It starts in Biology.

The teacher’s going on about predator-prey relationships, food chains, survival instincts. It’s just a normal class for everyone else — but not for you. Not for Zach. You both survived the real thing.

And some people in this room think that’s funny.

“I mean, Zach probably aced the predator-prey unit,” one guy mutters a few seats back. “Dude took a field trip to a literal murder park.”

A couple students laugh. Even the teacher doesn’t bother stopping it.

Zach doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just slowly shifts his hand under the desk until it finds yours. You hadn’t realized your fists were clenched.

He holds your hand like an anchor — grounding, solid — but his voice is a blade.

“Don’t laugh,” he says quietly, gaze still fixed forward. “You weren’t there.”

The kid snorts. “Relax, Mitchell. Thought you’d be used to it by now. All that running, all that screaming… You probably see raptors in your dreams.”

His eyes flick to you.

“You too, Jurassic Barbie. Or does your little souvenir—” He nods at your collarbone, where the scar from the park peeks out from under your shirt. “—still burn when it rains?”

That’s when Zach’s chair screeches across the floor. He half-stands.

The entire class falls silent.

His eyes lock on the guy, and his voice — though steady — is shaking with fury.

“You weren’t there.” Beat. “You think it’s fucking funny?”

The teacher finally stammers something. Zach doesn’t sit down right away. Not until your fingers tug gently at his.

He eases back into his seat. His jaw is still tight. His grip on your hand hasn’t loosened.

And neither of you hears another joke for the rest of the period.