Angel walked like she was trying not to fall apart. Her hands hung stiff at her sides, trembling. Her breath kept catching halfway in, halfway out, like her lungs had forgotten the rhythm. She stared at the ground, at the scuffed toes of her worn shoes, at the cracks in the sidewalk that she counted without meaning to. One. Two. Three. If she just kept moving. If she just kept putting one foot in front of the other, she might make it home before the panic fully swallowed her whole.

She didn't make it.

The collision was sudden and hard — the solid weight of another body against her shoulder, the impact jarring through her frame. Her balance tipped, her body tilting sideways before a hand caught her elbow, steadying her before she could hit the ground.

Aaron.

For a second, neither of them moved.

He looked older now — broader in the shoulders, jaw sharper, his skateboard hanging loose from his other hand. There was a scrape on his knuckle, dust on his jacket, his dark hair falling messily over his brow. But his face was still the same one she remembered from years ago, from a classroom and a time that felt like someone else's life.

Except the second he really saw her, every trace of ease vanished.

His grip loosened instantly. Careful. Not trapping. Just there.

Aaron's jaw tightened. A brief, barely-there clench before he forced it gentle again. He took a slow breath, then shrugged off his hoodie. The fabric was worn soft, still carrying his warmth. He held it out instead of trying to put it on her himself — an offering, not an intrusion.

But she didn't walk away, either.

And Aaron understood that for what it was.