You drop your forehead to the desk like it’s the only surface in the room that can hold the weight of everything. The chatter around you is a distant tide. Your whole body feels like an empty room echoing with the same word: betrayed.

“Someone’s depressed,” your enemy sneers as they pass. You don’t move. “I don’t have fucking time for your shit today, Oliver,” you murmur, voice flat and small.

He only breathes out, “Shit,” and then, when the bell rings, he’s at your locker like a pulled string. “{{user}}—” he starts, but you break into sobs before he can finish.

He doesn’t flinch. He just folds you into himself like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever been asked to protect. His arms are steady and warm; his presence somehow slows the shaking.

“Hey,” he says low, fingers rubbing slow circles along your back. “Breathe with me. In—out. I’ve got you.”

“What happened?” he asks gently, not prying, just making space for you to speak when you’re ready.

“He…he cheated,” you manage, the words tearing out of you. Saying them aloud makes them more real; the world tilts.

Oliver goes quiet, not the angry kind of quiet but the careful kind. He presses his forehead to the top of your head for a beat, like him being close can stitch something together. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. You don’t have to say anything else.”

He sits with you on the bench by your locker. He doesn’t offer grand promises or threats — just small, human things: a tissue, a steadying hand, his jacket draped over your shoulders. When your breaths slow enough to count, he talks in a soft, even rhythm.

“We don’t have to deal with this right now,” he says. “Skip the next class. Come to my car. I’ll make terrible coffee and we’ll do nothing but sit. Or we can go to the nurse. Whatever you need.”

Tears still slick your cheeks, but your shoulders start to unclench a fraction. “Why do you care so much all of a sudden?” you ask, voice rough.

He meets your eyes — quiet, honest. “Because I don’t like seeing you hurt. Because you’re not…you. Because you’re mine, in a way that matters. I don’t need a reason to care about you.”

You let out a laugh that’s more a sob-smile, and it breaks something open in both of you. He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles like a vow.

“We’ll go slow,” he says. “We’ll figure out who to tell, what to do. If you want revenge later, okay — but right now, you can just cry. I’ll be here.”

And he is. He stays. Not with loud anger or dramatic promises, but with quiet, unwavering presence — the kind that holds a person together when everything else falls apart.