The break room door closes behind me.

The silence is immediate.

I press my palm to the back of my head.

It comes away red.

For a moment, I just stare at it.

The warmth I felt wasn’t imagined.

There’s blood.

And suddenly the storm from earlier doesn’t feel like it’s outside anymore.

It feels like it’s inside my skull.

I sink down onto the small vinyl bench beneath the lockers, elbows on my knees, fingers threading into my hair with a care that is already too late. My scalp throbs in slow, punishing waves. Each pulse feels synchronized with the humiliation replaying in my mind.

He grabbed me.

In front of everyone.

The customers. Jay. Lia.

Blake.

The thought of Blake seeing it  seeing me yanked backward like something small and powerless  makes my chest tighten in a way the pain alone does not.

I close my eyes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Count.

It doesn’t help.

It never really does.

The spiraling is familiar. It begins subtly  a single thought, sharp and accusing.

You should have handled it better.

Then another.

You should have been stronger.

And then they come faster, overlapping, louder. My grip tightens against my own skull as if I can physically compress the noise into something manageable.

The door opens softly.

I don’t hear it.

I don’t hear anything except the rush of blood in my ears.

It isn’t until warmth presses against my back that the world shifts.

Arms.

Strong. Solid. Familiar.

They wrap around my torso from behind not tight enough to trap me, but firm enough to anchor. A chest against my shoulder blades. A chin hovering near my temple.

Blake.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just holds me.

And for a moment a brief, fragile moment I let him.

Because this is not new.

When we were younger before football took over his life and writing swallowed mine there were afternoons like this. After bad games. After worse days. After arguments at home he pretended didn’t matter. He would find me. Or I would find him.

And we would sit.

No questions.

Just contact.

It was easier then. Simpler.

My breathing slows without my permission.

The storm dulls to a distant rumble.

Then it registers.

His arms are around me.

Now.

We aren’t kids anymore.

We are not twelve and hiding from the world in some imaginary fort of invincibility.

We are seventeen.

And this is different.

I stiffen.

Blake must feel it, because his grip loosens slightly not withdrawing, just adjusting.

That only makes it worse.

I stand abruptly.

The room tilts violently. My vision blurs at the edges. I sway.

“Whoa”

His hands move instinctively, catching my waist before I can pitch forward. Fingers spread against my sides, steadying me. My palms land against his chest for balance.

For a second we are too close.

Too aware.

His hands are warm.

Mine are shaking.

“Don’t,” I snap, the word sharper than I intended. “Don’t do that.”

His brows knit together. “Do what?”

“That.” I gesture vaguely between us, stepping back or attempting to. The movement pulls at my scalp and I wince. “You can’t just grab me like that.”

“I wasn’t grabbing you,” he says quietly. “You were spiraling.”

The word hits.

Spiraling.

Like it’s a habit. A pattern. Something he’s catalogued.

Heat floods my face humiliation mixing with the throbbing ache in my head.

“I was fine.”

“You were not fine.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix it.”

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t trying to fix it.”

“Then what were you doing?”

He hesitates and that hesitation makes something inside me panic.

“I was just” He exhales sharply. “Adrian, you were shaking.”

“And that gives you the right to just put your hands on me?”

The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re unfair.

But the pain, the embarrassment, the memory of being yanked by the hair in front of a room full of strangers it’s all tangled together, and Blake is the nearest thing to push against.

His hands fall from my waist as if burned.

There’s something wounded in his expression now.

“I was trying to help.”

“I don’t need you to help,” I say, louder than necessary. “I need you to respect boundaries.”

The room feels smaller. Thinner.

Blake takes a step back.

“Okay,” he says.

Not defensive.

Not angry.

Just… quiet.

That makes it worse.

I swallow hard, pressing my fingers to my temple again. The pain spikes.

“Adrian,” he tries once more, softer this time, “you’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“Let me”

“No.”

The word cracks between us.

Silence stretches.

Heavy.

Unfamiliar.

We have never done this before  this sharp-edged, almost-stranger version of ourselves.

He nods slowly.

“Fine.”

He moves to the small first-aid cabinet without looking at me again, grabs a towel, and sets it down on the bench beside me.

“In case you change your mind.”

Then he leaves.

The door closes behind him with a softer click than before.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the towel.

My chest feels tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the injury.

I sink back onto the bench, pressing the towel to the back of my head. It stings.

I don’t know which part of this hurts more.

When I step back onto the café floor a few minutes later, Jay notices immediately.

He always does.

His eyes flick from me to Blake, then back again.

Blake is at the register now, movements efficient, expression neutral in a way that feels deliberate.

Jay doesn’t say anything at first.

He just hums.

Which is worse.

Lia narrows her eyes, reading the air like it’s fabric she intends to tailor.

Jay leans toward me as he hands off a drink. “You two good?”

“We’re fine,” I say automatically.

Blake says nothing.

Jay’s gaze sharpens.

Oh.

He sees it.

The space.

The stiffness.

The way Blake doesn’t say “Sunshine” when he passes me the next receipt.

Jay smiles slowly.

And that smile means trouble.

“Hey,” he calls out casually, far too casually. “Since we’re clearly alive and thriving, how about we make this interesting?”

Blake doesn’t look up. “Jay.”

“What?” Jay shrugs. “Little morale boost. Blake versus Adrian. Coffee-making contest. Customers decide.”