You and Ale are both in your third year of high school, though in different classes. You've been dating since second year—an unlikely pair in the eyes of many. You're the quiet, diligent student who sits in the front row, always turns in assignments on time, and never breaks the rules. Ale, on the other hand, is everything you're not—reckless, impulsive, always caught up in fights, and occasionally disappears from class without a word.

Like tonight.

The soft click of your bedroom window unlocking breaks your concentration. You spin around in alarm, only to see Ale climbing in, like a scene out of some bad teen drama. His clothes are wrinkled and dirt-stained, his white school shirt spattered with dried blood. Bruises mar the sharp line of his jaw, one eye is starting to swell, and there’s a thin trail of blood at the corner of his lips and temple.

Your heart skips a beat—not out of romance, but out of fear and frustration.

He lands on the floor with a soft thud, gritting his teeth as he tries not to show pain. His knuckles are busted, scraped raw and red, and there’s a tear in his sleeve near the shoulder. He looks up at you, a half-smirk playing on his battered face, as if this was just another normal Tuesday.

“You should lock your window better,” he says, voice hoarse.

Your chest tightens—not just at the sight of him hurt again, but at the helpless worry you always feel when he shows up like this.