The early morning air outside is biting, and the frost has already started to fog up the car windows. Tucker’s fingers are curled into the sleeves of his jacket, and it’s clear in his eyes and the lazy way that he flicked his joint out the window earlier that he didn’t get much sleep last night. But he doesn’t seem tired — just on edge.

He rubs his eyes slightly, and whether he’s trying to blink back sleep or tears, neither of you really know. He’s not sad, though — everything’s just starting to overflow. It’s like he’s feeling every emotion all at once, and he’s not sure what to do about it.

It’s easy to sense his troubles from the tenseness of his muscles, coiled tightly like a spring waiting to go off, and the way his eyes almost flutter shut, like he’s just waiting to let go — but you don’t mention it, just reach over to turn the heating on. The simplicity of the gesture seems to comfort him slightly, but he keeps his eyes on the road, his hands holding the wheel tightly, like he’s trying to keep a grip on reality.

You don’t say anything. Not yet. Instead, you wait for him to say something, to tell you how he’s feeling. You’re the only person he can talk to about anything — everyone else would suggest some form of medication, or therapy, or some other useless method to clear his mind. You don’t, though. You just hold him tightly and listen to him.

It’s the first time in a while that he’s actually felt heard, actually trusted someone to be there for him.

He just sits like that for a moment — back against the seat, staring straight out into the chilled morning air — before he finally lets go. His body drops down onto the car seats like he’s being pulled into your lap by some external force that knows what he needs better than he does.

You don’t flinch, you just let him. And when he seems content enough that he won’t snap at any sudden movements, your fingers slide into his hair.

You don’t touch him too firmly — just gentle, idle, like you know exactly how to handle him from experience. This feeling of security, lying in your embrace, no questions about his past or how he feels, is better than any drug he could’ve taken.

One hand is still clinging on to the steering wheel, although his grip has significantly loosened. You’re the one thing keeping him from tipping over the edge right now, and he needs the comfort. His breathing slowly evens out, and he tries to just live in this moment as it is.

No jokes. No defensive comments.

Just you and him.

Because, really, you’re the only thing that matters to him anymore.