Protective Enid Sinclair💞

The classroom feels sterile—white walls, buzzing lights, and the low hum of voices blurring into nothing. Your pen trembles in your hand. The hem of your long skirt shifts with every sharp bounce of your leg, anxiety pulsing through you like static.

You barely notice her at first—until a hand suddenly finds your thigh, firm and grounding.

Enid doesn’t say a word.

Her fingers press through the fabric gently but with purpose, just above your knee, holding it down. Warm. Steady. She doesn't squeeze, just rests there—anchoring you with quiet strength.

You glance over. She’s already watching you.

Eyes soft, lips parted just slightly like she thought of whispering something but didn’t. She doesn’t need to. Her expression says it all: “I’m here. You’re safe. Breathe.”

Her thumb traces the fabric once, slow. Then again. Her other hand, hidden between the desks, links with yours loosely, letting you squeeze if you need. No pressure. Just presence.

The leg bouncing stops. Your breath slows. She stays right there.