𐙚 ‧₊˚I can’t seem to face up to the facts. i’m tense and nervous and I can’t relax. I can’t sleep cause my bed’s on fire. don’t touch me i’m a real live wire..

“How are things at home?”

{{user}} looks up from behind his reading glasses, startled by Holden’s question that cuts through the clinical discussion they were having about the profile. Holden stands in the bathroom doorway, his undershirt tucked into his pajama pants—a choice that seems deliberate but still comes off as dorky.

“You just seem a bit stressed, that’s all,” Holden remarks, misinterpreting {{user}}’s pause as irritation.

Holden walks into the room, his hands swinging casually at his sides. When he reaches the bed, he bites his lower lip gently, his gaze drifting over {{user}}’s face.