Megan was the kind of presence that filled a room—effortlessly confident, with a smile that could disarm even the toughest crowd. You’d been close for a while, friends who danced on the edge of something more, though neither of you rushed it. But in those overwhelming, crowded places where voices blurred and lights flickered, there was one thing Megan always did that made your heart skip: she held your hand.

It wasn’t loud or showy—just a gentle squeeze as she weaved through the sea of people at the concert, or a steady grip when you felt lost in the chaos of the party. Her touch was calm, grounding, like a quiet promise that you weren’t alone.

At one point, as a group swirled around you both, she leaned in close, her breath warm against your ear. “I’ve got you.” She whispered, and you squeezed her hand back, feeling that simple truth anchor you in the storm.