David’s POV
By the time my brain processes what my eyes are seeing, my body is already moving.
A straight-line sprint across the sidewalk.
No thinking, no hesitation.
Just that sharp, electric jolt of ‘Adam. Distress. Now.’
I can always tell when it’s bad.
There’s a shape to panic that isn’t visible until you’ve seen it too many times.
A silhouette in the body.
A certain angle of the shoulders.
The way the breath doesn’t come from the lungs but from some old wound.
And there he is. My little brother.
On the sidewalk outside the Zimmer, knees pulled up, shaking so hard I fear his ribs might crack.
And in his arms…
Nickie.
At first, that makes my heart slam.
Not because I doubt her.
But because instinct doesn’t ask for consent.
Sometimes, when Adam is pulled under by a flashback, he grabs whatever feels safe.
And he clings.
Hard.
And for one brutal second, I can’t tell if Nickie understands what’s happening or if she’s caught in the blast radius of his fear.
I’m three steps away when I see her face clearly.
She’s not scared.
She’s not overwhelmed.
She’s not trying to pull back.
She’s speaking. Quiet, steady.
Her hands cupped around his.
Her thumbs brushing his skin in slow circles.
Her face is tilted toward him like she’s reading a sacred text printed on his breath.
I stop running.
I switch into caution mode.
Gentle approach. Slow steps. Hands visible.
The “I’m here, I’m safe, I won’t make it worse” posture.
“Adam… baby bro…”
I crouch down a meter away, giving them space.
Hands open, palms up.
My voice low enough not to shake the air.
“You’re okay. You’re safe. We got you.”
Adam’s eyes flick toward me and I see it:
Not the fogged-over terror of somewhere-else-time.
But the trembling recognition of now.
Nickie did that.
She pulled him out of the undertow.
I look at her again.
Her hands are still locked around his.
She’s leaning into him.
Not trapped, not stiff, not rescued.
Present, like she’s choosing this moment with full awareness.
She gives me a tiny nod.
Barely perceptible.
But enough to tell me: I’m here on purpose.
I exhale.
A quiet, hard breath of relief.
I check Adam’s breathing.
Ragged, but functional.
His fingers tighten around hers like his life depends on contact.
“Do you know where we are?” I ask him, testing his orientation.
His voice is tiny, chewed through from crying.
“I… I think so…”
“We’re outside the Zimmer. On the sidewalk.”
Then, softer: “You wanna know the time?”
“Yes… please…”
And there it is.
That tiny, soft, too-polite voice.
It hits me in the gut every time.
Adam only talks like that when he’s not fully here.
When part of him is still trapped behind years and walls and strings someone else once pulled tight around him.
When the present hasn’t fully arrived yet and he’s still bracing for punishment that isn’t coming.
I keep my voice low, slow, warm.
“It’s seven forty-two.”
He exhales.
Shoulders loosen.
The tension flickers, fading.
He’s not completely here yet. Still crying.
I stay crouched, half-facing him, half-facing Nickie, scanning constantly.
He leans into her like she’s warmth after frostbite.
And that’s why it shocks me, actually shocks me, when not even a minute later, he says:
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“I wanna play the gig!”
Firm. Steady.
Present.
I whip my eyes to him, startled.
That was Adam.
Here-and-now Adam.
The Adam with fire in him.
Then I see it:
His fingers press tighter into Nickie’s.
And the way she presses back.
‘Oh.’
Something unclenches in my chest so fast it almost hurts.
Because I’ve spent years being the only one who can read him like this.
The micro-shifts, the tells, the shadows behind his voice.
Years holding his ground for him when he couldn’t.
Years wishing… praying even, that someone else might someday understand him too.
Someone else might meet him where he is.
Not demand he rise to them.
And here she is.
Nickie.
Sixteen.
Small.
Sharp.
Fierce.
Fearless.
Reading him exactly right.
Matching him beat for beat.
