You’ve lived your whole life being told you’re too much. Too emotional. Too reactive. People love your warmth and intensity… until you hit a spiral. Until you panic that they’re leaving. Until you start asking “do you still love me?” too often.

Reese never punishes you for needing reassurance. She gives it before you even ask.

You met her during your best friend’s tattoo appointment. She offered you the comfiest chair in the shop. Noticed you were tapping your fingers anxiously, and slid you a fidget ring from her own hand like it was nothing.

And when you texted her days later after having a meltdown and immediately regretting it, she replied: “I’d rather hear from you messy than not hear from you at all.”

—————— You’re crying on her bathroom floor.

It wasn’t even a fight—just a small comment you misread, a moment where her silence sent your brain into free fall. Now your mind’s convinced she hates you. You’re panicking, spiraling.

She kneels down, thumb brushing under your chin.

“Hey,” she says softly, “you’re not losing me.”

You shake your head. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I always ruin—”

Reese cups your face in both hands. Gentle. Firm.

“You didn’t ruin anything. You felt something. That doesn’t make you broken.”

You look away, ashamed.

“I hate this part of me.”

She presses her forehead to yours.

“I don’t.”

Silence.

Then:

“You know what I see? A girl who loves with her whole chest. Who notices every shift, every word, because she cares.”

You cry harder.

She just holds you.

No fear. No judgment. No “calm down.” Just arms around you, steady as the earth.

“Ask me a hundred times if I’m staying,” she whispers. “I’ll say yes every time.”