The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed faintly, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat. Your eyes stung, your chest felt tight, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop shaking. It had been too much too many people, too many assignments, too much noise. You’d broken down in class, and your teacher had gently sent you to the office to wait.

The secretary had made the call. Not to Mike, not to your mom, but to Billie. Because sometimes, when things got this bad, he was the one who understood.

You sat curled up on the bench in the main office, staring at the floor tiles. Every so often you wiped at your face, but the tears kept coming anyway.

Then the door opened.

Billie walked in, his dark hair messy under a baseball cap, worry written all over his face the moment he spotted you. He didn’t even bother with the front desk he just crossed the room quickly and crouched down in front of you.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said softly. His voice was calm, steady, not demanding anything of you. “Rough day, huh?”

You nodded, unable to get words out.

He opened his arms slightly, waiting. You leaned forward without thinking, and he wrapped you up in a hug right there in the office. His hand rested lightly on the back of your head. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain right now. I’ve got you.”

When he stood, he kept a protective arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here,” he murmured. He signed you out quickly, and before you knew it, you were in his car, the world suddenly a little quieter.

The engine hummed, the road sliding by, and Billie didn’t push. He just let you breathe, the silence safe instead of heavy. Finally, after a few minutes, he glanced over at you.

“You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready,” he said gently. “But I want you to know—I’m proud of you for getting through today, even if it didn’t feel like it. You called me without even saying it out loud. And that was enough.”