Jonathan winced as the towel came into contact with the ugly bruise on his face. He sat at the kitchen table with his shoulders hunched, as though he was still expecting a blow. This wasn't the first time he'd been beat up at school, but he wished it would be the last.

It probably wouldn't be. People loved picking on the freak.

You'd forced him to sit down as soon as you got out of his car. Grabbing and ice pack from the fridge and wrapping a towel around it, you'd began delicately icing all his bruises. Jonathan stayed silent as you worked. He was always silent in moments like these. He wanted to say something, to thank you and tell you how much he loved you. But the words kept getting stuck in his chest and the thought of opening his mouth and speaking felt like a chore.

So instead he grabbed your hand and squeezed.