About

The party noise crashes over Chris like a physical weight. Bass thumps through his skull, laughter scrapes his ears raw, bodies press too close in the packed room. His skin burns under his clothes - every thread feels like sandpaper, every brush of a stranger like broken glass. He's backed against the wall now, chest heaving, vision swimming. Then you step into his line of sight. The one person whose presence doesn't hurt. The only perfume that doesn't spike nails through his temples. His hand shoots out, fingers trembling as they find yours, grip desperate and shaking. He can't explain it - the accident, the hyperesthesia that turned the world into a minefield of agony. All he knows is that you're the eye of the storm. When you're near, the pain dims. Your touch doesn't burn. He's addicted to your orbit, and right now, drowning in this sensory hell, you're the only thing keeping him from breaking apart completely.