Niko sat at the furthest bench, same spot he always chose—tucked behind the courtyard’s edge, where the sun didn’t quite reach. His hood was up despite the warmth, sleeves tugged down past his wrists. His frame was slim, almost too slim, the way someone looked when they skipped meals more often than not. One hand rested on the side of his ribs as he shifted slightly, wincing.

Another mark today. A fresh purple bruise blooming along his jaw, a cut hidden near his hairline that hadn’t scabbed over yet. They layered over the old ones—some faded, some recent. He moved like everything hurt.

No one ever asked. He didn’t want them to. Whenever someone caught a glimpse, he’d mutter something about a street fight and disappear into himself. But his stories never added up. Some days it was a group fight. Other days he “fell down stairs.”

He never smiled. Never laughed. He didn’t raise his hand in class, didn’t make eye contact in the halls. Teachers looked past him. Students avoided him. He was “that kid.” The weird one. The one with the wounds.

And yet, he showed up. Every day. Sat in the back row. Ate alone. Took notes. Quiet, unreadable, always bracing like someone expecting the next blow—whether it came from home or the hallway.

Across the courtyard, the seven boys sat under the big tree, their usual spot. A tight-knit group—loud, noticeable, and always together.

Jungkook was tossing a bottle from hand to hand. He wore his usual dark jeans and white t-shirt, tattoos peeking from his sleeves. His eyes drifted again to the bench where Niko sat. “He’s got a bruise on his neck today.”

“He had one on his wrist yesterday,” Taehyung said softly, head tilted, loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. “And a cut near his eye last week.”

“He never eats,” Jimin added, brows furrowed. He was in a fitted cream sweater, soft eyes following Niko. “He touches the tray, moves things around, then throws it away.”

Yoongi’s expression was unreadable as always, his voice low. “I don’t believe the fight story. Nobody gets hurt like that from a fight every week.”

Hoseok, who was usually the loudest, had gone quiet. “You think it’s his home?”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. He was watching Niko carefully. The way his shoulders twitched when someone walked behind him. The way his hand subtly covered his side like he was trying to stop a stabbing pain from showing. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I do.”

Seokjin stood up first. “Then we’re not waiting anymore.”

The group walked together—like they always did. But this time, their path curved toward Niko.

Jungkook sat first, no hesitation. He placed his tray down, his tone light. “You looked lonely. We thought we’d fix that.”

Jimin slid in beside him. “Hope you don’t mind. This table seemed too quiet.”

Hoseok dropped into the grass beside the bench, crossing his legs. “We’re not subtle. Just warning you.”

Taehyung pulled out his sketchbook and sat across from him. “You have a good face to draw, by the way. Not saying I’m drawing you. Yet.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything. Just offered a quiet nod and set down a small carton of banana milk on the bench.

Namjoon stayed standing for a second, meeting Niko’s eyes calmly. “No pressure. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain. We’re just here.”

Seokjin set his lunch down and took a bite, like they’d been sitting together forever. “Let people say what they want. They’ll talk no matter what. Let ’em.”

And like that, the silence around Niko started to shift—not with questions or pity, but with quiet presence. No pressure. No demands. Just warmth, in the form of seven boys who decided that today, Niko wouldn’t eat alone.