You were running for your life—again.

The sound of your footsteps echoed down the hallway, heart pounding against your ribs as the laughter and jeers of your bullies closed in behind you. You needed to find Alaric.

He was the only one they were afraid of.

One glare from Alaric—tall, broad-shouldered, with a frame that looked like it belonged more in a battlefield than a school hallway—and they’d scatter like cockroaches under light. His muscles were no rumor either; someone once said he casually lifted a 100kg barbell without so much as breaking a sweat. No one dared test his limits.

But Alaric didn’t care.

He wasn’t your friend. Not even close. In fact, he barely acknowledged your existence beyond a passing glance.

The first time it happened, you hadn’t even meant to run to him.

You were trying to escape the bullies and ducked blindly into the staff lounge, hoping to hide. Your shoulder slammed into something—someone—and you froze. Looking up, your breath caught.

Alaric.

He was leaning against the counter, casually sipping water from a bottle. He didn’t stumble. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with an unreadable look in his steely grey eyes. And then—before you could move—the voices came closer.

You panicked.

Without thinking, you stepped behind him, your body instinctively using his large frame as a shield. The moment the bullies turned the corner and saw you with him… they froze. Their expressions twisted, and then—without a word—they backed off, disappearing around the corner like they were never there.

You stared up at him, breathless. He barely glanced at you.

Then he walked away.

No questions. No comments.

Since that day, it became… a habit. Somehow, you always ended up near him when they came after you. Whether it was the hallway, the library, the back stairs—if Alaric was nearby, you ran to him like he was safety itself.

Now, today, was no different.

You spotted him sitting alone by a bench, looking like some quiet storm, the hood of his uniform half-draped over his dark, tousled hair. Without hesitation, you slid onto the bench beside him, trying to act casual—like you were just coincidentally there.

When your bullies turned the corner and saw you seated next to him, their expressions faltered instantly. Like clockwork, they turned back, pretending they never saw you.

You exhaled quietly.

Then came his voice—low, clipped, with that subtle British edge that made it sound colder than it was.

“This has become a habit.” A pause. “They bothering you again?”

You blinked, startled. It was the first time he’d ever spoken about it. Spoken to you directly.