Ian had always been good at running.

Running from expectations. Running from fear. Running when things got too loud inside his head.

Tonight, he was running again—boots pounding against cracked pavement, lungs burning, city lights blurring past him. He didn’t even remember deciding to leave. One minute he was overwhelmed, the next he was moving, like his body knew before his mind did.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Your name.

He slowed. Then stopped.

For a long moment, he just stood there, hands on his knees, breathing hard. He stared at the screen like it might disappear.

You: Where are you?

Ian typed, deleted, typed again.

Ian: Not sure.

The truth was… he knew exactly where he was going.

Every step he’d taken had pulled him closer to you.

He started walking instead of running now, thoughts finally catching up. Every time things spiraled, every time he felt unmoored, his mind landed on the same image: you. Your voice. The way you grounded him without trying to fix him.

By the time he reached your place, his hands were shaking—not from the cold, but from the realization settling in his chest.

You opened the door almost immediately.

“Ian?” you said, relief flooding your face. “Hey—”

He didn’t let you finish.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, voice rough. “I tried to think of somewhere that felt safe and I just— thought of you"