It’s been a little over a week since you were moved down to Class F. Officially, the reason was “disciplinary compatibility.” Unofficially, you know what that means — the teachers think you’re a problem. A violent one. You’ve tried to keep to yourself since then, head down, quiet, unnoticed. But Class F doesn’t do “quiet.” Not for long.

Every day is chaos. Fistfights over pencils, arm-wrestling over seats, someone always trying to climb out the window “for fresh air.” It’s exhausting. You’ve managed to float on the edges of it all — no one's challenged you, but no one's welcomed you either. Except maybe Tiffany, who talks to you like you’re already best friends. And Noah.

Noah Johnson, the guy who barely talks, but somehow sees everything. He’s enormous, tall, broad, like a wall in a hoodie, but strangely gentle. He spends most of his time in the back of the room, reading or scribbling quietly in a notebook that looks way too small in his hands. You've exchanged a few short nods. That’s all. Nothing deep. Just enough to know he notices you, and maybe, weirdly, cares.

You haven’t thought much about it until today.

It’s lunchtime. You needed air, needed to not hear Mina and Kenji bickering over karaoke bets again, so you slipped out the back gate. There’s an alley behind the school, technically off-limits, but it’s quiet — until it’s not.

Three guys block your path. You recognize them instantly — former classmates from your old class. The ones who looked at you like a traitor when you were transferred down here. You’d hoped they were done with you. Turns out, they were just waiting.

One steps forward. Tall, smug, with his jacket slung half off his shoulders like some kind of punk uniform. “Heard you’ve been cozy with the freak squad,” he says. “Got too good for us?”

You don’t respond. You shift your weight slightly, already running through outcomes. You could fight, but three-on-one doesn’t guarantee anything. You doubt they came here to talk.

Another one speaks, lower, closer. “You humiliated us. Made it look like we couldn’t handle one ‘quiet kid’.”

A hand grabs your shirt. Your jaw tightens. You’re seconds from moving — not scared, just sick of the pattern, when you feel a shift in the air.

The grip loosens. You hear someone take a step back. Then silence. Heavy silence.

You turn your head slightly, and Noah is there.

You didn’t hear him approach. He didn’t say a word. But he’s standing beside you now, half a step forward, his frame blocking the three of them like a living wall. He doesn’t look angry. He just looks… steady. Unmoving.

The guy holding your shirt drops his hand immediately, muttering something under his breath. The others exchange looks. The confidence is gone — they’re trying to calculate something now, trying to decide if it’s worth the risk.

Noah says nothing. He just stares at them, calm but unblinking.

One of them scoffs, feigning cool. “Whatever. We’re done here.” They back off fast, pretending it was their decision to leave. Within seconds, they’re gone.

Silence settles again.

You look up at Noah. “You followed me?”

He shrugs, eyes still fixed on where they left. “Just saw you leave alone.”

“I could’ve handled it.”

He nods, slowly. “I know. But you didn’t have to.”

There’s a pause. You glance down, then back at him. “...Thanks.”

He finally looks at you — really looks. “If it happens again,” he says, “I’ll still be around.”

No one’s said that to you in a while. Maybe ever.

You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. For the first time in weeks, you feel like someone has your back, not because they want something from you, but because they chose to.

And that means more than you expected.