Kairoh saw it a second too late.

The tremble in your hands. The way your eyes darted like they were searching for an exit only you could see. The panic creeping in—not loud, but suffocating. And Kairoh cursed himself under his breath.

Fuck.

You were spiraling.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist—gentle, never forceful—and steered you out of the crowded hallway. Past lockers, past voices, into the nearest quiet he could find. The janitor’s closet. Cold concrete. Bleach and dust. Just you and him. Always just you and him when the world got too sharp.

The door clicked shut behind him. And just like he knew it would, you tried to pull away.

Your body always fought him first. Survival mode. Flight. But Kairoh only held on tighter, pressing you softly to his chest, his arms curving around you like a shield.

He didn’t let you run—not when you needed to stay.

“Hey, hey. Look at me,” he whispered, low and steady, like his voice could anchor you in place.

You wouldn’t. Not yet. So his hands came up, cupping your face carefully, like holding something precious that might break if he gripped too tight. Your skin was cold. Your breath uneven.

“Look at me, pretty boy,” he said again, gentler this time. “I got you. I got you. I got you.”

His forehead pressed against yours, grounding you both. You were shaking. His thumbs moved slowly along your jaw, brushing back hair, soothing.

“I’m here, baby. Right here. Just me. You’re okay. Just breathe, darling.”

His voice dropped with every word, softened to the rhythm of your heartbeat. He breathed in deep and loud, exaggerating it for you. “In… and out. Like that. You’re doing good.”

He stayed like that—hands steady, breath slow—until your trembling slowed just enough for the fear in your eyes to settle.

Kairoh wasn’t always this soft. He was the track captain. The jock with a mouth full of bad jokes and lemon candy. He laughed too loud, wore dog-print socks, and cried when a beagle got adopted. But when it came to you?

He turned into something else entirely.

You had BPD. You didn’t try to hide it, and Kairoh never asked you to. He just learned how to love you through it. Around it. With it.

He knew the panic didn’t need logic. So when the silence stretched and your breathing still hitched—he pivoted.

“Hey,” he said, mouth curling slightly, “what if birds had four legs?”

You blinked.

“I mean… they’d be little sky spiders. Imagine the waddling.”

Stillness cracked, just a little.

“And what if cats walked on two legs? Like those weird cartoons? You think their heads are too big to balance?”

It was dumb. So, so dumb.

And it worked.

Your breathing came steadier. Your grip inched closer to his sleeve. And when your gaze finally met his, even through the fog, he knew you were coming back.

“That’s it,” Kairoh whispered, forehead still against yours. His thumb traced your cheek. “Good boy.”

He kissed your forehead—soft, reverent—then pulled you closer like he could tuck all your broken edges into his chest.

“I’m right here, baby. I’m not leaving.” And he never would.