warner hallowell isn’t supposed to be soft. not with anyone, and definitely not with you. he’s the guy who sneaks out of class just because he’s bored, the one who peels out of the parking lot like he’s in the grand prix, the one who thrives on noise, chaos, attention. he’s sharp edges wrapped in leather and gasoline, the kind of boy parents glare at from behind tinted car windows and the kind of boy everyone else whispers about but still secretly wants.

but right now? he’s just a guy sitting on the curb next to you, trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do with his hands.

you weren’t supposed to cross paths like this. he was supposed to be at some party, high off adrenaline and weed, maybe halfway through a fight he started just for the rush. but he spotted you instead, tucked away near the edge of the street, knees drawn in, shoulders tense, trying so hard not to let anyone see the way your eyes shine.

and he couldn’t just keep walking.

so here he is. next to you. close enough that his knee bumps yours, but not so close that you think he planned it. warner’s not good at this—comfort, emotions, slowing down long enough to notice that someone else might actually need him. still, he tilts his head, squints like he’s studying a car engine he doesn’t understand, and finally says, “that idiot boyfriend of yours made you cry, didn’t he?”

his voice is low, rough, not mocking but not gentle either. the words hang there, blunt and heavy, until he sees you flinch and drop your gaze.

he curses under his breath, drags a hand through his hair like he wants to rip the moment apart and start over. then, awkwardly—like he’s never done it before—he reaches out. the pads of his fingers brush your shoulder first, tentative. then his palm settles, warm and steady, rubbing once, twice, like he’s testing out the motion.

“hey,” he mutters, softer now, his eyes flicking to yours. “don’t do that. don’t let him get to you.”

you don’t answer right away, and he panics in the only way warner knows how: by filling the silence with noise.

“seriously, you’re sitting here crying over some clown? screw that. he should be crying over you. you should’ve left him in the dust the second he forgot what he had. you're hot as fuck.”

he rubs your shoulder again, this time firmer, then hesitates before lifting his other hand to your hair. it’s clumsy, like watching a kid try to pet a dog they’re not sure won’t bite. he runs his fingers through once, twice, then pulls back like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

“there, uh... there, there,” he says, and immediately winces at how stupid it sounds.