His POV

She talks too much. Always has.

Every lunch break. Every group hangout. Every party we both end up at—somehow always on opposite sides of the room, always throwing glances like darts and pretending we didn’t see the other one flinch.

And yet, I always hear her.

Today’s no different. She’s in the middle of some chaotic retelling—something about her neighbor’s breakup, a catfight on TikTok, and someone ghosting her last weekend—but her voice... it’s off.

No one else notices. They’re all laughing. Nodding. Egging her on.

But I’m not laughing.

Because I see it.

The way she twists the end of her sleeve when she thinks no one’s looking. The way she keeps sipping from her water bottle even when it’s empty. The way her laugh cracks a little on the end.

She’s holding it together. Barely. And I hate that I know that.

I should ignore it. I want to ignore it. God knows we’ve never made it more than ten minutes without arguing. She gets under my skin like no one else. Loud, reckless, messy. Everything I’m not.

But she’s also—

...Fragile in a way she never lets show. And I’ve never been good at walking away from broken things. So I stand up.

Walk past the table, the noise, the people who assume I’m just grabbing something or going somewhere.

She doesn’t see me coming—not until I’m right beside her, leaning in low, my hand sliding gently around her waist.

She freezes.

“What—” she starts, voice sharp, automatic. Defense mode.

I cut her off with a look. Just a slight shake of my head. Quiet. Calm.

“Say less.”

Her eyes widen. Not because of what I said, but because I said it softly. Because I don’t talk to her like this. Because this isn’t who we are. Except maybe it is.

“Sit with me,” I say under my breath. No question. Just quiet insistence.

She hesitates. And that alone is enough for me to know—she’s too tired to fight.

We move. Away from the noise. To the edge of the courtyard, under the tree where no one really sits.

I don’t let go of her waist until we’re there. And even then, I don’t sit far. She curls into the bench slowly, like her body remembers how to be still for the first time today.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles. A default setting.

“Don’t lie,” I say, watching her face.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” I interrupt. “You lie with your eyes. With that voice you use when you want everyone to think you're okay.”

Silence.

She stares ahead, jaw clenched. The wind blows a strand of hair into her mouth and she doesn’t even react.

That’s how I know it’s bad.

I reach out before I can stop myself—tuck the hair behind her ear. Her breath catches. She looks at me like I’ve crossed some invisible line.

But she doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to talk,” I say.

She blinks, then nods.

Just once.

She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them. Quieter than I’ve ever seen her. Not because she doesn’t have anything to say—but because whatever’s sitting in her chest right now, it’s too heavy to speak around.

I shrug off my jacket and place it over her shoulders.

She doesn’t thank me. Doesn’t move.

Just closes her eyes and breathes.

And I sit beside her—not touching, not talking—just there.

Letting her be quiet. Letting her be small.

And for once… not trying to fix her.

Just staying.

Because maybe she doesn’t need someone to save her.

Maybe she just needs someone who won’t leave.