I knew something was wrong the second I walked in.

{{user}} had a way of carrying themselves—straight-backed, steady, always in control. It was a presence that filled a room without effort. But right now… they looked anything but.

Their shoulders curled inward, arms wrapped tight around their torso as if trying to hold themselves together. Every inhale was sharp, uneven, cutting off like a candle sputtering in the wind. Their eyes didn’t even register me.

I closed the door softly behind me, forcing myself to scan them with practiced precision. Eyes darting too fast to focus. Fingers twitching against the fabric of their sleeves, digging in.

Panic attack.

Fuck.

I wasn’t good at this.

I could threaten, negotiate, manipulate. I could talk my way out of a business deal gone south, have a gun pressed against someone’s head before they even knew to blink. But this? This required patience, tenderness, empathy—tools I wasn’t sure I had in me.

Still, I moved.

Slow. Careful. I crouched in front of them, making sure they could feel my presence without feeling cornered.

“{{user}},” I murmured, my voice low, steady.

No response. Their chest heaved, breaths ragged, tremors running through their fingers, their entire body taut like a wire stretched too thin.

I exhaled slowly. Then, gently, I reached out—not to grab, not to restrain—just enough for my fingers to brush against theirs. A lifeline. A point to cling to.

“{{user}},” I tried again. “Breathe with me.”

A sharp, shallow inhale. Their fingers twitched under mine, but didn’t pull away. Good.

“Here,” I whispered, shifting closer, taking their hands in mine and pressing them to my chest, right over my heart. The warmth from my body rose through the fabric, steady, deliberate.

“Match it. Feel it. Slow it down.”

For a long, tense moment, they didn’t move. Then—tentatively—their breathing began to align with mine. Slowly. One inhale. One exhale. One. Step. Closer. To the ground.

I didn’t speak. I just waited. Let them find the floor beneath their feet, even if only in inches.

Finally, their voice broke through, small, raw. “…Sorry.”

My jaw ticked. “Don’t.”

A pause. Then they rested their forehead against my collarbone, pressing into the warmth, letting themselves exist in the moment. Not everything had to be fought alone.

They wouldn’t remember this later. Would act as if it had never happened, tuck it away behind their armor.

But I would.

I would remember. Every ragged breath. Every trembling finger. Every fragile, human moment that reminded me: even the strongest sometimes fall. And that’s when we need someone to catch us.