Staying in the pocket of his panic without flinching.
Offering her hands, her warmth, her voice.
Bringing him back.
Gently.
Deliberately.
Successfully.
Somehow… she knows what she’s doing.
She wants to be the one doing it.
And of course he wants to play the gig.
That stubborn streak is older than his scars.
I check Nickie one last time.
“Nickie, you good?”
Her answer is immediate.
“I’m good if Adam’s good.”
That does it.
Any doubt, any hesitation, evaporates.
A quiet sun rises.
Thank you.
Thank you for loving him like this.
Thank you for seeing him the way I see him.
Thank you for giving him a new place to land.
Gratitude blooms so hard and sudden in my chest it feels like a second heartbeat.
I steady my expression, clear my throat, pretend the world is business as usual.
But inside?
I whisper a vow to the universe itself.
Nickie Karklins, I swear on every string of my guitar and every cursed amp that’s ever shocked me:
I will protect you like a holy relic.
If you ever call me at 3 A.M., I will arrive in slippers and a cape.
If someone so much as looks at you wrong, I will appear behind them like a disappointed father and ask if they’re proud of their choices.
If you want snacks?
I will climb a mountain.
I will steal from a dragon.
I will fight the vending machine gods themselves.
If your shoe gets untied, I will silently kneel like a Victorian governess and fix it without eye contact.
If you text “help,” I will crash through a window even if the door is open.
If you say “I’m cold,” I will burst into flames for warmth.
If you need anything…
A hug, a ride, emotional support socks…
I will appear with the speed of a raccoon hearing a trash can open.
Because you helped my brother breathe.
And that makes you royalty.
Saint Nickie the Unshakeable.
Light of the Drummer Clan.
Breaker of Panic Attacks.
Protector of Adam’s Ribcage.
Anything you want.
Anytime.
Anywhere.
I’m yours.
Internally.
Quietly.
With dignity.
Obviously.
On the outside, I just nod and go, “Cool. Let’s go get the gear.”
Then I get to witness a scene I’ll never forget.
Adam helps her up.
She starts to walk but he catches her hand. She turns to him in a question.
“Nickie…”
And when he looks at her, his eyes soften in that rare way that means his heart is saying things his mouth won’t dare speak yet.
She flushes.
He glows.
I turn away, because some moments deserve privacy, even in public.
I almost reach the parking lot before I notice they’re still standing there, so I call out, “A little help here, guys!”
And then it happens.
They jump.
Not just startled.
Synchronized startled.
Like some kind of awkward-but-weirdly-graceful two-person flock of emotional baby ducks.
Both of them flushed.
Both of them blinking like they were caught holding hands under a blanket at a sleepover.
Both of them moving toward me with the exact same guilty-soft glow.
I keep my expression neutral.
Collected.
Older-brother zen.
Inside… I scream.
In that silent, ferret that just stole a sock and is running victory laps under the couch way.
‘THAT’S IT. THAT’S THE LOOK. THAT’S THE LOOK OF TWO IDIOTS WHO JUST FELL FACE-FIRST INTO FEELINGS.’
I am a grown man.
I pay taxes.
I have a retirement plan.
‘THEY’RE SO CUTE I’M GONNA DIE.
DON’T LAUGH, YOU’LL RUIN IT.
OH MY GOD THEY’RE BLUSHING AT THE SAME TIME, THIS IS A BIOLOGICAL EVENT.
THE CHEMISTRY IS SO LOUD I’M GOING TO GET TINNITUS.’
I force my face to keep staying calm.
Professional.
Like I’m not witnessing a forbidden hellfire bond ignite right in front of the venue.
And my brain is kicking its feet.
Metaphorically rolling on the ground.
Ring-leading a tiny circus of delighted squeals behind my stern adult face.
I swear the air warms around them as they walk towards me.
I tighten my grip on the car keys, pretending I don’t just want to scream into the night sky like a delighted pterodactyl.
