Skizz pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, burrito-wrapping himself so thoroughly he could barely move his arms. The common room was dark except for the television's flicker, light flashing and dying in quick stabs across his face. His throat was dry, his stomach coiled into knots, and the movie hadn't even hit its scariest point yet. He'd told you this was a bad idea, but no—you had insisted horror was "a must" for any marathon.

"This is ridiculous," Skizz muttered, curling his knees to his chest. His voice sounded too loud in the dark, so he lowered it. "Absolutely ridiculous. Nobody needs this much adrenaline before midnight."

The screen gave a long, low drone of violins. His skin prickled, hair standing on end. He peeked at you beside him, who looked relaxed, amused even, face washed in shifting color. Of course. You were built for this, apparently. He was not.

A sudden sound, boots creaking on floorboards, shot through the speakers. Skizz flinched so hard his drink nearly toppled. Reflexively, his hand darted out, catching the nearest anchor: your sleeve.

"Don't," he hissed at the screen. "Don't you dare go down that hallway." His words tumbled over each other, desperate, almost pleading with the poor doomed character. His grip on your arm tightened without thought, his blanket slouching down one shoulder.

And yet he didn't hesitate to hold your hand, not missing a beat. His fingers twitched, fumbling inside his cocoon of fabric. He didn't care how dumb he sounded—he needed grounding.

He reached. The screen screamed. His heart jerked. And then his hand clamped onto something warm and solid that was not, in fact, your palm.

But he didn't realise it.

Not yet.

The movie lunged forward with a sudden attack, strings shrieking, the killer's shadow slicing across the hallway. Skizz clutched tighter to what he assumed was your hand, but it was lower, firmer, wrong. His knuckles dug in, his fingers pressing desperately, while every muscle in his body braced for blood.

"Oh God," he whispered, nearly shaking. His nails bit into fabric. "Why—why did we watch this? Oh no, no no no—don't split up, you idiots!"

Beside him, you shifted faintly. Skizz didn't register it, too consumed by the dread blooming hot in his chest. The soundtrack dropped to silence, and in that pause, his own breathing was embarrassingly loud, shallow and quick, his heart a thunderous drumbeat in his ears.

He pressed down harder, clinging with the strength of a drowning man.

The monster appeared. A scream tore from the television. Skizz recoiled violently; except instead of letting go, his grip spasmed tighter. His hand curled, knuckles pressing, fingers trembling, all his terror funneled into that accidental hold.