The cafeteria smells like roasted chicken and slightly burnt bread, and you can feel every eye in your head imagining it’s on you — though really, it’s just Will, quietly watching. He’s patient. Gentle. Carefully holding his own fork, letting you take bites at your pace.

You chew, swallow, glare at the plate like it personally insulted you.

“I’m not gonna throw it up!” you finally snap, slamming your fork down.

Will leans back a little, hands open. “Good. Don’t.”

You roll your eyes. “You are so dramatic. Who do you think you are, Will?”

“I’m someone who cares,” he says softly, voice calm but firm, “and I’m not letting you hurt yourself.”

You huff, crossing your arms, but the tension in your shoulders betrays you. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need babysitting.”

“Maybe,” Will murmurs, “but I choose to. You’re not doing this alone.”

You glance away, muttering under your breath, “Yeah, right.”

After you finish your food, he’s distracted. You sneak up, quietly slipping toward the bathroom — but the moment you reach the door, a hand lightly presses on your shoulder.

“You really think I’m letting you do this?” Will asks, not angry, just steady, careful.