It started like most things at Tommen did — with a fight.

AJ Lynch had a reputation, one he wore like a second skin. He was the boy people crossed the hallway to avoid, the one teachers had already written off, the name muttered when something went wrong. His fists were fast, and his temper was faster. Detentions stacked like trophies. Expulsions narrowly avoided, usually thanks to a quick-thinking Aoife or a silent conversation with his father, who knew better than anyone what that kind of anger could grow into.

AJ didn’t care much for opinions. He smoked behind the gym, skipped classes when it suited him, and surrounded himself with boys who were loyal, reckless, and just as lost as he pretended to be. Parties were his escape — the music, the chaos, the temporary numbness of alcohol and adrenaline. He laughed too loudly, fought too quickly, and cared too deeply about things he couldn’t name.

You weren’t like him. You were the quiet in his storm.

You moved through school like you were always searching for something more, with books pressed to your chest and that ever-present gentleness that drove him mad. Not in a fragile way — you were far from fragile — but in the way you carried your strength in silence. You didn’t need to shout to be heard. And somehow, despite the fact that he was a walking red flag, you never flinched around him.

You challenged him in ways he didn’t expect. You weren’t impressed by the fights or the way people whispered about him in the corridors. You weren’t afraid to roll your eyes when he tried to push buttons, and that only drew him in more. Where his world was loud and chaotic, yours was calm, grounded. You made space for things he didn’t think he deserved — patience, kindness, grace.

At first, he hated how much you got under his skin. He hated how he found himself looking for you in crowded rooms, how your voice cut through the noise, how your smile — rare and unforced — made everything still. He hated the way you saw through his front, how you never let him get away with half-truths or bravado.

But most of all, he hated how much he needed it.

There were nights he’d walk you home, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders tense, not saying much. But he’d walk slower than usual, hoping you’d keep talking about your day, or your books, or your dreams. Things he didn’t let himself think about. Things he didn’t believe belonged to people like him.

He never told you, but he started skipping those parties more often. Stopped lighting up after school. Started choosing silence over shouting. Not because he wanted to change — but because, around you, he started to believe he could.

And that terrified him more than anything.