The day started like any other. A little too hot for morning, the school hallways buzzing with half-hearted energy, the usual crowd of Kooks pretending to care about pop quizzes and homecoming flyers.

You and Rafe had barely spoken that morning. He was late—again—and you’d rolled your eyes when he gave you that sheepish grin outside your locker, kissed your cheek, and said, “See you at lunch.”

Only, you never made it to lunch.

The first sound was mistaken for a locker slamming. The second one wasn’t. Screams tore through the hallway as panic erupted. Doors slammed shut. Teachers yelled to get down. You hit the floor before you could think, heart in your throat, limbs shaking.

You didn’t know where Rafe was. Just that he wasn’t with you.

He was two halls over, trapped in a classroom with desks flipped and a chair jammed against the door. He was losing his mind. Not because of the chaos—but because he didn’t know if you were okay.

You tried texting. No service. Tried calling. Straight to voicemail.

Rafe was pacing like a caged animal, fists clenched, whispering curses under his breath. The teacher begged him to sit down, but he couldn’t. Not while you were out there. What if you were hurt? What if this was the last thing he ever said to you—‘See you at lunch’?

You were shaking, curled beneath a desk, arms around your knees. You were praying—something you hadn’t done in years—that he was okay. That he was safe. That he would find you.

And when the lockdown ended—sirens blaring, chaos unraveling—he did.

Rafe ran—shoving through crowds, ignoring every order to stay back.

He found you in the gym corner, pale and frozen.

Dropping to his knees, he pulled you in like he needed to feel you breathe. And you held on like letting go wasn’t an option.

“Don’t worry, baby. It’s gone. You’re safe,” Rafe whispered, holding you tight. “I swear, nothing’s gonna touch you—not while I’m here.”