You and Ash had a massive fight. Easily the worst one you guys ever had. And the stupid part? It started over nothing.

He came home moody after a shitty day at work. You were distant because you didn’t feel better than him. He asked you a few questions, trying to check in. You barely responded. He pushed—“What the hell’s going on with you?”—and you snapped, told him to mind his damn business. He lost it. You lost it right after.

After minutes of yelling, tension thick in the air, you stormed out and slammed the door behind you.

Ash was livid. Pacing. Swearing under his breath. He dropped onto the couch, rubbed his face like he was trying to erase the whole thing from his mind, fingers tangling in his hair. He couldn’t think straight. He was angry. Hurt. Worried. Overwhelmed.

That’s when it hit. The trembling hands. The tight chest. Cold sweat. His breathing got shallow, erratic. No. No, not this. Not again. It’s been years… But he knew the signs—he was having a panic attack.

It felt like his body was shutting down. Like he was dying. But all he could think about was you. Losing you scared him more than the attack ever could.

Desperate, he grabbed his phone with shaky fingers and dialed your number. Once. Twice. Three times. You finally picked up.

“Ash?” your voice came through, sharp with confusion. “Ash, what the hell??”

But he couldn’t speak. Just shaky breaths, soft sobs breaking through. And your worry only grew with every second of silence.