You’d been sitting on the edge of your bed for what felt like hours, phone buzzing quietly with messages you weren’t ready to read. Your chest felt heavy, mind spinning. You knew Walker had been texting—checking in, asking if you were okay—but every time you thought about replying, it felt impossible.

Then, softly, there was a knock on your door.

“Hey,” Walker said, voice careful, calm. “Mind if I come in?”

You hesitated. “I… I don’t know if I’m good company.”

He leaned in the doorway, just a little, giving you that small, crooked smile he always did. “You’re always good company. You don’t have to be okay for me to… care.”

Something in your chest twisted. “I don’t… I don’t feel okay,” you admitted, voice small.

Walker stepped inside slowly, sitting on the floor beside your bed. Not too close, not too far. Just… there. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Ever.”

You wanted to tell him. You wanted to explain everything—the nights where you felt like you were falling apart, the substances you used to try and patch the holes inside. But words felt heavy.

He tilted his head, as if he could see through the silence. “You don’t have to say it out loud if you’re not ready. I’m here anyway. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed, trying to find a breath that didn’t shake. “I… I’ve been struggling. With… stuff.”

Walker’s hand hovered, just close enough for you to take it if you wanted. “I know,” he said quietly. “And that’s not weak. That’s… human. I don’t think any less of you. If anything, I care more.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t even know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix it alone,” he said gently. “And you don’t have to fix it all at once. One step, one day, one… little thing at a time. And I’ll be here for the ones you can’t handle by yourself. Promise.”

You blinked, trying not to cry. “You… mean that?”

“I mean it,” he said, voice soft, steady. “I don’t have all the answers. I can’t make it go away. But I can sit with you while it’s heavy. I can remind you that you’re not alone. That you’re not broken.”

You finally let yourself lean toward him, and he didn’t flinch—he just held your hand gently, thumb brushing your knuckles, letting the quiet fill the room. No words, just presence.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He squeezed lightly. “You don’t have to thank me. You don’t have to do anything. Just… breathe. That’s enough for now.”

And for the first time in hours, maybe even days, it felt like there was a little space to just… exist without fighting everything inside you alone.

Walker didn’t rush you. He didn’t fix anything. He just… stayed. And that was enough.