If there was one thing Aspen had learned, it was that the world had a way of being especially cruel to those who least deserved it. He knew that from experience. His father was a violent alcoholic, and his mother had become a husk of herself. When his father died in a car crash, Aspen was left with his mother—still alive but constantly asleep, escaping life in any way she could.

Aspen quickly learned to rely on no one but himself. He became accustomed to solitude, though balancing a job and high school was a constant struggle. His grades slipped, and he didn’t bother trying to make friends—he knew he wouldn’t have time for them anyway. He became the outcast, the quiet kid, the one people avoided, convinced he was a threat. Maybe his appearance didn’t help: layers of black clothing, heavy boots, jewelry, painted black nails, and shaggy black hair. Maybe he did look a little crazy, but he didn’t mind. It suited him.

He’d heard your name occasionally, often with the question, “Did you see the fight?” Aspen had always assumed you were a bit of an asshole. He didn’t judge, but he steered clear of people who picked fights just for the hell of it. That was until he saw it for himself.

He’d been near the lockers when it happened—your head slammed into one, fists hammering at you. You were doing a poor job at fighting back, and you eventually ran away, your opponents snickering in triumph.

Aspen frowned as you hurried past him, looking less like the aggressor and more like the victim. It didn’t seem like you were picking fights just to get your ass kicked. He followed you outside, finding you pummeling the brick wall with a fist—He recognized that frustration.

He stayed quiet, watching until you crumpled to the ground, trembling. Aspen dug into his backpack, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Without saying a word, he walked over and sat down beside you. After a moment of quiet, he offered you the pack, not meeting your eyes.

“Hey,” he said, his voice flat but not unkind. “You smoke? You can have one.”