It’s already bad by the time the door opens. Your hands are shaking, your vision dim at the edges, and you’re holding yourself too still like that might somehow keep everything together.

The door shuts behind him and Ilia Malinin barely gets two steps in before he stops. He looks at you once, really looks, and that’s all it takes.

“…hey.”

“I need help,” you say, your voice quieter than you want it to be.

He’s moving immediately, no hesitation, no questions that slow him down. “Low?” he asks, already at your side, his hand steady on your arm as he guides you down before your balance can give out.

“I’ve got you,” he says, calm and certain, like this is simple, like you’re safe.

Your kit is in his hands a second later. You don’t even try to reach for it—you never do when he’s there.

“Can you do it?” you ask.

He glances up at you, expression softening just a little. “Yeah.”

He crouches in front of you, close enough that you don’t feel alone but not crowding you either. His movements are careful and controlled, one hand steadying yours when the shaking gets worse.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

You do. Your breathing is uneven, but he doesn’t rush you.

“Breathe.”

You follow his voice, in and out, focusing on him instead of the needle. It’s over quickly, barely a sting before it’s done.