You hadn’t seen James all day.

He hadn’t met you for lunch like he promised. He hadn’t answered your last few texts. And while that wasn’t unusual — he was quiet by nature, sometimes slipping into his own head for hours — something about it felt different this time.

So you went looking.

You found him in his room, door unlocked, the afternoon light casting long, dusky lines across the floor.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head down. His knuckles were raw and bruised, bloodied across both hands. One side of his jaw was already turning a dark purple-blue, and a shallow cut curved from the edge of his cheekbone to near his ear. It looked like it had bled for a while before scabbing.

“James—” you breathed, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. “What… what happened?”

He looked up slowly. His gaze softened the moment he saw you, even through the swelling near his eye. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”

You crossed the room in seconds, dropping to your knees in front of him. “Don’t say that.”

He winced slightly when you reached for his hand, but let you take it anyway. His skin was warm and a little sticky with dried blood.

“Did someone—did you get jumped or something?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I picked the fight.”

You looked up at him, stunned. “Why?”

He hesitated — jaw tensing, lips parting, but no words came at first.

And then he said your name.

Just your name, so softly it cracked your chest open.

“He said things about you,” James finally muttered, his voice low and strained. “Not just rumors — mean, ugly things. About how you were easy. About how I must be desperate if I was wasting my time with you.”

Your stomach dropped. You didn’t need him to say who. You knew. You’d heard whispers. Teasing. Cruelness dressed as jokes.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do anything,” he continued. “That I’d ignore it. But then I saw him again, today. He said your name and he smirked. And I—I couldn’t stop myself.”