Strawberry

You lie on your back, hands resting stiffly at your sides. The bed feels too big. The room feels too loud even though nothing is happening. Your lungs fill and empty, but the rhythm is off, like your body has forgotten how this is supposed to work.

Your fingers twitch against the sheet.

Mingyu is sitting beside you, leaning back against the headboard. He is scrolling through his phone without really looking at it, the screen lighting his face in brief flashes. The moment your breathing changes, he notices. He always does. The phone is set aside quietly, his attention shifting fully to you.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful. “You okay?”

You nod because it is easier than explaining. Because you are not fully panicking, not yet, and putting words to the feeling might push you there. Your jaw tightens instead. Your hands curl into the fabric beneath you.

Mingyu watches you for another moment, eyes soft and focused. He does not rush you. He does not ask again. He simply stays close, close enough that you can feel his presence without him touching you yet.

When you finally speak, your voice is quiet.

“Can you lie on me?”

He stills completely. “Yeah,” he says right away. Then he adds, slower this time, “Tell me where.”

You swallow. You lift one hand and press it lightly against your upper chest, just below your collarbone. “Not all the way. Just here. I do not want your full weight.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I have you.”

He moves with care, shifting closer inch by inch like he is making sure your body agrees before he does anything else. He turns onto his side first, bracing himself with one arm. When he leans in, it is slow and deliberate, his chest coming to rest against the top of yours.

His face settles gently against your upper chest, cheek warm against your skin. You feel his breath there, steady and calm. One arm drapes over your side, heavy enough to ground you, loose enough that you do not feel trapped. The rest of his weight stays supported by his elbow and hip, offered to you instead of pressed into you.

You let out a breath you did not realize you were holding.

The pressure helps almost immediately. Not in a dramatic way, not like everything suddenly becomes okay, but in the way your shoulders drop a little and your breathing stutters less. Your body reacts before your thoughts can catch up.

Mingyu exhales against your chest, slow and deep. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears, still faster than normal, but steady. You know he can hear it too. He does not comment on it. He simply stays where he is.

“I am right here,” he whispers. “You are safe.”

Your fingers loosen slowly, unclenching one by one. The buzzing in your head does not disappear, but it dulls. Your thoughts become less sharp, less urgent. The room feels quieter, even though nothing has changed.

You rest your chin lightly against the top of his head. His hair brushes your skin, soft and familiar.

He adjusts slightly, careful not to put pressure on your ribs or your neck. Every movement feels considered, like he is constantly checking in without making you answer out loud.

“Breathe with me,” he says softly.

He does not count. He just breathes in a way that is easy to follow. You match him without thinking, your chest rising and falling beneath his cheek. Each breath feels a little less forced than the last.

Time stretches. Minutes pass without you noticing. The ceiling fan continues its uneven hum, but it no longer drills into your skull. Your heart slows gradually, the frantic edge fading until it is only a steady rhythm beneath his ear.

Mingyu does not move, even when his arm must be getting tired. He stays, solid and patient, like this is exactly where he wants to be. Like nothing else matters more than keeping you grounded.

The anxiety does not leave completely. It rarely does. There is still a faint tension curled somewhere deep in your chest, a reminder that this feeling might return later. But right now, it is manageable. Right now, you can exist inside your body without wanting to escape it.

“I think it is getting better,” you whisper eventually.

He hums softly, relief tucked into the sound. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He stays a moment longer anyway, as if making sure. When he finally shifts, it is only slightly, lifting some of his weight while keeping contact. His face remains near your collarbone. His arm stays draped across your side, still warm and grounding.

You lift your hand and slide your fingers into his hair.

It is an unconscious motion, something you have done a hundred times before. Your fingers rake gently through the soft strands, ruffling them in a way that makes him sigh. The sound is quiet and content, vibrating against your chest.

“You are doing good,” you murmur, sleep already creeping into your voice.

He lets out a soft laugh. “So are you.”

Your hand slows, fingertips tracing lazy patterns through his hair. His breathing evens out again, matching yours without effort. The warmth between you deepens, turning heavy and comforting.

Your eyelids start to droop. The tension in your body melts into the mattress, supported by his presence. The anxiety lingers at the edges, but it no longer feels overwhelming.

Mingyu settles in fully, careful to keep his weight exactly where you asked for it. His face rests against your chest, his arm secure around your side. He does not say anything else. He does not need to.

The last thing you feel is the steady rise and fall of his breathing and you hear the quiet rhythm of his heart beneath your hand.