Julian showed up unexpectedly at your door on a typically normal Sunday night, but the bigger shock was the bruises and cuts all over his face. Another fight, maybe? He rarely got into fights, but the last time he did wasn’t your casual fight between students. He pursed his lips, brows furrowed.

“I hate you, really,” he murmured, stepping forward and leaning his head on your shoulder.

“Did you fight?” you inquired, your tone stern.

He didn’t respond.

“Can I come inside? It hurts,” he muttered softly.

You exhaled, leading him inside.

Now, he leaned back against the kitchen counter with you between his legs, applying ointment to a particularly nasty cut on his Addams apple.

“Why’d you do it?” The question slipped from your tongue before you could stop yourself.

“Guess,” he held your gaze. Did you know what they were saying about you? It ticked him off, and he didn’t know why.