Michael jolted awake later that day. It was dark out. The clock read 8:06.

His heart was racing, he wasn't sure why. Everything just felt wrong.

Michael began to pace. He started to clean, sort through clothes and he started a cycle on the washing machine. He put his comforter back on his bed even though he was certain he wouldn't sleep in there tonight.

But strangely, suddenly, he couldn't imagine a time when he would ever sleep in that bed again. He couldn't imagine his life continuing into next week or even the next hour; everything was spinning out of control and he couldn't get a grip on it. He couldn't get a grip on anything. He wasn't sure if he was going crazy or if he was dying and quite frankly, he wasn't sure which of those options he preferred.

His posters were still sitting on the table, awaiting repair or to be thrown out. And Michael was suddenly fed up with the fact he had to make that decision.

He wasn't sure why, but tearing them up seemed like a good plan of action, so that's what he did. He tore them in halves, then into quarters and then smaller and smaller. The harsh ripping sound somehow grounded and soothed him.

Once he was done, his fingers still itched, and his pulse still raced. But the fog in his brain had thinned somewhat and he could now feel himself going off the deep end. He was wading in dangerous waters and he couldn't swim - he knew he wouldn't make it out this time.

Michael pulled his trembling fingers through his hair and began to go over his options. He and Dr. Novak had gone over several coping mechanism, but at this moment, Michael couldn't remember a single one and he doubted they'd work if he did. He stopped seeing Novak years ago, he stopped needing him.

He thought about calling his little brother, but it was passed eight 'o clock on a Saturday and Michael didn't want to interrupt date night. He didn't want to ruin it.

He couldn't call his Mom. He wouldn't allow her to see him like this.

That's when he spotted the note taped to the fridge. He'd thought about taking it down a hundred times, but he liked the way it looked up there. He liked the elegant scrawl of her name and her numbers.

After this morning, he figured he had absolutely nothing to lose. So he found his cellphone and despite his shaking hands, was able to dial the number.

Samantha picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

The soft voice shot through Michael's body, a welcoming calm to his frayed nerves.

"Sammy." Michael choked out, then stopped.

"Michael?" Samantha's voice hitched with surprise. "What's going on?"

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, taking another shaky breath. "I dunno...I just don't feel so hot right now."

"Where are you?" Samantha asked, her voice urgent and low.

"I'm at my apartment."

"Are you alright?"

"I don't think I am." Michael looked at his apartment in which he was certain was now a prison of which he could never escape - even if he wanted to. "I just feel really bad right now."

"Don't move." There was a sound of movement on Samantha's end. "I'll be right there. Stay put, alright?"

Michael swallowed hard. "Okay."

xXx

Samantha didn't have a car. Or a bike. Calling a cab would only take longer, the public transport system in Texas was much slower than when she was in Chicago or New York.

So she ran. Her only blessing that night was that she was a good runner. She made it to Michael's in just over ten minutes, her breathing was only laboured from panic - she'd hardly broken a sweat at all.

The door of Michael's apartment building worked on a code system instead of a key, fortunately Michael was able to text Samantha the code so she could get in easily. She decided on taking the three flights of stairs up to Michael's apartment, the elevator would've just slowed her down.

Samantha didn't bother knocking, just pushed through the door and looked around wildly, worried at what she might find.

Michael sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets. His face was buried in his hands. Dexter sat on his lap, ears pinned back in distress. He looked at Samantha and whined. But Michael was in one piece and he was breathing, so Samantha took this as a good sign. She closed the door behind her gently and then knelt down in front of him.

"Michael?" She asked quietly. Michael peaked up at her, his grey eyes red-rimmed and blown wide with panic. Samantha offered a small, reassuring smile.

"Heya, Sammy." Michael rasped - he sounded terrible.

"We have to stop meeting like this." Samantha quipped, though her voice was strained and worried. "Why am I always finding you on the floor?"

"Floors are...safer somehow." Michael mumbled.

