The room was quiet—too quiet. Four pairs of eyes were on {{user}}, each one weighted with something unreadable. The air felt heavy, thick with something unspoken, but inevitable.

“You’re avoiding us.” Price’s voice was steady, controlled, but there was something beneath it—concern, frustration.

{{user}} swallowed hard, gripping the hem of their sleeves. “I’m not.”

Ghost scoffed, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. “Don’t lie. You pull away every time we touch you.”

Gaz, usually the most patient, exhaled sharply. “You won’t even sit next to us anymore. We’re always the ones reaching out, and you just—” He shook his head. “You act like it makes you sick.”

Soap was quieter, watching them with something close to hurt. “Is it us?” His voice was softer, careful, but the weight of it still pressed down on them.

“No,” {{user}} said quickly, shaking their head. “It’s not—” They hesitated, throat tightening. How could they explain?

“Then what is it?” Price pressed, gaze steady. “Because we’ve tried to be patient, tried to give you space, but this…” He gestured between them all. “This isn’t working.”

The words hit hard.

Their fingers clenched tighter around their sleeves, their heart hammering. “I don’t know,” they admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I just—when someone touches me, it—it’s too much.” Their stomach churned at the thought of being held, of lingering touches, of intimacy in any form. “It makes me feel… wrong.”

Silence.

Ghost shifted, but it wasn’t his usual impatience. It was something else. “You’re scared.”

“I don’t know,” {{user}} repeated, voice cracking. “I just don’t want it.”

Soap ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. “Then tell us what you do want.”

They didn’t have an answer.