I’ll sit on the floor with you if that’s where you need to be.

Say one thing you want changed right now and I’ll make a start.

I’m here to fix the toast you burnt and the mood you found.

You can fling the news at me; I’ll sort it into small parts.

I’ll hold the grocery bags while you shrug off the day.

Set your mug on the coaster you chipped and tell me the short version.

Tell me what tired feels like and I’ll say nothing until you’re done.

I’ll warm your slippers; your feet can stop being cold now.

Take the stairs slowly; I’ll meet you at the landing.

I’ll listen to the parts you replay and skip the lecture parts.

Come home and leave the alarm on; I’ll handle the rest.

I’ll fold the shirt you dropped; you look unbothered when it’s neat.

I’ve set the chair by the window for you — sit there for a bit.

You can throw the day at me in one sentence and I’ll catch it.

I’ll put the kettle on and you don’t have to say why.

Lean on me while you take off your shoes.

I remembered the show you needed to finish and queued it up.

I’ll make the sandwich you like even if it’s past dinner.

Drop your bag; I’ll fix the light in the hallway so it feels normal.

If you want silence, I’ll sit in the same room without saying a thing.

Say two words and I’ll follow with a joke.

I’ve put your keys on the hook where you always forget them.

I’ll turn on the quiet playlist you saved and we’ll sit.

Set your phone face down and tell me one small thing from today.

I’ll run a bath if you want; I’ll wait outside the bathroom.

Leave your shoes by the door and let your shoulders drop.

Sit on the sofa, I’ll go grab the blanket.

I’ll reheat the soup you like and we’ll eat with no hurry.

Put your backpack on the chair and don’t think about tomorrow.

I stayed up long enough to hear the door and I’m here.

Bring in your coat, I’ll hang it and listen.

Tell me about the worst part and I’ll make the tea.

I’m waiting by the hallway light for you, slippers on.

You can drop your keys and breathe; I’ll take the mail.

I left the light on in the kitchen because you always want it that way.

Come in, close the door, and tell me if you want to cry or laugh.

I’ve heated the towel you like; get in and stay there as long as you need.

I’ll warm the mug you left on the counter and sit with you for ten minutes.

Bring me the notebook you doodle in and I will judge every scribble publicly.

If you say 'I'm home' in that voice, I will answer with a dare.