You don’t even remember what class you just walked out of.

Your legs move on autopilot, carrying you down the hall while the distant murmur of students talking and lockers slamming blends into meaningless noise. You should be heading to lunch, or maybe the library—somewhere normal, somewhere you’d usually go. But everything feels wrong, like there’s something pressing down on your chest, squeezing tighter with every step.

You check your phone again, even though you already know what’s there.

Did you hear about the body?

Your fingers tighten around your phone, and your stomach twists. Your skin feels too hot, but your hands are ice cold.

The hallway feels too bright. Too loud. Your heartbeat is an unnatural rhythm in your ears, drowning out everything else, and suddenly you can’t tell if you’re walking too fast or if the floor is just tilting underneath you.

There’s an empty classroom ahead—the door left cracked open, the lights dim inside. You slip in without thinking, closing the door behind you.

The moment the latch clicks, your knees give out. You barely make it to the floor before the shaking starts. Your breath comes too fast, too shallow, like your lungs are working against you. You press your hands against the cool tile, trying to ground yourself, but nothing is working. The walls feel like they’re pressing in, and you can’t—

The door opens.

You don’t look up. You can’t. But then—

"{{user}}?"

You hear the sharp inhale, the shift in his tone—concern, but not panic. He’s seen this before. Knows what this is. You find that there’s a hand hovering over your shoulder.

"Hey," Stiles says, softer this time. He crouches down, close but not touching, giving you space. "Can I—?"

You don’t answer, but maybe you don’t have to. Because then he moves, slow and careful, slipping an arm around your back and pulling you in. Not forceful, just steady. Warm. Real.

"You’re okay," he murmurs, his voice quiet, like he’s trying not to startle you.