The cafeteria is its usual chaos—plastic trays slamming, the hum of half-heard conversations, the smell of pizza grease and cheap coffee—but Puck barely notices any of it. He’s leaning back in the booth, one arm slung over the cracked vinyl seat, laughing at something Artie’s saying when he feels the shift beside him. A familiar weight settles at his side.

He looks over.

She doesn’t say a word.

She just slides into the seat next to him, shoulders curled inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her eyes stay on the table as she reaches into her bag. The noise of the cafeteria feels louder suddenly, sharper, like it’s pressing in on them. Puck’s smile fades without him even realizing it.

Then she places a Sharpie in his hand.

Carefully. Like it matters. Like she needs him to take it seriously.

After that, she rests her arm on the table between them.

Puck’s breath catches—just for a second. He’s seen the scars before, knows them like he knows the freckles on her nose or the way she taps her foot when she’s anxious. Faint white lines crisscross her skin, old and healed, but still there. Still telling stories neither of them say out loud anymore. His jaw tightens, not in anger—never at her—but at the world, at the stupid weight of days that hit too hard.

He doesn’t say, What’s wrong? He doesn’t say, Are you okay?

Because today isn’t about questions.

Puck shifts closer, his knee knocking against hers under the table, grounding both of them. He curls his fingers around her wrist gently, like she’s something fragile and strong all at once. His thumb brushes over her pulse, slow and steady, until he feels her breathing match it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low enough that no one else can hear. His voice is softer than he ever lets it be. “I got you.”

He uncaps the Sharpie with his teeth and sets to work.

He starts small—a little star near her wrist, the kind he used to draw in his notebooks when he was bored. Then a smiley face wearing a mohawk. A dumb little lightning bolt. His hand moves with care, never pressing too hard, like the act itself is a promise. He adds words too, squeezed between the doodles where only she will see them: Still here. Still you. Not alone.

As he draws, he talks—quiet nonsense, on purpose. Complains about Coach Beiste’s drills, about how Finn stole his fries yesterday, about how the cafeteria pizza is probably a federal crime. He keeps it light, keeps it normal, because he knows how heavy her head feels right now.

Every so often, he glances up at her face, watching the tension ease from her shoulders, watching her fingers uncurl. The storm in her eyes doesn’t vanish—but it softens, just enough.

When he’s done, he caps the Sharpie and presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, right next to the ink.

Lunch keeps roaring around them.

But in their corner of the booth, Puck stays right there—solid, steady, choosing her, every single time.