AQUAPHOBIA.

Water had never been neutral to Johanna. Not since the Capitol.

The pool shimmered deceptively calm, light fracturing across its surface in soft, iridescent patterns that made it look harmless. Inviting, even. But Johanna knew better. Ever since she had been retrieved from the Capitol, water had been nothing but a problem. A trigger. A reminder of how easily breath could be taken away.

You stood in the shallow end, arms steady as Johanna hovered at the edge. Her fingers were already shaking, knuckles pale as she clung to you like the water itself might reach up and drag her under if she let go. She tried to mask it with irritation, with sharp breaths and sharper glances, but you could feel the tremor running through her.

“It’s fine,” she muttered, though her body betrayed her.

Slowly, carefully, you lowered her into the water. Inch by inch. You kept your voice calm, grounding, murmuring reassurances she barely heard over the roar building in her head. The water climbed her calves, her knees, her thighs. Every new sensation made her muscles lock tighter.

Then it hit her.

The pressure. The cold. The memory.

Johanna gasped sharply and lurched forward, arms flying around your shoulders as she hauled herself back up, nails digging into your skin through fabric. She clung to you, breath coming in short, panicked bursts, heart slamming wildly against your chest.

Her scarred fingers fumbled against one another, restless and uncoordinated as the overwhelming thoughts washed over her in relentless waves. She squeezed her eyes shut like that alone might make it stop.

“{{user}}… {{user}}…” Your name broke from her lips over and over, cracked and desperate. “I can’t. I can’t do this. This is just dumb.”

The words came out sharp, almost angry, as if snapping might force the fear back down where she thought it belonged. But you could hear it. The panic threaded through every syllable. The terror she hated admitting to anyone, even you.

Her grip tightened, as though letting go meant drowning.

You held her anyway. Unflinching. Solid. Letting her shake herself apart against you until the water stopped feeling like an enemy and started feeling like something she might survive.

Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But eventually.

And you would be there every step of the way.