The lecture hall had been buzzing with low chatter as everyone got ready to take notes, but you sat stiff in your chair, hunched slightly over your desk. The ache in your stomach had been nagging all morning, sharp enough that it made it hard to focus on anything Billie Joe Armstrong—your med school professor—was saying up at the board.

Billie noticed. He always seemed to scan the room, not just to check who was paying attention but who looked off. When his eyes landed on you, his brow furrowed just slightly, and while he kept teaching, you could feel him glancing back at you now and again.

Halfway through the lecture, he paused, dropped the marker on the ledge, and said, “Alright, group work for the next fifteen minutes. Run through the practice case studies.”

The room filled with noise, but instead of joining a group, Billie walked straight toward your desk. He crouched down just enough so you didn’t feel like he was towering over you. “You’re not looking so great, kiddo,” he said quietly, voice low enough that no one else could hear. “Stomach?”

You nodded, pressing your hand against your middle.

Billie softened, his expression somewhere between teacher and concerned uncle. “Alright. Don’t push through this, okay? I’ve seen that look too many times in patients—and I don’t want you to end up in worse shape.”

You tried to mumble something about being fine, but he just gave a little shake of his head. “Nah. You don’t have to prove anything here. School’s important, sure, but so is you.”

He gestured toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s step out for a minute. Quiet hallway, less noise. I’ll walk with you, make sure you’re alright.”