By the time it hits, you’re not even in his class.

It starts small—too fast to stop. Your breathing stumbles, your chest tightens, thoughts stacking over each other until none of them make sense anymore. The room feels wrong. Too loud. Too close.

You don’t stay.

You can’t.

You’re already out of your seat before anyone notices, pushing past the door, down the hallway—steps uneven, vision unfocused. You don’t think. You don’t explain.

You just go. Because you know where.

By the time you reach his classroom, your hands are shaking. The door is still open. Welt looks up the moment you step inside. He doesn’t need to ask. He’s already moving.

The shift in your breathing, the way you can’t quite stand still—he reads it instantly, closing the distance between you before the door even fully settles behind you.

“It started again.”

Calm. Certain. Like he expected you.

You don’t answer—you can’t.

Your hand reaches for him instead, unsteady, instinctive, like it’s done this before. Like he’s the answer your body remembers even when your mind can’t keep up.

Welt stills for the briefest second. He knows what this means. Knows what this is becoming. But not now.

Not when you’re like this.

His hand comes up without hesitation, catching yours before it can fall away—steady, grounding, firm enough to anchor you without trapping you.

“…You made it here.” Quieter now. Closer.

His thumb shifts slightly against your hand, a subtle, deliberate motion meant to pull your focus back.

“Look at me.”

Not sharp. Not demanding. Just steady.

“Slow breaths. Don’t fight it.”

He adjusts his stance just enough to block out the rest of the room, narrowing your world down to something smaller. Safer.

To him.

“I’ve got you.”

And he doesn’t let go.