Samantha considered this, looking around at the kitchen floor. Noticing the torn up papers strewn everywhere. She looked back at Michael.

"Do you wanna tell me what happened?" She asked softly.

"Had a panic attack."

"Okay. About what?"

Michael dropped his hands on to Dexter's back. His tail twitched feebly. "It was a bad day. Besides this morning."

Michael smiled timidly, Samantha couldn't help the warmth that bloomed in her chest.

"So...this morning was good. What changed?" She tilted her head and looked at him, but Michael avoided her gaze.

"Guess I just wished I stayed with you longer." Michael shrugged lightly, playing with Dexter's tail. "I've had problems with this before, it's nothing new."

"Panic attacks?" She asked. Michael nodded.

"I got better. I haven't had to worry about this in years." He sighed heavily. "I guess I knew it'd get bad again. Nothing lasts forever, right?"

"Have you ever told anyone about this?"

"Gabe and Mom know." Michael flicked a gaze up at Samantha, but he never held it. "No one else. I don't like talking about it."

"You're talking with me." She said simply, Michael's cheeks went a little red.

"You're different. You don't make me feel like I'm crazy."

Samantha sighed, setting herself down on the floor next to Michael, their knees bumping together. Neither of them seemed to mind much.

"You're not crazy, Michael. Why do you say that?" She asked, her voice hushed. Michael shrugged.

"That's what my Dad said."

From what she heard so far, Michael's father didn't seem like a nice guy. Her eyes fell on the torn up papers on the ground.

"Was that you? Or was it Dexter?"

Michael looked down at the puppy. He could so easily blame it on him, but he didn't. "I thought it would make me feel better."

"Did it?"

"Not really."

Samantha looked over at Michael, he still wasn't making much eye contact, but it was understandable.

"You seem a little better than how you sounded on the phone." She offered.

"I started feeling better once I knew you were coming." Michael looked up at Samantha, his grey eyes meeting her brown ones. Samantha felt her muscles relax.

"I'm really glad you called me, Michael." Her brows knitted together as she considered what the alternative options were. "You feel any better?"

Michael sighed. "I'm tired. Which is odd because I slept all day."

"Panic attacks are exhausting." Samantha agreed. "They take quite a toll on your body."

"You ever have one?"

"No, not personally, but I know people. You think you can get up off the floor?"

Michael tilted his head back against the cabinet, letting his eyes close. "Do I have to?"

"Theoretically? No." Samantha said thoughtfully. "But...the tile isn't comfortable and I think the couch would be better."

Michael was quiet as he considered this, muttering an acceptance before clearing his throat.

Smiling at her small victory, Samantha stood. Michael lifted Dexter off his lap and allowed Samantha to help him to his feet.

The few times when Gabriel had been around to witness one of his attacks, Michael hated himself for days after it. He had never felt as vulnerable, or as childish, or as stupid as he did after an attack. Michael hated Gabriel's insistence that he ate and rested and talked about what happened. The aftermath of the attack was almost as traumatising as the actual thing.

Samantha helped him clean up the papers on the floor, before settling Michael on the couch. The TV was on, a sports show running through the week's highlights. Michael tucked his legs under himself, well aware that it made him look like a scolded ten-year-old, but he didn't care.

"Is it alright if I stay for a while?" She asked cautiously. "It seems like you're doing better, but I wouldn't mind being absolutely sure."

Michael felt himself soften, he almost wanted to reply - of course you can stay, I want you here, that's why I called you, you idiot - but he simply nodded.

"You can stay, Sammy."

Almost visibly relieved, Samantha sat down on the couch beside Michael, though she stayed diligently on her own end. Michael thought back to that morning, how he moved himself from Samantha's touch. His stomach swirled with guilt.

"Michael," Samantha started, her voice cautious, "I know you said you don't like to talk, but..."

Michael inhaled sharply. "I know."

"It doesn't have to be with me, but it needs to be with someone." She said hurriedly.

