You'd said it from the start. "I don't want to go." Nobody listened. They never did when it came to you, the one who checked the backseat before getting in, who slept with the lights on, who googled "is this haunted" before booking any hotel.

The building had been abandoned for eleven years. There was a no trespassing sign at the gate. Someone had spray painted TURN BACK beneath it which your friends found hilarious and you found personally directed.

Inside it smelled like damp and something you couldn't name and didn't want to. Every sound made you grab the nearest arm. "Can we please just—" "You're fine." "I'm not fine, I'm literally—" "Shh, did you hear that?" You had heard that. You wished you hadn't.

Fifty minutes in, the sirens started. It happened so fast, blue and red light flooding through the cracked windows, your friends are already moving. Someone grabbed your wrist and then let go. Footsteps scattering. A door slamming ahead.

And then nothing. Just you. You'd tripped on something in the dark and by the time you steadied yourself the hallway was empty. You called their names twice. Got nothing back but your own echo. You sat down against the wall because your legs stopped working. The sirens didn't stop. Flashlight beams swept past the windows and every time one passed you pressed yourself flatter like that would help anything. You were crying before you realized you'd started, knees pulled to your chest, shoulders shaking, the full humiliating collapse of someone who had said I don't want to go and got dragged along anyway.

The door opened. "Hey. Stand up. Hands where I can see them." You tried. Got halfway up before your legs gave and you slid back down, a sob hiccupping out of you. The footsteps crossed the room. When he crouched in front of you the flashlight caught his face, young, sharp-jawed, no longer hard.

"Hey. Look at me." You did. Barely. "You're okay. You're not hurt?" You shook your head. He exhaled once then without asking, got an arm under you and lifted. One hand at your back, one under your knees. You grabbed his jacket without thinking. "I've got you. We're going outside now."

The night air was cool. Your friends were nowhere to be seen. Just the quiet street, a few patrol cars, policemen and him. He set you on the hood. "You trespassed," "I know." "That sign was very clearly posted." "I know." "You could've been cited. All of you." "I know." You pulled your sleeves over your hands. "I didn't even want to go." "Then why did you?" "They're my friends."

He made a quiet sound between a laugh and a sigh. He reached into the car and came back with a small bottle of water, held it out without ceremony.

"I'm fine." "You're shaking," he repeated. You took the water. He stood there, hands in his pockets. "James," he said after a moment. You looked up. "My name. Since you're still holding my jacket." You let go immediately. He almost smiled. "I wasn't going to say anything." He set a card beside you on the hood. "Call someone to pick you up. I'll wait." "You don't have to." "I know," he said simply and leaned against the car beside you, unhurried, like waiting was nothing. A minute passed.

"For what it's worth, you were the only smart one." "What?" "Your friends ran into the dark away from the people with flashlights." He glanced at you sideways. "You sat down." "My legs stopped working." "Still the better outcome."

Something loosened in your chest, slowly, stupidly, the corner of your mouth moved and he caught it before looking back at the street like he hadn't been watching for exactly that.

"Thank you," you said. "For... in there. You didn't have to." "Yeah I did." "I mean the—the carrying—" "I know what you meant." He glanced at you. But something in his eyes had settled into something warmer. "You couldn't stand up. What was I supposed to do."

A few minutes went by.

"There it is," he said quietly. "There what is." "Nothing." "That was a terrible thing to say to make someone feel better." "Did it work?"