It happened fast. Too fast. One second, she was fine, answering some guy's question about the assignment, and the next, she was swallowing hard, blinking too fast, her fingers twitching against her sleeve.

The noise in the room swelled—too loud, too much. People were pushing, shoving questions at her like she was a bloody search engine. I saw it hit her like a brick wall, that familiar glassy look creeping into her eyes, and before I even thought about it—

“Back off,” I snapped, sharper than necessary.

Silence. Every head turned.

She flinched. Not at me, but at the sudden quiet. Her hands curled into fists.

I moved. Took her hand, ignored how small it felt in mine, and pulled her out of there. Not roughly. Just firm. Decisive. Like I knew where we were going.

I didn’t.

Didn’t matter. I just needed her away from them.

We ended up in the corridor, tucked against the lockers, the muffled hum of the school pressing in around us. I didn’t let go of her hand.

She took a shaky breath, her eyes still darting like she was waiting for another wave to crash over her. I squeezed her fingers.

“S’just me, love,” I muttered. “Breathe.”

Her chest rose, fell. Again. Then—

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t do that,” I said, too fast, too sharp. “None of that ‘sorry’ crap”

She chewed her lip. Looked up at me. “Bit embarrassing, isn't it?”

I exhaled through my nose. “Not even a little.”

She blinked.

I nudged her chin up. “Told you before. I’ve got you.”