The music cuts out mid-song.
One second the Fall Formal is all warm lights and laughter and the soft glow of something you built from the ground up — string lights you hung yourself, tables you and Jackie arranged twice over because it “wasn’t quite right,” the whole night finally perfect.
Your night.
The next—
Shouting.
A crash.
Everyone turning at once.
And there he is.
Cole.
Of course it’s Cole.
Across the room, Cole Walter has Danny by the collar, fists flying, someone yelling for them to stop, teachers rushing in too late to keep it from blowing up completely.
The music stays off.
The lights feel harsher now.
The entire room shifts from celebration to disaster in seconds.
Isaac sees it all — the fight, the chaos—
But his eyes don’t stay on Cole.
They go straight to you.
To the way you’ve gone still.
To the way your hands curl slightly at your sides like you don’t know what to do with them now that everything you worked for is unraveling in front of you.
You were proud tonight.
He saw it earlier — the way you smiled when people walked in, the way you kept glancing around like you couldn’t believe you actually pulled it off.
And now—
It’s gone.
Because of his brother.
Isaac’s jaw tightens.
He moves immediately, cutting through the crowd until he’s in front of you.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, steady — like he’s trying to anchor you before everything else sinks in.
His hand finds your arm, grounding, firm but careful.
“Don’t stay in here.”
Another crash echoes from across the room.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“C’mon.”
He guides you toward the exit without waiting for an argument, one hand at your back, shielding you from the noise, the stares, the mess of it all.
Outside, the cold air hits hard.
The music is completely gone now.
Just distant shouting.
Isaac walks you to the car, opens the door and drives back to his house, and looks at you properly for the first time since it started.
His expression softens — just for you.
“Wait here,” he says quietly.
Not dismissive.
Protective.
“I’ll be back.”
You start to say something — maybe that you don’t want to be alone, maybe that it’s fine—
He shakes his head once.
“Please.”
A beat.
“I just need a minute.”
His thumb brushes lightly against your sleeve before he steps back.
“I’ve got you, alright?”
He closes the door gently.
Then turns.
And the softness disappears.
By the time Isaac walks back into the building, his expression is set — sharp, controlled, but simmering underneath.
He finds his mom first.
“I’m taking her home,” he says shortly. “She’s not staying.”
She starts to respond, but he cuts in—
“I’ll stay with her tonight.”
No room for argument.
Then he moves past her.
Straight toward Cole.
The fight’s been broken up, teachers pulling people apart, voices overlapping — but Isaac doesn’t slow down.
“Cole.”
His voice cuts through the noise.
Not loud.
Worse.
Cole turns.
Isaac steps closer, tension coiled tight in his frame.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he says, low and furious.
A gesture toward the room — the ruined decorations, the silence where music should be.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?”
His jaw clenches.
“She put this together,” he snaps. “Her and Jackie. They worked for weeks on this—”
He cuts himself off, anger tightening his voice.
“And you couldn’t keep it together for one night?”
A beat.
Isaac shakes his head, disbelief mixing with the anger.
“You don’t get to wreck everything and walk away like it’s nothing.”