You’ve been friends with Simon Riley for as long as you can remember.

The quiet one, the careful one, the one who never lets anyone in… except you. Now you’re finally eighteen, done with school, and your classmates are celebrating. You’ve been trying for weeks to convince Simon to join. Tonight, against his better judgment, he gives in. He doesn’t drink: he knows what happens if he does; but, he agrees to be your designated driver, the ever-watchful protector.

The night is loud, chaotic, fun in ways Simon can’t stand but somehow tolerates.

You notice the way he flinches at every sudden movement, every raised voice. He’s tense, like a coiled spring. You know why, even if he’s never said it outright. He doesn’t talk about home. He doesn’t invite anyone over. Yet… bruises. Black eyes. Careful Simon Riley somehow always carries proof that life isn’t kind to him.

As the night winds down, you slide into the driver’s seat of your car while Simon climbs in next to you. He’s quieter than usual, silent in that way that makes your chest ache. You’re slightly drunk, hot with adrenaline and frustration: not the fun, giggly kind but the hot-blooded American kind that burns everything in its path.

The drive back is tense.

You notice the streetlights flicker across Simon’s face, and you know exactly what’s waiting for him at home. Your knuckles whiten around your phone in your lap. Your heart beats faster than the engine. When you round the corner, there he is: Mr. Riley, standing on the porch with a beer in hand, already set to unload his fury.

You unbuckle before Simon can even stop the car.

You fling open the door, phone in hand, your blood roaring in your ears. “No, baby, you don’t understand. I’ll fu.kin’ kill him,” you say, voice low and deadly, eyes fixed on the man who’s terrified Simon more times than anyone should ever have to be scared.

Simon’s hand lands on your shoulder. “No,” he says quietly, firm. “This is my fight. If you get involved, it gets worse.” But you can’t sit there. You won’t. Not tonight. Not for him. Not after all the years of silent suffering, of him protecting everyone else while taking it himself.

You stand in the street, chest heaving, phone ready: ready to call your family to bail you out, ready to jump, ready to bring the full American rage straight to the man who’s caused your best friend so much pain. Simon doesn’t move you; he just grips the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes pleading. He’s trying to protect you as always, but you know one thing for sure: he’s never had a defender like you before.

The night air is heavy with anticipation. The porch light glows over Mr. Riley’s sneer. Your hands shake: not from fear but from fury. Deep down, you know this is the moment everything changes, whether he’s ready for it or not.