She was there again. Same table. Same silence. Same full lunch tray pushed to the side like it offended her.

Hughie wasn’t the type to pay much attention to people who clearly didn’t want it. And she made it painfully obvious she didn’t. The posh girl with the cold stare and sharp tongue. Always alone, always untouchable.

But even untouchable people had shadows under their eyes. Even the strongest-looking could fade.

And she was fading.

Week by week, she’d gotten quieter. Paler. Smaller. It didn’t sit right with him.

So he did something about it.

“Move over,” he said, dropping his bag and sliding onto the bench beside her before she could object.

She blinked at him, startled, nose wrinkling. “Excuse me?”

“I said move. I don’t bite. Much.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is there something you need?”

He glanced at her tray. Still untouched. “Yeah. I need to know why you’re starving yourself.”

The words hit like a slap. Her entire body stiffened. “I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose, standing up like that would end the conversation. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“No, you don’t,” Hughie said, calm but firm. “But I’m still not walking away.”

She looked down at him, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who claimed she was “fine.”

“I just… forget sometimes.”

“No one forgets for three weeks straight,” he said, softer now. “You’re not fine. And you don’t have to explain yourself to me, but you need to talk to someone.”

Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something—defend herself, maybe, or scream, or cry—but instead, she sank back down beside him.

Hughie didn’t push. He just pulled a granola bar from his blazer pocket and set it between them.

“Take it. Or don’t. I’ll still be here tomorrow.”