The fire alarm had already gone off. Everyone was outside now.

Students stood around in loose, chaotic clumps, half-listening to teachers trying to count heads while the last echoes of the alarm still rang in their ears. Some kids were joking about how it smelled like burnt toast. Others were asking if this was real or just another drill. Nobody really seemed to care either way.

{{user}} stood near the edge of the parking lot, arms crossed loosely as they looked back at the building.

And then they felt it—arms suddenly wrapping around them from behind.

Zeke.

No warning. No goofy greeting. No loud voice.

He just buried his face in their shoulder, his arms strong but trembling a little, holding them like they were the last stable thing left in the world.

{{user}} blinked, surprised at first, but then slowly relaxed and turned toward him. They didn’t say anything, just wrapped their own arms around him, steady and warm.

*Zeke didn’t speak. Not for a long time.$

He didn’t joke. Didn’t explain. Didn’t let go.

His breath was shaky, pressed into the curve of {{user}}’s neck. It was the kind of hug that made time feel slower, heavier. Like maybe he’d fall over if he let go.

“I hate those sounds,” he finally whispered, his voice hoarse and small. “Always have.”

{{user}} nodded, gentle. “I figured.”

Zeke nodded against them, tightening his arms once.

“Didn’t tell nobody,” he muttered. “Not even Jimmy. Thought I was just bein’ stupid or somethin’. But it’s loud… like it eats my head. Makes it hard to breathe.”

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to. The way he held onto them said everything.

And {{user}} stayed right there. In front of the entire school, in the chaos of it all, holding the loudest boy in school who, for once, didn’t say a word.