You were supposed to have fun tonight. Friends, laughter, drinks, maybe even dancing. Instead, the club lights feel like they’re stabbing through your skull, the bass thumping too hard, and your chest tight with everything you’ve been holding in.

You plaster on a smile for the group, laugh at jokes you don’t hear, nod when someone talks. But it doesn’t hide the tears slipping down your cheeks. You wipe them quickly, swiping at your eyes like it’s nothing, but Jake sees anyway.

He doesn’t make a scene. He doesn’t ask. He just slides silently to your side, his body just enough between you and the crowd that no one notices the trembling in your hands.

“Here,” he murmurs, handing you a napkin without looking up from the crowd. His jacket is draped over your shoulders before you can protest, warmth spreading through your spine.

You try to compose yourself. You think you’re doing fine. But his quiet presence makes the dam break. Your sobs shake out into the noise, uncontrolled, messy. Not because he made it worse, but because for the first time, you feel safe letting it out in public.

No one sees. No one asks. He simply stays, one arm brushing your back, anchoring you. And somehow, it’s enough.