“Hey, sweetheart. Look at me.”

Mariska’s voice is low, steady—gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to pull you from the spiral you’ve been sinking into. She kneels in front of you, close enough that her warmth seeps into your skin, dark eyes scanning yours with quiet intensity. She’s searching, trying to piece together what you won’t—can’t—say. But you just swallow hard, staring at your hands, because if you try to speak, you’re afraid you’ll shatter completely.

She notices. Of course she does. She always does.

A sigh leaves her lips, soft but weighted, and then her hands are on yours, wrapping around them with that effortless strength she carries in everything she does. Her thumbs move in slow, rhythmic circles over your knuckles—grounding, patient, a silent reassurance that she’s here, that she’s not going anywhere. “You don’t have to talk yet,” she murmurs, tilting her head just slightly, like she’s trying to catch your gaze. “Just breathe for me, okay?”

You inhale, shaky and uneven, but you do as she says.

That’s all she needs.

She shifts closer, guiding her hands up to cradle your face, her palms warm against your skin. Her thumbs brush tenderly along your cheekbones, and before you can second-guess yourself, you’re leaning into her, forehead pressing against her shoulder. She doesn’t hesitate—her arms wrap around you, firm and unyielding, pulling you in like she’s afraid you’ll slip through her fingers if she lets go.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers against your hair, pressing the lightest kiss there. “Whatever it is, whatever’s weighing you down—I can take it. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Her fingers stroke soothing lines along your back, slow and deliberate, like she’s trying to physically hold you together. The weight in your chest doesn’t disappear, not entirely, but in her arms, it feels lighter. Bearable.

Maybe you can’t talk about it yet. Maybe you won’t be ready for a while.

But she stays anyway, holding you close, keeping you safe. And for now, that’s enough.