He stops when he sees me.
“Hey,” he says carefully, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Are you feeling okay?”
Even though that’s the opposite of the truth, I nod. “I’m having a—” I clear my throat when my voice comes out scratchy. “It’s an anxiety thing. I don’t think I can do anything tonight.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause, and I’m sure he’s pouting, since things aren’t going his way. “Yeah, no. That’s totally fine.”
I pull the blanket higher and stare at the ceiling, trying to do the exercise my therapist recommended for grounding myself.
Five things you can see: the ceiling, the fan, my side table…
Mike.
He’s still standing there, looking anywhere but directly at me, the opposite of his usual confidence. “So this is going to sound weird,” he starts when I meet his eyes, shuffling his feet. “But would it be okay if I slept in here?”
“You want to—”
“Don’t make it weird,” he cuts me off, narrowing his eyes.
I scoot over without saying anything, and he climbs in. And in true Mike fashion, he’s immediately everywhere. His cold feet tangling with mine, his arm sliding around my waist, his face pressing into my chest.
“I’ll be quiet,” he mumbles into my shirt. “Won’t even know I’m here.”
I look down at the arm wrapped around my waist.
“Might make me feel better if you’re not,” I admit, resting my hand on his forearm, my thumb moving back and forth.
“You wanna talk about it?” I shake my head, hoping he accepts that.
I really don’t want to talk about it.
“Okay.”
We lay in silence for a long moment, Mike hugging me tight while my hand finds its way into his hair. It makes me feel a little bit better having him here, I can’t help but notice. It gives me something real to focus on.
“I have an anxiety thing too,” he says into the quiet.
“You do?”
He nods against my chest. “I hate sleeping alone.”
“You hate—”
“I’mnotscared of the dark,” he interrupts, even though I wasn’t going there. “I’m scared of…”
“What?”
I can feel him shrug. “Being alone, I guess? I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“Yes it is, everyone is alone if you think about it.”
“Well, that’s depressing.”
He sighs deeply, sliding his hand down until he reaches the hem of my shirt, twisting it between his fingers. “My parents died when I was ten.”
“Oh,” I say, because what else is there to say. But I don’t stop running my fingers through his hair, and I hold him a little bit tighter than before.