Michael was quiet for a moment. "I like talking to you, Sammy, I want to. But...not tonight. I'm one hundred percent ready for this day to be over."

To his surprise, Samantha seemed satisfied with his answer. Her eyes softened kindly. "Of course."

Michael nodded, the relief making him weak. "Alright...wanna watch TV?"

Luckily, one of the local channels was having a marathon of the fourth season of Friday Night Lights. It was one of Michael's favourites, the familiar characters and plot lines soothed him somehow. He explained some points of the story to Samantha, who was adorably confused by it - particularly the football parts which was a game she had apparently never played in her life.

Samantha talked him into ordering food. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten since the night before. He didn't look particularly well-fed, but hey - he was working on it.

They got Thai food, it tasted better than Michael was expecting.

Michael had played tug-of-war with Dexter until he was tuckered out. Sometime past midnight, Michael and Samantha sank lower into the couch, their legs tentatively bumping and tangling together as sleep tugged at them.

Samantha didn't mention anything about going home. Michael didn't either.

Sometime after episode four, Michael fell asleep. He remembered the feeling of his head sinking deeper and deeper into the cushion they rested on the couch's arm, his neck starting to ache. His legs were pressed against Samantha's, the warmth reaching out from beneath their clothes, pulsing into one another.

As Michael fell asleep, he knew he wouldn't have nightmares.

A few hours later, the sensation of movement and stirring quickly jolted him awake. He was rarely a deep sleeper. He instantly became aware of his darkened living room; darker than when he had fallen asleep. Someone had turned off the TV.

Fear made his blood cold. His eyes were too slow in adjusting to the light, and he propped himself up on his elbows, looking around wildly.

Samantha was just above him, halfway through the task of draping a blanket over Michael's sleeping figure. Another spasm of fear pierced through him when he considered the possibility that she was about to leave - that he would've woken up and found himself alone.

Samantha had realised Michael was awake, and he looked like he was about to say something, but he didn't. Even in the dim light, Michael could see the intensity in those brown eyes, and he just looked back. Everything was quiet, aside from the sound of Michael's breath, laboured a little after being startled awake.

And then Michael reached forward, fitting his hand firmly around the back of Samantha's neck, and pulled her mouth down to meet his. Samantha gave a surprised intake of breath.

Michael's entire body hummed at the feeling of Samantha's mouth melding with his. He sighed, letting his hand slide up and run through her hair.

Michael's mind was reeling, still hazy from sleep and the emotion of the day before. Samantha slid her hands up Michael's chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath her palms, she rested them finally on his neck. Michael preened under the touch.

It had been too long since either of them had kissed someone like this - slow and lazy and hot, tongues and teeth scraping, breath pulsing into each other's mouths. There was no thought of a greater endgame; no sense of urgency. They kissed to feel and taste one another, the dark living room and late hour making them feel safe and hidden; the world hushed around them.

After a while, his legs started to fall asleep, so Michael laid back and pulled Samantha with him. The couch wasn't all that big, but Samantha's body fit next to Michael's perfectly, their legs sliding together, comforting despite the jeans they hadn't taken off. They lied facing each other in the couch, lips never parting.

Samantha's hands never strayed from Michael's face. Her thumb stroked a comforting rhythm across his cheek, and Michael let his hands rest on Samantha's hips.

There was no sense of more to their movements. Instead, everything like this - the soft press of lips, the lingering touches, the breathy sighs as they relaxed into each other. It was easy and comfortable and so, so good.

Once their hearts began to slow, the pulled away from each other. Samantha's breath played softly across Michael's lips, and she opened her eyes, finding Michael's immediately.

For a few moments, they just caught their breath, and then Sammy rested her forehead against Michael's. Michael leaned into her, his heart thrumming with happiness. Even after the heat in their stomachs had cooled, they didn't move. Their bodies were too comfortable pressed against one another; chests rising and falling steadily, arms and legs tangled.

The last thing Michael remembered was Samantha's arm draping loosely across his hip.