awww bro I love Andrew 💛💛💛
can I request panic comfort with Mike Morton and a socially anxious reader?
🤹🏼Mike Morton x Socially Anxious!Reader
Socially anxiety fking sucks and I think everyone deserves a Mike to support them tbh:,)
If opposites really do attract, you and Mike would be living proof of it. He was good with people—not in a commanding or fake manner, but with a natural charm, in a way, that made others feel at ease around him. It wasn’t forced. Maybe it was his circus experience, or just something he was born with. He had a sharp tongue when needed, never hesitating to speak his mind.
You, on the other hand, were the polar opposite. Big crowds—or just unfamiliar people—could send your mind spiraling. From the outside, it looked like clumsiness or awkwardness. But people didn’t see the chaos in your head: the whirlwind of thoughts, the rising heat of panic that made your hands shake and blurred your judgment.
And today was one of those days.
You had just begun decoding one of the last cipher machines. Time was tight, pressure rising. Your hands felt slick with sweat, your heartbeat loud in your ears. A misstep. Then another. Your vision blurred slightly, the edges of your sight going fuzzy. All familiar signs.
"What the hell are you doing?" a teammate hissed at you, their brow creased in visible annoyance. "Maybe focus if you don’t want us all to get killed, huh?"
You couldn’t get a word out as they kept whispering annoyed comments at you. Your throat tightened, your mouth sealed shut under the weight of invisible pressure. Your eyes welled with tears, your body frozen in place.
Then a hand found the small of your back—steady, grounding.
"Maybe—just maybe—you should think about how your words aren’t helping, huh? Let them work instead of being an asshole,” Mike shot back at the teammate, his voice sharp but almost playful, winking at them before turning back to you.
"It’s okay. Breathe with me, yeah?" he said, his tone softening entirely.
You followed his lead, eyes closing, your breath syncing with his.
"Good. Just like that."
Slowly, the panic eased. You felt clarity trickle back in, inch by inch.
This wasn’t the first time Mike had helped you like this. He was your stabilizer. When situations became overwhelming and your thoughts spun out of control, he anchored you. He helped you sort through your panic, reminded you how to breathe, how to come back to yourself.
Even during the smaller, everyday things—ordering food, asking someone to pass the salt at dinner, he stepped in when it all got too hard to handle alone. He normally helped you get comfortable to do things for yourself, but when it all became too much he’d speak for you, without judgement. Sometimes he exaggerated a little for humor, but never in a way that made you feel small. You thought, he spoke.
In a way, he adored it. Not your anxiety—never the pain behind it—but the intimacy of being the one you let your guard down with. He loved being the person who knew how your voice cracked when you laughed too hard, the exact way your brows furrowed when you were thinking, the little things no one else saw. You were private and selective. And he got to be your exception.
He knew what it meant to be dismissed, to be misunderstood. You were both shaped by pain, just in different ways. He, the loud and theatrical firecracker. You, the quiet storm of tense nerves and unspoken, racing thoughts.
After the match, you sat on your bed, head in your hands. Shaking. Crying softly.
Mike followed quietly, slipping his arms around you and pulling you gently to his chest.
“Hey, baby. It’s okay.”
You sobbed into his suit, unable to speak. Agitated and raw, the memory of your teammate’s comment burned in your mind. You were embarrassed—frustrated with yourself for not being able to speak, for not defending yourself when you had so much you wanted to say.
"You did great,” Mike murmured. “You finished decoding. You were just a bit overwhelmed.”
He pressed a tissue to your cheeks, brushing away your tears with his thumb.
“I know how hard it is for you—and those bastards don’t make it any easier,” he added, the last part almost a whisper.
“But hey, who cares what they think? You did it. You’re learning to manage your fear, and I’m so damn proud of you.”
His words cracked through the haze. You looked up at him, and he smiled—warm, real—and then nudged his nose against yours before cradling you in his lap.
“It’s like… they think I’m stupid,” you said quietly. “Whenever someone talks to me unexpectedly, I just freeze and…”
“Hey,” he interrupted, gently but firmly. “Don’t you ever talk about yourself like that. The stupid ones are the ones who can’t even show an ounce of compassion. They don’t deserve to see you. You’re like a rare gem, baby—the most precious kind. And you’re not for everyone.”
He cupped your cheek.
“I’d have waited years just to discover how fantastic you are. And I’d do it all again.”
His presence was always calming — a steady kind of warmth that made you feel safe. The next time you saw that teammate, you decided to do something different: confront them. You told them — as calmly as possible, trying to hold yourself as confident as you could— how rude they'd been. Of course, they brushed you off with a scoff and more complaints.
But this time, something in you snapped.
You told them to fuck off. Bluntly.
No filter, no flinching.
The moment it left your mouth, adrenaline surged through you like you'd just outrun a serial killer. You didn’t stick around to see their reaction — you bolted straight to Mike’s room, heart pounding, cheeks flushed with shock and secondhand embarrassment.
You had practiced that exact moment in your head for a week.
And just like you'd hoped, Mike pulled you into a hug, his voice half-laughing, half-amused as he kissed your temple. You already knew he'd spend the next few hours showering you in praise, reminding you over and over how much he loved you — and how insanely proud he was.
