The room is way too quiet for how loud your brain is screaming.

You’re standing in front of the mirror, jaw tight, shoulders still stiff from the argument you and Conner just had—one of those rare, ugly ones that leaves the air feeling scorched. Your eyes are a little red, your breathing uneven, but you’re trying to salvage yourself into something presentable because of course the event starts in twenty minutes.

And that stupid bracelet will. not. clasp.

Your fingers keep fumbling, shaking just enough to betray you. Every time the little latch slips, it feels like the universe is mocking you, like even jewelry has chosen violence tonight.

Behind you, on the other side of the room, Conner hasn’t moved. He’s just standing there—hands in his pockets, chest rising a little too slow, like he’s trying not to breathe too loud. His expression isn’t angry anymore. Not even close. It’s softened into something that borders on guilt, worry, longing… all layered under that same stubborn Kent silence.

He keeps watching your hands. The way the metal shakes. The way your shoulders tense. The way you keep sniffing softly, pretending it’s nothing.

His voice breaks the quiet, low and careful. “…you’re gonna scratch yourself if you keep fighting it like that.”

You don’t look at him. You don’t answer. The bracelet slips again, clattering softly, and your breath stutters.

Conner takes a tiny step forward—barely audible, but enough to stir the air. “Just… let me help.” Another step. Slower this time. “…please?”

And you’re still staring at your reflection, knuckles white around the jewelry, heartbeat loud enough he can probably hear every damn thump.

He’s right behind you now, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back.

“You don’t even gotta say anything…” he murmurs, voice cracking at the edges. “Just… give me your hand.”