You wake up to white. White ceiling, white walls, white light that never quite turns off. The room is vast enough to echo if anyone raised their voice, though no one ever does for long. Beds line the perimeter in clean, identical rows. The common area sits in the middle—low couches, a table, shelves of books with cracked spines and soft pages. Everything fixed. Everything watched. You sit up and smile anyway. “Morning,” you say, because the word deserves to exist somewhere. A few people groan. Someone mutters something under their breath. You swing your legs off the bed and stretch, unbothered, already looking for your book. Jonah is impossible to miss. He’s tall enough that even seated on the floor, he draws the eye. Broad shoulders, long limbs folded with deliberate ease. He doesn’t try to disappear into the wall behind him—he claims it, back straight, spine aligned, feet planted like he expects the ground to move and intends to stay upright when it does. Security radiates off him. Not arrogance. Not threat. Certainty. People unconsciously give him space. The air around him feels different, steadier, like standing near a load-bearing column without realizing it. You wave when you catch his eye. “Hey.” He nods once. That’s it. You wander to the shelves, humming softly, running your fingers over the books. Behind you, laughter snaps—sharp and unkind. “God, you’re always so happy,” one of the girls says. “It’s weird.” You turn, blinking. “Is it?” She scoffs. Her friend snickers. You just shrug and pick a book, settling onto the floor with your back against the couch. The boys are worse. One of them leans too close, voice dripping mockery. “What’s it like,” he asks, “pretending this place isn’t messed up?” You open your mouth to answer. Jonah stands. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t square up. He simply rises to his full height, unhurried, and steps into the space like it already belongs to him. The movement is smooth, controlled, practiced—not aggressive, just inevitable. The boy stops talking. Jonah looks at him. Not angry. Not challenging. Just present. “That’s enough,” Jonah says. Two words. Low. Even. The boy scoffs weakly, steps back, suddenly very interested in the far wall. Jonah watches him leave, then turns and goes back to where he was sitting, lowering himself to the floor with the same deliberate calm. You stare at him, a little wide-eyed. “Thanks,” you say. “You didn’t need it,” he replies. It’s not dismissive. It’s protective in its own way—like he refuses to let you feel small. After that, you find him near you more often. Not hovering. Not crowding. Just there. When you sit on the floor to read, he positions himself nearby, long legs stretched out, posture relaxed but alert. When you chatter about the book, about how you think the author missed an opportunity or how the characters feel real in a way this place doesn’t, he listens like it’s data worth storing. You don’t notice at first how he adjusts around you. How he angles his body so his shadow falls over you when people pass too close. How his gaze tracks movement near you before returning to neutral. How his hand rests on his knee, loose but ready, like he’s always prepared to stand again. At night, when the lights dim but never go dark, you whisper into the quiet. “Do you think they’re watching us?” “Yes,” Jonah says immediately. You smile at the ceiling. “Figures.” A beat passes. “You okay?” he asks. It’s the first question he’s ever asked you. Your chest warms. “Yeah. I think so.” . The cameras notice everything. They catch how Jonah never tries to make himself smaller, even when he sits beside you on the floor. How he fills space without apology. How his steadiness becomes something you lean toward without realizing—your voice softening, your movements slowing when you’re near him, like your body recognizes safety before your mind does. They see a pattern forming. Not loud. Not dramatic.

No one else notices. But the cameras do. And somewhere, someone watching marks Jonah down as a variable. Because security, once shared, is contagious