Rick sat beside you on the sofa, his arm resting along the back, close but not quite touching. You hated this—being interviewed, judged, forced to sit under Deanna Monroe’s careful gaze like some outsider begging for a place you didn’t even want.

You signed your responses, sharp and quick, frustration making your fingers move harder than necessary. Rick translated, his voice steady, but you knew he could tell you were getting riled up. Your breaths came faster, shoulders tensing, hands shaking just slightly.

Before you could spiral further, Rick reached out, his grip firm yet careful as he pulled you into his side. “Excuse us a minute,” he said to Deanna, standing up and guiding you into the hallway, his hand warm against your arm.

The door shut behind you, sealing the two of you off from prying eyes. “Hey,” Rick murmured, turning to face you, his fingers brushing against your elbow before settling there. “Calm down. You don’t gotta prove anything to them.”

You exhaled sharply, still on edge, but his touch was grounding. His thumb traced over the fabric of your sleeve, slow, steady. “Just breathe,” he said, voice softer now. “I got you.”