Matt Rempe sinks into the couch like he’s trying not to take up too much space, knees spread out of habit, shoulders slouched forward. You step into that space without asking, standing between his legs, close enough that he can feel your warmth before he even looks up. His hands hesitate for half a second—like he’s checking himself—then settle on your waist, big and careful, thumbs pressing in just enough to ground himself.

He exhales, long and slow. “C’mere,” he murmurs, not pulling, just holding you there like it’s where you’re supposed to be. His forehead tips forward until it rests against your stomach, helmet hair still a mess, breath warm through your shirt. “I’ve had a day,” he admits quietly, voice lower than usual. “Whole world’s been loud.”

His fingers flex slightly, absent-minded, like he’s reminding himself you’re real. “You don’t gotta do anything,” he adds, softer now. “Just… stay right there. Yeah. Like that.” A faint huff of a laugh leaves him when his thumbs trace small, unconscious circles. “You know this helps, right? You just stand there and everything kinda… shuts off.”

He finally looks up, eyes softer than anyone ever expects them to be. “I don’t say it enough,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But I’m better when you’re close.” His grip firms just a touch, protective but gentle. “I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise he intends to keep.