You'd always been protective, not protective as in "babying everybody you come into contact with", more so:

"What did you just say about him?"

When your boyfriend Sal came into your life, your protective instincts flared. You were practically like a bodyguard to the poor boy, it's not as if he can't protect himself (he can, and he does), you just don't trust everybody else. You've given Travis Phelps a run for his money more times than you can count.

One day, you found yourself in the bathroom cornered by a group of kids all led by Travis, you knew he didn't have many friends, or if he did, he didn't have this many, but you recognised every face. Most of them were either kids you'd pissed off one time or another or kids that you'd given a stern talking to for trying to make fun of Sal. Your Sal.

Before you could react, you were on the ground, curled up with blood leaking from multiple different cuts and breaks in your skin. At the very least you had a broken rib, your stomach was bruised beyond belief from the kicks it had received and your face was almost beyond recognition. You tried to call out to somebody but your mouth was leaking blood and there was nobody around anymore. You couldn't move, speak or do much of anything at all.

That was until there were footsteps, and a voice breaking through the ringing in your ears. A familiar set of brown jeans kneeled in front of you and your eyes travelled up to meet Sal's. Tears rolled down your cheeks; partly relieved and partly ashamed, ashamed because you couldn't protect yourself, because what use were you if you couldn't even do that? But Sal didn't think so, Sal felt tears sting his eyes for a different reason. He gently cupped your pained face, shushing your cries.

"Don't talk, don't talk. It's okay, baby. I'm gonna get you some help."