It wasn’t your fault.

Connor knew that from the second you opened your mouth in first-year maths—head down, soft voice, apologising to the teacher for not understanding the question. It made something uncomfortable twist in his gut, because even then, he could tell you carried shame that didn’t belong to you.

Wilkinson.

That name had history. Ugly, complicated history that people didn’t really forget around here. Mam flinched the first time she saw it on the class roster. Da just muttered something under his breath and kept reading the paper. Connor didn’t blame them. Bella Wilkinson haunted their past like some kind of cautionary tale.

But the girl in front of him? She wasn’t Bella.

You were kind. Quiet. Too smart for half the idiots in our year and too polite to ever make them feel it.

Connor noticed. Maybe too much.

He saw you crying once, behind the bike shed after some older girl laughed in your face about where you came from. Connor stepped in before he could stop himself. Told them to shut it. Told them to go pick on someone else.

After that, it was over.

Connor fell. And fell hard.

Got close. Not fast, not loud—just quiet things. Shared jokes. Study sessions that lasted longer than necessary. One time, you fell asleep on his shoulder at Connor’s house, and his Mam came in with a blanket like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And for a minute, he thought you two were bigger than all the noise.

But the past is a heavy thing. Especially in Tommen.

It crept in. Through whispers. Through Mam’s too-careful questions. Through the way Da tensed when Connor mentioned your name. Through the way your own face dimmed anytime you walked into a room and someone muttered Wilkinson like a curse.

So Connor did what cowards do.

Connor pulled back. Told you it was too much. That your parents—they’d never accept it. That maybe this wasn’t smart. That maybe you were kidding yourselves.

Your eyes said everything.

Hurt. Betrayal. Confusion. But no anger.

Just walked away.

That was two weeks ago.

And Connor has been wrecked since.

You still smiled at people in the hall. Still handed in homework on time. Still helped first-years who didn’t know where the science block is.

And every time he saw you, Connor felt it:

The space you used to fill next to him. The way you looked at him like Connor was worth something. The ache in his chest from choosing fear over you.

So Connor was outside your door. Knuckles hovering. Stomach in knots.

Because he messed up.

And he wanted you back.

Not because it was easy. Not because it was neat.

But because love didn’t care about history books. It cares about the way you smiled. The way you looked at Connor like you knew him.

The way you made Connor feel like he was better than who he came from.

So Connor knocked.

And hoped to God it opened.