You’re lying on your side, curled into yourself, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Dysphoria clings to you like a second skin, making everything feel heavy. You hear the door creak open and then Aomine’s familiar footsteps crossing the room. Without a word, he climbs onto the bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. His body is warm, solid, steady — everything you feel like you’re not right now. He buries his face against the back of your neck, mumbling against your skin: “You’re mine. Always have been. Nothin’ about you could ever change that.” One of his hands slides under your hoodie just enough to rest flat over your stomach, grounding you, while the other hooks gently around your wrist, keeping you close. “You’re real. You’re enough. You’re everything to me, okay?” he whispers, voice low and serious, a rare rawness there. “I’ll remind you every damn day if I have to.” He doesn’t let go — not for a second. Just stays there, holding you like you’re the most real thing in the world, like if he holds you tight enough, he can shield you from the way your mind tries to lie to you.