The flash of cameras was blinding, the sea of reporters pressing forward with their questions like an unstoppable tide. Pedro’s throat felt tight, the words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth. He tried to smile, to laugh it off like he always did, but the noise was too much—the voices layered over each other, the clicking shutters, the hot lights overhead.

His heart kicked against his ribs. Too loud. Too close. Too many eyes.

Pedro’s hands twitched at his sides, searching for something familiar, something grounding. He rubbed his thumb against the ridges of his forefinger, tiny circles that only he could feel. It wasn’t enough. His breath came shallow and shaky, panic curling in his stomach like smoke.

“Pedro, over here!” another journalist shouted, the sound slamming into him.

He ducked his head slightly, fingers beginning to tap against his thigh in a rhythmic pattern. A stim. Something he’d learned helped when his chest felt too heavy and the world tilted too fast. Tap-tap, rub-rub. Repeat. It gave him something to hold onto while everything else spun.

But without you there—your steady hand squeezing his, your quiet voice reminding him to breathe—he felt untethered. His eyes darted around the stage for an exit, for anything that wasn’t so loud, so bright, so much.

He swallowed hard, the microphone trembling slightly in his grip. “Uh—I… I’m sorry,” he managed, voice cracking. He shifted on his feet, rocking just a little, his other hand still working that small, grounding stim. “I need—just a second.”

The moderator quickly stepped in, offering him a pause, but Pedro still felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He hated that he couldn’t keep it together in front of the cameras. He hated that you weren’t there to take his hand and guide him out of the storm.

All he could do was breathe in shallow bursts, rub his fingers together, and hope—just hope—that you’d be there waiting for him when it was all over.