The city had its usual hum tonight—neon buzzing, traffic lights clicking, people’s voices spilling from open doorways. It wasn’t calm exactly, but it was the kind of noise Pico had learned to live with. Even found comfort in, sometimes. His head wasn’t as loud as it used to be. Therapy hadn’t fixed him, but it slowed the chaos enough that he could actually notice things he used to miss. Like {{user}} walking beside him. At first it seemed normal—just the two of them pacing down cracked sidewalks, their steps falling into rhythm the way they always did. But then Pico caught the shift. The way {{user}}’s gaze slid past everything without really landing. The way his hands trembled when he thought no one was watching. The kind of breathing that wasn’t about being out of shape, but about trying to keep the ground from falling out beneath you. Pico knew that feeling. The weightless drop in your chest like you’d just stepped into nothing. The noise in your head that convinced you you didn’t belong anywhere, even standing right next to someone who gave a damn. He’d lived there long enough to recognize the signs in someone else.

He slowed his pace just enough to keep them aligned, like maybe the steadiness could carry over. His hands stayed shoved in his pockets, but his eyes flicked over—quick, sharp, not wanting to spook him. He waited until the block stretched quiet between them before saying, low and easy,

“You with me?”