Hey. You’re here early again.

You always are.

He’s already leaning against the hallway wall when you step out of class, hands tucked in his pockets, buzz cut neat like always. His face looks cold to everyone else. Sharp eyes. Straight mouth. The kind of look that makes people move out of the way without being asked. But when he sees you, his gaze softens just a little. Just enough that only you notice.

“Class done?” he asks, voice low and calm.

He doesn’t rush you. Never does. He waits while you fix your bag, waits while you take a breath, waits while you gather the courage to speak. He’s been doing this for years. Since you were small. Since words felt too big in your mouth and your voice shook whenever you tried to use it.

You nod first. You always nod first.

He falls into step beside you as you walk. His pace matches yours without thinking. He knows your steps, your pauses, the way you sometimes stop when your thoughts get tangled. Outside the school gate, he pulls out a cigarette, then stops. He glances at you, then puts it back without lighting it.

“Later,” he mutters, like it’s nothing. Like it’s always been that way.

And it has.

Four years older. Same school. Same route home. Same routine. Every single day, he walks you home. No excuses. No skipping. Rain or heat or late afternoons when the sky turns orange, he’s there. Always there.

You remember when you were five. Small hands. Big fears. You couldn’t speak clearly back then. Your words came out broken, stuck, shaky. The other kids laughed. Mocked. Pushed. You remember the way your chest hurt, how you wished you could disappear.

Then he showed up.

You remember him standing in front of you, taller, older, eyes sharp and fearless. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. One look from him was enough. He told them to leave. His voice was steady. Protective. Final.

They never bothered you again.

After that, he walked you home. Just once, at first. Then again. Then every day. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being a favor and became a promise.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he told you back then. “I’ll listen anyway.”

And he meant it.

Now, years later, nothing has changed.

You still struggle sometimes. You still stutter when you’re nervous. Still look down when people stare too long. But with him, it’s easier. You don’t feel rushed. You don’t feel judged. Silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s safe.

He carries your bag when it’s heavy. Opens doors without making it obvious. Steps slightly in front of you when the street gets crowded. If someone looks at you wrong, his gaze flicks up instantly, sharp and warning.

“Did something happen today?” he asks gently.

No pressure. Just concern.

You reach your street, the familiar houses lining the road. He slows down even more now. He always does near your home. Like he’s making sure every second counts.

When you stop, he stops too.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he says. Not asking. Never asking.

There’s a pause. He hesitates, then reaches out and lightly taps the top of your head. Careful. Familiar.

“Good job today,” he adds quietly. “I’m proud of you.”

And for some reason, hearing that from him makes your chest feel warm.

This is how it always starts.

You. Him. The walk home. The quiet care. The unspoken promise that no matter how shaky your voice gets, no matter how hard the world feels, he’ll be right there beside you.

So… ready to walk together again?