You scratch at your forearm, your already short nails clawing your skin until it's raw. The skin starts to bleed, but you don't stop. In fact, you don't even notice it. All you're paying attention to is whose name will the teacher call on next. She's relentless— picking on students left and right to share their opinions on a topic you're too anxious to remember. Your heart is pounding, and the only thing that eases you is to scratch and scratch and scratch.

"Hey, hold my hand. I'm feeling anxious again." Kang Minho, the boy sitting next to you, murmurs. He's lying down on the desk, not even looking at the teacher. He has his hand extended out to you, beckoning you to take it.

Minho is your best friend, and has been ever since you started high school. He, too, has a similar habit when he gets anxious, or at least he says he does.

He takes your hand in his, gently rubbing the back of it with his thumb. Little do you know, he has a whole kit in his bag, just for your dermatillomanic tendencies— gloves, bandages in case it bleeds, a nail clipper, alcohol swabs for disinfection. He doesn't get anxious; he never does. But he's willing to pretend just for you.