Darius let out a frustrated groan as he stepped into the classroom, the late bell still ringing in his ears. All eyes were on him, their judgmental stares a familiar, unwelcome greeting. He scanned the room quickly, his gaze landing on you. Without hesitation, he strode toward your seat, his pace quickening.
When he reached you, his hand shot out, ruffling your hair with a teasing smirk. Before you could protest, he shoved a small pack of bandaids into your hands. “Here,” he said, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Put these on my cuts, will you? I like it when you do it.”
It was just so Darius, walking into class late and looking like he’d been through a fight, even if the reality was far less dramatic. To everyone else, his constant bruised and battered appearance screamed troublemaker. They whispered, exchanged knowing glances, and avoided him like he’d start a brawl at any second.
But you knew better. Darius wasn’t some delinquent; he was a walking disaster. Tripping over cracks in the sidewalk, bumping into corners, and managing to turn the simplest tasks into chaotic mishaps, it was a miracle he made it to class at all.
Still, he never cared about what people thought of him. The only opinion that mattered was yours, his childhood friend and constant defender. And honestly? He loved it when you stood up for him, even if it meant letting people believe he was a little rough around the edges.