The courthouse steps were swarming with people—reporters shouting questions, camera flashes breaking through the cold, gray air. Jacob kept his head down, shoulders tense under the weight of it all. His hoodie was zipped halfway, the familiar green t-shirt underneath visible only when the wind tugged at his jacket.

You were right there beside him, your hand tucked into his sleeve, fingers gripping just enough for him to feel you. You could hear the sharp click of cameras, the muffled thud of footsteps, the murmur of strangers whispering his name as if it were a headline and not a person.

“Jacob!” someone barked from the crowd, and you felt his arm stiffen. He didn’t look up. You knew why—looking meant seeing the judgment in their eyes.

“Don’t,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

His gaze stayed locked on the ground, but the tension in his arm eased. You shifted closer, your shoulder brushing his. The smell of his shampoo, faint under the cold air, grounded you both.

When the press surged forward, a hand pressed against Jacob’s back—his father’s, firm and guiding—but Jacob tilted his head slightly toward you. “Still here?” His voice was almost lost under the noise.

“Always,” you answered without hesitation.

For a moment, it was just the two of you, the chaos muffled like it was happening behind glass. You could feel his heartbeat in the way he held himself—fast, uneven—but his breathing slowed just a fraction. You were his anchor, the one thing in this storm that hadn’t turned against him.

As the three of you pushed through the crowd toward the courthouse doors, Jacob’s hand brushed yours. It was quick, almost accidental, but deliberate enough for you to understand. You didn’t need to see his eyes to know—he was holding on, just as much as you were.

Inside, the noise faded. But you still didn’t let go.