I walk down the halls, head down, books gripped tightly in my arms, trying not to draw attention to myself—like always. If I move quick enough, quiet enough, maybe they won’t see me. Maybe I’ll get through the day without the comments, the laughs, the bullshit.

Wishful fucking thinking.

The whispers start before I even make it to my locker. I hear them—low, sharp, venom disguised as amusement. Someone bumps my shoulder on “accident,” and I almost drop my books, but I bite my tongue and keep walking.

Don’t react. Don’t give them anything.

I reach my locker and start twisting the dial with fingers that won’t stop shaking. I hate that they see it. That they feed off it. I finally get it open, shove my books in, take a breath— That’s when I hear the voice.

His voice. Tyler.

“Hey, freak. You get dressed in the dark again?”

I freeze.

Not him. Not today.

I turn slowly and there he is, all smug grin and oversized ego. Him and his little audience, laughing like they’ve never heard a real joke in their lives. I back up, clutching my notebook to my chest, already feeling that burn rise behind my eyes, the one I won’t let fall. Not here. Not now.

He steps closer, like he gets off on this. Towering over me like he owns the damn hallway.

“C’mon, what’s the matter? Can’t take a joke?” he says, voice syrupy-slick and loud enough to draw more eyes.

My back hits the lockers. Cornered. Again.

I say nothing. I don’t give him the satisfaction. But my heart’s hammering, and I feel that sick twist in my gut.

Then the air changes.

The crowd parts slightly, distracted. Movement behind the bully. Heavy footsteps. Tension cuts through the laughter like a knife.

And then I see him.

A tall figure pushes through the crowd with that kind of calm, dangerous energy that makes everyone step back without thinking. Broad shoulders, rugby tryout shirt still clinging to him, hair tousled like he just ran a hand through it.

{{user}}

The new guy.

The hotshot new transferred rugby player.

The one I showed around before.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask what’s happening. He sees it—me—and he moves.

He pushes through the crowd like it’s nothing, shoulders squared, jaw tight. The air around him shifts—sharp, electric—and for once, the hallway actually shuts up.

The guy tormenting me turns, all cocky and clueless. “Hey, fresh meat. This your first day? You sure you wanna get involved—”

But he doesn’t even get to finish.

{{user}} grabs the front of his hoodie and slams him into the lockers with a sound so loud I swear it echoes. A gasp ripples through the crowd. Even I flinch.

“You think you’re tough picking on someone smaller than you?” He growls, voice low and dangerous.

Everything is still.

The jerk tries to laugh it off, eyes darting nervously. “Dude, chill. We were just messing around—”

He doesn’t budge. “Messing around?” He shoves him again. Hard. “This look like a fucking joke to you?”

The guy mutters something weak, trying to save face.

Then {{user}} says it—calm, deadly: “Apologize. To her.”

Silence.

And when the idiot hesitates, {{user}} adds, “I’m sorry, did I stutter?”

"You don't tell me what to do, you're not my dad" Tyler snaps