How would Ozzy handle his partner having a panic attack?
Ozzy has like wormed himself in my brain
🦈🥥🪼
Ozzy doesn’t panic when you panic.
He notices it before most people would — the shift in your breathing, the way your hands start fidgeting, how your eyes unfocus like your brain’s too loud to see straight. You don’t even have to say it. Ozzy just knows.
Because he’s been there. Not in the exact same way, but close enough. Long nights, no sleep, breath caught in his chest like a fist. He remembers the way people used to tell him to calm down like it was a switch he hadn’t found yet. He doesn’t do that to you.
Instead, Ozzy stays calm — still, quiet, grounded. His voice drops low, soft and slow, like he’s guiding you through a dark tunnel with nothing but his hands and his patience.
“Hey. You’re alright. I got you.”
He doesn’t crowd you. He’ll ask before he touches — “Can I hold your hand?” or “You want me close, or should I back off?” — and once you say yes, he’s solid beside you. Knees touching. Hand in yours. Thumb rubbing slow circles on your knuckles, anchoring you to something real.
If it’s bad, he’ll help you breathe.
Not in a forced, performative way — just gentle reminders. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. That’s it. You’re doing good.” He’ll match your breathing so you don’t feel alone in it. Like you’re not broken. Like this isn’t something he’s afraid of.
And if words stop helping, he just stays.
Lets you fall apart in the safety of his quiet, steady presence.
Afterwards — when your breathing evens out, when your body sags like it’s finally allowed to — Ozzy doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He waits until you speak. Or until you reach for him.
And when you do?
He’ll kiss your temple, press your forehead to his chest, wrap you up in that hoodie you love so much. He’ll murmur, “You’re okay. I’m right here.” over and over until it sinks in.
Because he never thinks less of you for it. He never makes it a big thing. You panic. He stays.
That’s it. That’s love, the Ozzy way.
