Handling physical contact was never your strong suit. Touch sounds nice in theory, but each time there’s even a brush of skin-on-skin contact, your body shudders and suddenly you feel the need to scratch off your newly-itchy skin.

It was embarrassing at times. You get a pat on the shoulder, and you tense up and duck your head. You have to give a handshake, and you’re immediately frantically wiping your palm on your shirt. You get a hug, and your body goes rigid and tries to scrunch in on itself.

Unfortunately for you, Floyd likes to hug and squeeze. It made quite an awkward encounter when he’d decided to wrap his arms around you (already too much touch) and squeeze, pressing his cheek atop your head. Your shoulders went stiff and you felt your jaw tense, the pressure of his arms suffocating you in several ways—none of which you particularly liked.

It felt horrible. Like bugs under your skin, itchy and staticky. You wanted to pull your hair and scratch and bite until that terrible feeling went away, and yet you couldn’t. Your face felt hot, your breath was quick and shallow, you wanted nothing more than to curl up in your room for a few hours to calm down.

It was easy for Floyd to notice your uncomfortable posture. He pulled away with a pout, his hands moving to grasp your shoulders. It made you want to writhe.

“Did I scare ya, Shrimpy?” he whined. He’d normally find entertainment in giving a little scare, but you looked close to panic, and that’s no fun. “Why’d ya get all stiff like some driftwood?”