It storms a lot in Spring. The years pass day by day, and Jake doesn't bother to keep track of the months or the seasons, but he knows when it's Spring, because he never gets any sleep. Amir couldn't shake the phobia even if he tried (which he isn't). Every night Jake has to stay up and keep him calm, keep him safe.

Amir digs his nails into Jake's skin like a cat, claws at his back and neck – he's stopped bothering with concealer. Everyone knows already. There isn't an hour they don't spend together, now.

The worst part is the humidity. It gets so hot and sweaty just walking around the apartment; touching Amir's skin when he's all worked up is like laying his hand on a hot stove. Amir's eyes are unfocused or squeezed shut, usually he cries. Jake's got this Pavlovian reaction to it now, even when Amir tears up in the office. The urge to make him feel better the only way Jake knows how.

Amir needs it, but some nights it's like feeding a pill to a dog. He struggles, trying to find a way out of his own skin, to escape New York. He runs circles around the apartment, breaking dinnerware Jake didn't wash yet, tearing posters off the walls. Jake tackles him and shows him the eye of the storm, makes him feel the hard floor on his back and Jake's soft lips on his neck. He overpowers the rolling shudders of the building, talks over the thunder, lets Amir focus on his face in each flash of lightning.

Amir can sleep after that. He still wants to be afraid, but his body is too used and tired and blissed to let him worry long. Jake cleans Amir up and gets him back into bed, then hops under the covers himself. After a while spent contemplating earplugs, headphones, Amir's gentle snores send him to sleep. This feels like a better solution.