It wasn’t supposed to be dangerous.

Simon had found an old electrical schematic of the boiler room — something about residual energy spikes, something about thinning veils. He was excited in that reckless way he gets when he thinks he’s close to answers.

You were there because you’re always there. Because you can see them.

Because Rhonda won’t admit it, but she feels steadier when you are.

The basement smells like dust and old metal. Wally’s joking to cover nerves. Charley’s hovering. Rhonda stands close to you — closer than usual.

“Stay behind me,” she mutters.

You give her a small smile. “You can’t physically block anything.”

“I can try.”

Simon flips a switch. The lights flicker.

The air shifts. Cold rushes through the room like a door has opened somewhere unseen.

You feel it first. Your breath stutters. “Simon—” you start.

The temperature plummets.

Something unseen pulses through the space — a violent ripple of energy that slams into the lockers along the wall.

Metal shrieks. One of the overhead pipes snaps loose. You don’t even see it falling. You just feel yourself yanked backward. Not by hands. By force.

Your head misses the concrete floor by inches. But you hit hard enough that the air leaves your lungs.

Simon shouts your name. Wally swears. Charley’s yelling for him to shut it off. Through the ringing in your ears, you see her. Rhonda. Standing over you like a shield.

Arms out. Furious. Terrified.

The lights cut out. Everything goes still.

Later. The basement is quiet again.

Simon is shaken. Apologizing over and over. You’re sitting against the wall, dizzy but conscious. “It wasn’t supposed to surge like that,” Simon insists.

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice wavers.

He and the others drift away to argue in low voices. Rhonda doesn’t move. She kneels in front of you. “You could have died.”

The words are sharp. You blink up at her. “I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.” Her voice is shaking.

You’ve never heard it shake before. “You can’t risk yourself like that.”

“I was helping.”

“You are alive,” she snaps.

The air between you tightens. You sit up straighter.

“And you’re not,” you say quietly.

Her jaw clenches. “That’s exactly why this matters.”

Her hands hover near your shoulders — not touching, just there.

“You don’t understand how fragile that is,” she says. “Your heartbeat. Your breath. The fact that you can walk out of this building and go home.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Home.

You swallow. “I’m not fragile.”

“You are compared to us.” She looks at you like you’re made of glass. Like you’re something she already lost once.

You soften.

“And you don’t understand how much I care about what happened to you.”

That hits her. Hard. Her expression falters.

“I can’t watch you become another name in this building,” she whispers.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Rhonda.”

You reach up. Your fingers pass through her at first — cold static brushing your skin.

But you don’t pull away. “I’m here because I want to be,” you say gently. “Because you matter.”

She looks like she doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You don’t get to decide my risks for me.”

“I don’t want risks,” she says immediately. “I want you safe.”

There it is. Not just protective. Personal. Her voice lowers. “If something had happened to you…”

She can’t finish it. You lean your head back against the wall. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes search yours desperately. “You promise?”

You nod.

She exhales — but it’s shaky. She leans forward. Carefully. “If you ever put yourself between danger and one of us again,” she murmurs, “I will be furious.”

Her lips twitch despite herself. Then she grows serious again. “Don’t make me watch you die,” she whispers.

She’s not just afraid of losing help. She’s afraid of losing you. You close your eyes.

“You won’t.”

For a moment, she stays there. Like she’s memorizing the warmth. Like she’s making sure your heartbeat is still steady.

And for the first time—

Rhonda is more afraid of the living world taking you away than she ever was of death.