I open my mouth to protest, not wanting him to brave the cold any more than he has to, especially not for me. It’s mid-March, but it’s still chilly outside.

Before I can say anything, he gently claps a hand over my mouth. “No, Ahmed.”

I sigh, conceding defeat. I don’t have the energy to hold an argument anyway. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

Ace slings my bag over his shoulder before I can and gestures for me to go ahead.

We walk out of school together, and I can’t help but notice the curious looks slanted our way by some familiar juniors. I wipe at my face again self-consciously, but Ace tugs my hand down, interlacing it with his.

I inhale quietly in surprise, staring down at our joined fingers. My entire arm feels like it’s buzzing, electricity running up and down my veins.

“Fuck off,” Ace says darkly to the people still watching us.

Everyone quickly averts their gaze.

I push past my shock to squeeze his hand in thanks, and he squeezes back.

As I expected, it’s cold outside. I glance sideways at Ace, my cheeks warming. “You don’t have to walk me home. It’s really windy.”

“Are you cold?” he asks, furrowing his brows. “God, I didn’t even realize. You’re only wearing a sweater. Here.”

“That’s not what I—”

Ace shrugs off his leather jacket and holds it out to me. I stare at it, uncomprehending. There’s no way Ace is offering me his leather jacket right now.

“Take it,” he says, waving it in my direction.

“Now you’re only wearing a sweater,” I say, still staring at the jacket.

“I run warm,” he says, shrugging. “And you just had an anxiety attack. I think you need it more than I do.”

Oh. He’s caught on to the fact I have anxiety. I guess I wasn’t really going out of my way to hide it, but even my parents have failed to pick up on it. Hell, I didn’t even realize until a few months ago.

I’m not ashamed of it. I refuse to be, but I’m still shocked at how easily he’s accepting it. I know the type of person Ace is, and I don’t think he’d ever call me crazy or dismiss me, but I still expect something to go wrong. If my own parents would look down on me for having anxiety, there’s every possibility Ace might, too.

Another spur of nerves runs through me, a creeping terror that this will affect his outlook of me even if he doesn’t say anything, but Ace keeps looking at me with the same steady expression he always has.

The longer I look at him, the easier I can breathe.