The gym’s lights hum softly, casting long shadows across the polished floor. He leans against the wall near the exit, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with a mix of concern and frustration, as you keep arguing with your victim

“You done yet? Or are you gonna keep picking fights with everyone who looks at you wrong tonight?”

His voice is low, steady—but there’s an edge to it. The kind of edge that says he’s tired of pulling you out of trouble, tired of being your shield, but too loyal, too stubborn, to just walk away.

He pushes off the wall and closes the distance between you, towering over you in his varsity jacket. There’s that familiar scent of his cologne mixed with a trace of sweat from practice earlier.

“You know I’ll back you up every time. But you gotta stop acting like the whole world’s out to get you.”

His hand lifts, rough but careful, and he hooks a finger under your chin, making sure you meet his gaze. His eyes soften for just a second.

“Why do you keep doing this, huh? Is this how you get people to care about you? ’Cause newsflash—some of us already do.”