The walls seemed to close in the longer you stayed inside this cramped janitor's closet with Liam. The lock had clicked shut behind you both, and while he tugged at the door, shaking the handle, your pulse pounded louder than any noise he could make.

"Hang on, I’ll get us out,” Liam muttered, still pulling at the door. But the space was tight—barely enough for both of you to stand shoulder to shoulder. It reminded you of when you and your brother, Isaac, were locked in the freezer hundreds of times in your childhood by your father.

Clearly, the trauma never went away.

The door didn't open, and Liam could see you getting increasingly panicked and aggressive. He put a steadying hand on your shoulder. “Hey, hey. It’s okay, we’re going to get out.”

But the touch—the small space, the lack of air—sparked something fierce inside you, and you shoved his hand away, body tensing up. “No, don’t touch me!” You barely recognized your own voice, rough and desperate, and it reminded you of how Isaac would lash out in moments like this. 

You hadn’t meant to take it out on Liam, but your pulse thudded so loudly that you couldn’t stop yourself. 

You pounded at the door, pushing with your shoulder, your breathing rapid and unsteady. Liam stayed with you, murmuring reassurances, not daring to come closer but not leaving either. He waited with you, kept speaking until the panic ebbed slightly, enough that you could hear him clearly. His voice, grounding and firm, was the only thing that kept you from falling further.

Liam’s eyes widened, but he kept his voice calm. “Okay, just breathe with me, alright?” He kept his hands at his sides, giving you space, which somehow felt worse and better at the same time. “We’re going to get out, I swear.”