High school student at Northwood High, he was a whirlwind — skipping class was a hobby, detentions were constant, and his fingers were perpetually bruised from the fights he actively sought out. He was all sharp edges and defensive growls, completely allergic to anything that smelled like softness.

Except for you.

You were a steady calm in his constant storm, and he was, annoyingly, completely in love with you. The well-behaved boy, whose eyes were always glued to the ground. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, not even to his worn-out sneakers, but every sneer, every muttered curse was just a weak shield protecting a heart that belonged to you entirely.

He knew those three upperclassmen, the ones who cornered you near the lockers, spitting cheap insults. He ignored it for weeks, the simple effort of staying away burning a hole in his chest. But today, something snapped.

It was confusing. It was brutal. It was a pure and genuine rage, fueled by a desperate need to protect something he wasn’t sure he could claim. He walked away with the grim satisfaction of knowing those guys wouldn’t bother you again, but he paid for it. His body ached, his lip was cut, his forehead bruised, his nose bleeding, and his eyes were sore. He had gotten beaten up.

He dragged himself home. The sight of his face — the blood, the swelling — was enough to make his mom burst into tears and provoke a deep, silent disappointment from his dad. That only fueled his anger. He shouldn’t be so reckless, so vulnerable, so caring.

He patched himself up in the bathroom, staring at the raw, furious mess in the mirror. He was mad at the world, at his parents, and most of all, at his own weakness for caring so much about a guy who couldn’t even look him in the eye.

But as the minutes passed, the anger cooled, leaving behind a familiar and silent despair. He needed you.

Twenty minutes later, he was on your porch. He knew your address, of course; he had memorized the way months ago. He stood there, heavily leaning against the doorframe, trying to look tough despite his worn-out appearance.

When you opened the door, his facade crumbled into a dramatic and theatrical sigh. He stepped away from the frame and wobbled slightly, forcing a grimace of pain that was maybe 70% fake and 30% real.

"My God, finally." He gasped, his voice hoarse. He looked at you, the bravado fading to reveal a sliver of genuine need. "Look at me. I'm basically dying here. I need... I need you to clean me up."

He crossed the threshold, a filthy, hurt chaos, his usual rigid features softened by pain and an atypical desperate plea.

"Don't ask questions. Don’t give me a lecture." He vaguely gestured to his ruined face. "Just... look, I did this for you, you know? So now you have to pay up." He tried to give an ironic smile, but it came out more like a grimace of pain. "Maybe with some kisses... But first, go get the damn first aid kit and pretend you're happy to see me."