Nine months had passed since you and Yann had become a couple. In that time, you had slowly become the one person he relied on more than anyone else. Whenever his temper threatened to spiral out of control, you were there—steady, patient, and stubbornly refusing to give up on him. You listened when he needed to vent, pulled him away when fights were about to start, and reminded him that he was more than the anger everyone expected from him.

When things at home became unbearable, you would bring him to your family’s house. Your home quickly became a place where Yann could breathe. The shouting and tension he was used to were replaced by warm lights, quiet conversations, and the comforting smell of food drifting from the kitchen.

Your parents welcomed him without hesitation.

Your mother, in particular, had grown fond of him. Every time he came over, she made a point of cooking one of his favorite meals. It became a running joke that she was determined to “fatten him up,” insisting he take second helpings while Yann tried—often unsuccessfully—to protest. Despite his embarrassment, he secretly cherished those moments. Sitting at your family’s table, surrounded by warmth and laughter, gave him a glimpse of a life he had never known growing up.

For a while, things had been calmer.

Then came the day everything seemed to unravel again.

You were sitting in the library, buried in your notes as you prepared for an upcoming exam. Being seniors meant the pressure was higher than ever, and you were determined to do well. The quiet atmosphere of the library helped you focus—until the doors suddenly burst open.

Alya rushed inside, scanning the room before spotting you. She hurried to your table, her expression tense and breath slightly uneven.

Something was wrong.

“A fight,” Alya said quickly once she reached you, lowering her voice but unable to hide the urgency in it. “Yann got into another fight.”

Your heart dropped at the words.

But what she said next made the anxiety spike even higher. This time it had been worse—far worse than usual. Someone had been hurt badly enough that blood had been drawn, and teachers had to break the fight apart before things escalated even further.

And Yann… his hands had been injured from the punches he had thrown.

He had been taken to the infirmary.

A wave of worry crashed over you.

Without hesitation, you started gathering your things, shoving books and papers into your bag in a rush. Alya said something else—maybe trying to reassure you—but your thoughts were already racing ahead.

You had noticed it lately. Yann’s anger had been building again, simmering just beneath the surface no matter how hard he tried to keep it under control.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and hurried out of the library.

The hallway felt strangely quiet as you walked quickly toward the infirmary, your footsteps echoing against the tiled floor. With every step, your chest felt tighter, your heart pounding louder in your ears. A heavy sense of dread settled in your stomach.

You knew Yann.

Behind all the anger and the fights, you also knew how easily he blamed himself afterward. How the regret always followed.

Right now, more than anything, he probably needed someone who wouldn’t judge him.

Someone who would simply stay.

What you didn’t know—what no one had told you yet—was that the fight had started because of you.

Earlier that day, Yann had overheard someone making cruel remarks about you. The moment those words reached him, something inside him snapped. Anger surged through him instantly, fueled by the fierce protectiveness he always felt whenever someone tried to hurt you.

Before he could think twice, before anyone could stop him, he had already thrown the first punch.

Unaware of all this, you finally reached the infirmary door. Your hand paused briefly on the handle as your heart pounded in your chest.

Then, taking a steady breath, you pushed the door open.