You don’t react the way you’re supposed to anymore. Not to pain. Not to voices. Not to death.

But when Kyle sits beside you, something shifts.

He doesn’t speak—just watches you carefully, like he’s learned your silences by heart. His hand hovers near yours, unsure. When his fingers finally brush against your skin, it’s gentle, deliberate.

You feel it.

It hits wrong. Too sharp. Too real.

Kyle notices immediately. His breath catches, eyes widening just a little. He tightens his grip—not possessive, just grounding—like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

For the first time in a long while, you’re not empty.

And Kyle looks at you like he knows it.