He hates parties.

Too loud. Too close. Too many eyes watching him like they’re waiting for something to go wrong. He keeps his back to the wall out of habit, shoulders tense, expression locked down—because that’s safer. People leave him alone when he looks mean.

Then he sees you.

You’re standing there, half-listening to people talk about him like he’s not ten feet away. He catches words—mean, scary, violent—and swallows the familiar sting. He’s used to it.

What he’s not used to is the way you don’t look afraid.

Curious. Unsure. But not scared.

Something in his chest softens immediately.

He exhales, uncrosses his arms, and pushes off the wall. Each step toward you feels heavier than it should—he never wants to intimidate you. He slows, lowers his shoulders, makes sure his voice will come out calm.

When he reaches you, he stops a respectful distance away.

“Hey,” he says quietly, eyes gentle despite everything else about him. “Sorry if they’re being… idiots.”

A pause. Then, softer—almost shy:

“Mind if I stand with you? Parties are easier when I’m not alone.”