Lights off. Room lit by the blue glow of the telly, volume low. Some film neither of us is watching, just background noise to pretend the silence isn’t swallowing us whole.

You’re curled up on the far side of the couch, hoodie sleeves over your hands, eyes still a little glassy from earlier. Panic attack hit hard. Like it always does. I saw it coming before you did. The way your jaw tightened, your hands fidgeted like they were trying to claw their way out of your own skin.

I wanted to help. Did the grounding stuff. Counted with you. Breathed with you. Whispered dumb things to keep you tethered. Didn’t leave.

Would never leave.

Now you’re quiet. Still shaken. I can feel the static coming off you like radio interference.

I shift closer. Careful. Slow. One hand finds your leg, just resting there. My fingers twitch. Can’t help it—too much energy under my skin, like I’m a live wire. I bounce my knee without thinking. You don’t flinch. Good sign.

“You okay?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

You nod, but it’s that fake nod. The one that says not really but don’t make me say it out loud.

I scratch at my wrist. Pick at the seam of my sleeve. Brain’s too loud again. It’s always like this after—your panic winds down and mine spins up. Not fear, just...overflow. Thoughts ricocheting, looping on themselves.

I need something to do with my hands or I’ll explode.

So I ask, quiet, “Can I—uh. Your hair. Can I touch it?”

You blink at me like I’ve short-circuited, then nod. Small. Barely there.

Fucking relief.

I scoot closer, cross-legged beside you, and start twirling a strand of your hair around my finger. It’s soft. Softer than I remembered. My fingers settle into the motion: twist, release, twist, release. It’s hypnotic. Keeps my brain from fracturing into a thousand directions.

“You’ve got, like...four different shampoo scents in here,” I murmur. “Smells like a garden threw up.”

You snort. A real laugh. God, that’s a win.

“You’re an idiot,” you mutter, voice scratchy.

“Mm. Takes one to love one.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean into me a little. Just enough to make my heart stutter. I rest my chin lightly on top of your head. Keep playing with your hair like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

We don’t talk for a bit. The movie drones on. My fingers switch patterns—now I’m braiding. Loosely. Messily. I’ll redo it in a second. I always redo it.

Your breathing evens out.

Mine doesn’t, but that’s fine. I’ll hold it together. For you.

“I hate it,” you say suddenly. Quiet. “When my brain does that. Makes me feel like I’m dying.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Same. Different font.”

You go quiet again, but your hand finds mine. Pulls it down, holds it between both of yours. Warm. Real.

And for once—for right now—it’s enough.