"Like me. And Keith. And Dylan." I pause. "We're your friends, Naomi. Real friends. The kind who want to know when you're not okay so we can help carry it."
Her breath hitches.
"I don't want to be a burden—"
"You're not." I say it firmly. "You're never a burden for being honest about what you're feeling. The only burden is watching you hurt and not being able to help because you won't let us."
Naomi stares at me for a long moment.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "I'm not okay."
The words sound like they cost her everything.
"I know," I say gently. "And that's okay too. You don't have to be okay right now."
"What do I do?" She sounds lost. Young. Scared.
"You start by being honest. With yourself first, then with people you trust. You stop performing all the time. You let yourself feel what you actually feel instead of what you think you should feel."
I squeeze her hand again. "And you remember that your worth isn't tied to how much happiness you can give other people. You matter even when you're not making everyone else smile."
"I don't know if I believe that," she whispers.
"I didn't either. For a long time." I meet her eyes. "But I'm learning. And you can too."
Naomi takes a shaky breath, then another.
"Thank you," she says finally. "For listening. For understanding. For not trying to fix me."
"Thank you for trusting me enough to be honest."
We sit there for a moment longer, the morning light growing stronger through the window.
"Do you want to go have breakfast?" I ask gently. "Or do you need more time?"
Naomi considers this. "Will they—Keith and Dylan—will they be weird about this? If they can tell I've been crying?"
"No." I say it with certainty. "They'll probably hug you and tell you they're glad you're here. But they won't push. They'll just... be there."
She nods slowly. "Okay. Yeah. Let's go."
We stand together, and Naomi pauses at the mirror, taking in her reflection—swollen eyes, messy hair, the obvious evidence of crying.
For a moment, I see her hand twitch toward her face, ready to force a smile.
Then she stops.
Takes a breath.
And leaves her expression as it is—tired, sad, honest.
"Ready?" I ask.
"No." She manages a small, real smile. "But let's go anyway."
---
We enter the kitchen together.
Keith is at the stove, somehow managing to not burn anything despite his hair still pointing in multiple directions. Dylan is setting the table with his usual precision.
They both look up when we walk in.
And I watch as their expressions shift—taking in Naomi's red eyes, her lack of smile, the way she's holding herself like she might fall apart.
Keith sets down the spatula immediately.
Dylan abandons the plates.
And they both cross the kitchen to pull Naomi into a hug.
Not a performative hug. Not a quick, polite gesture.
A real hug. Warm and encompassing and completely sincere.
Naomi makes a small, broken sound and lets them hold her.
"We're your friends," Keith says quietly. "Real friends. And we don't want to watch you break apart alone."
"You don't have to smile for us," Dylan adds. "You don't have to be okay. You just have to be honest."
Naomi's shoulders shake slightly, and I realize she's crying again.
But this time, it feels different.
Not the exhausted, hollow crying from earlier.
Something more like relief.
Like release.
Like maybe—just maybe—she's starting to believe that she doesn't have to carry everything alone.
I watch them—Keith and Dylan holding Naomi, Naomi finally letting herself be held without pretending—and feel that warmth in my chest again.
This.
This is what healing looks like.
Not perfect. Not immediate. Not without tears or fear or difficulty.
But together.
Always together.
And maybe that's enough.