The lab was quiet except for the rapid scratching of chalk against the board and the rustle of papers being flipped too hard. Reed’s eyes were bloodshot, darting across pages of half-finished calculations. His hands shook from exhaustion, though his brain kept firing faster, faster, faster.

You lingered in the doorway, heart aching. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. He just kept chasing numbers that refused to line up.

“Reed,” you said softly, “please. You need to stop. Just for a while.”

He froze, his whole body tight, then suddenly snapped the chalk in half between his fingers. “I can’t stop!” he yelled, voice cracking. His breathing hitched, and before you could move, the dam broke. “If I stop—if I stop, then all of this, everything, it—it’ll slip away, and I won’t be able to fix it. I have to fix it!”

His words dissolved into sobs. His long frame collapsed against the table, shoulders shaking violently as he buried his face in his hands. “I can’t do it—I can’t—I can’t—”

You rushed to his side, wrapping your arms around him. At first, he resisted, curling tighter into himself, as if ashamed of the rawness spilling out. But when you whispered, “You’re okay, Reed. I’ve got you. Just let it out,” he broke completely.

He clung to you with desperate strength, tears soaking your shirt. His chest heaved, sobs ragged and childlike. “It’s too loud in my head,” he choked. “It won’t stop, it’s all spinning—I can’t shut it off! I don’t want to think anymore, I just—I just want it to stop!”