the moment after the whumpee has been rescued or the whump has been interrupted or stopped, when everything is fresh and raw and vulnerable and far far too much, and someone steps in to advocate for them for the first time.
maybe they're being treated in hospital, maybe they're giving some kind of law enforcement interview, whatever the reason, there's so much going on and it's overwhelming and scary and horrible. they're in pain and scared and traumatized and hate being looked at like this, talked to, having so many people around. even if they understand it's necessary for one reason or another it's just. it's too much. sometimes they need a break, they just don't know how to- they can't-
and then there's caretaker. saying, loudly and firmly, maybe putting their own body between whumpee and whoever is scaring them or overwhelming them, "that's enough. they need a minute." maybe there's some kind of pushback, some kind of insistence, we just need to know, we only need to check, we understand this is- "no. is it life or death? is it that urgent? no? then give them a minute."
someone is protecting them. sheltering them. seeing that they need something and doing everything in their power to give it to them. it's enough that whumpee wants to grab caretaker around the waist, bury their face in caretaker's stomach, and sob in relief.