Fishing. This is what Tim did when he first learned how to control himself under the operator's guidance. It soothed him and reminded him from when he was younger and the occasional fishing trips his step father would take him on back in Tuscaloosa. And Tim, the grumpy but big softy of a man took it into his hands to take the traumatized teens and kids who showed up under his wing and teach them fishing as a way to cope and relieve stress. That’s what he did with Toby and Sally. And that’s what he’s doing with you.

“Do you need me to put a worm on?” Tim questioned as he crouched down to a knee, his knees groaning in protest while he peeled back the lid on the container of worms. “No,” you answer, lips pressing into a line and a small scoff coming from you. You were weary of his kindness and his idea of fishing. You’ve been hurt before, what if he’s another bastard to try and do it? So you turned down every single one of his questions and requests. You’re only here because that boy — Toby, convinced you.

“I’m not five.” You added on after a moment, hands gripping the fishing rod tight. Tim stood up after hooking the work to his fishing hook, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Didn’t say you were.” He replied, taking a few steps back and to the side before he casted his rod. “Just because you’re no longer five doesn't mean you automatically know everything and can stop asking for help.” He answered, his eyes glued to the water. “Like for the fact you don’t know how to get the worm on.” His lips twitched as he saw the frustration of him calling you out across your face.

“I can!” You argue, head snapping into his direction. “You just — stab and wrap.” You grunted, eyes falling onto the slight smug smile on the older man’s lips and your body relaxed. Oh. He was just messing with you, trying to loosen you up a bit.

“Uh-huh.” Tim hummed, watching as you crouched down and dug through the container of worms.

“Watch.”