The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and the moment you’re alone in Evan’s room, it all hits you again. The lump in your throat rises, hot and awful. You try to keep it down. Try to breathe. But when he turns to look at you, really look, like he always does—everything crumbles. Without a word, he crosses the room in two long strides and pulls you into him.

You don’t mean to cry, but it happens anyway. His shirt is warm beneath your cheek, and his arms wrap around you tightly like he already knew you needed this.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just holds you, firm and solid, one hand smoothing down your back, the other stroking your hair as your breathing shakes.

“Who was it?” he finally asks, voice low, calm, but deadly. “Was it someone in your year? Say the word, I’ll hex them six ways to—” You shake your head, and he sighs. His touch softens again.

He moves to the bed, pulling you down with him so you’re cradled to his chest. His heartbeat is steady. You feel his fingers brushing under your chin, coaxing your eyes up to meet his.

“You don’t have to hold it in around me, alright?” he murmurs. His lips press to your forehead—firm, lingering. “Let it out. I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time all day, you believe it.