The bell rang sharp, slicing through the usual hallway chaos. Lockers slammed. Students spilled out of classrooms in waves. But Simon Riley didn’t move. Hood pulled low, eyes sharp beneath it, he scanned the corridor—looking for you.

You weren’t at your locker.

You weren’t outside your class.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His breath slowed.

Then he saw you.

You were at the far end of the hall, half-supported by the school counselor. Your steps were sluggish, unfocused. You looked like you were barely standing, like your body was still catching up from whatever had just happened behind that office door. He could see how out of it you were—eyes dull, head tilted, every movement a struggle.

“Just take it slow,” the counselor said quietly as he guided you out. “You’re alright. Just dizzy, probably. If it happens again, come straight back here, alright?”

You nodded, but your legs buckled.

Simon moved instantly.

Not a word. Not a sound. Just the scuff of his shoes on the tile as he closed the distance. When your head finally lifted and your gaze landed on him, something in your expression shifted—recognition, relief. His arm slipped around your waist without hesitation, grounding you. Steady. Safe.

The counselor looked at Simon, then at you, then gave a small nod. “She’s okay now,” he said. “But take care of her, yeah?”

Simon didn’t respond. He just held you a little tighter.

He always found you. You were the only one he talked to. And right now, you didn’t have to say anything either. He had you.