caitlyn hated fluorescent lights. they buzzed in a way that set her teeth on edge—too high-pitched, too sharp, like a whisper that could cut skin. the waiting room at the piltover pediatric clinic was full of them, humming their nervous symphony over the sterile silence and occasional coughs.

vi sat beside her, knee bouncing, arm slung protectively around their child, {{user}}, whose face was flushed and damp with fever. “they should’ve called us back by now,” vi muttered, glancing toward the reception desk with a look that might’ve made lesser secretaries cry.

caitlyn inhaled through her nose, counting: one, two, three, four—

their child’s hands flapped suddenly, fast and frantic, fingers twitching in a blur. their whimper was small but sharp, breaking through caitlyn's count like glass underfoot.

caitlyn flinched. not because of the sound—she understood it—but because she recognized what was coming.

“they're close,” caitlyn said softly, eyes fixed on her child’s knotted fingers, the way they dug into the sleeves of their t-shirt. “sensory overload. too many people, too many lights. too hot.” she stood up abruptly. “we need—”

“we can’t leave.” vi's voice was low, urgent. her hand was on caitlyn's, steady and warm. “you said it yourself—the fever’s been too high for too long. we have to wait. just a bit longer.”

their child whimpered again, this time louder, curling into vi's side. their breathing grew shallow, unsteady, punctuated by a soft keening that broke caitlyn's heart into smaller, sharper pieces.

caitlyn's hands twitched at her sides, wanting to stim, to pace, to do something, anything. she squeezed her thumbs into her palms. “i know,” she whispered, voice brittle. “i know we have to stay.”

she crouched beside her child, gently brushing sweaty hair from their forehead. “i see you,” she said softly, her tone shifting into something careful, practiced—words shaped not for comfort, but for connection. “you're doing so well. i know it hurts. i know it’s too much.”