No one expected Leighton Murray to be gentle. Not really.

She was sharp-tongued, confident, always in control. The kind of girl who never let anyone see her hesitate—especially not in front of you. That’s why it surprised everyone when she was the first to notice you were missing from class after lunch.

“She was literally fine an hour ago,” someone shrugged.

Leighton didn’t respond. She just grabbed her bag and left.

She found you in the nurse’s office, sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, sleeve rolled up, a small bandage wrapped around your arm. You looked more shaken than hurt.

For a second, she just stood in the doorway. Then her voice softened in a way you’d never heard before.

“What happened?”

You looked up, surprised. “It’s nothing. I tripped on the stairs—”

She crossed the room in three steps. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s barely—”

“I said, you’re bleeding.”

She crouched in front of you without thinking, her movements slow, careful. Her fingers hovered near your arm like she was afraid to touch you wrong.

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

You nodded just a little. “Not really. I was just… scared for a second.”

That was all it took.

Her jaw tightened, not in anger—something closer to worry. “You should’ve called me.”

You blinked. “You wouldn’t have come.”

She met your eyes. “Try me.”

The nurse stepped out to grab more supplies, leaving the room too quiet for comfort. Leighton stayed right there, her hand resting just barely against your wrist, grounding, steady.

“You always act like nothing affects you,” you whispered. “But you ran across campus for this.”

She exhaled slowly. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“You’re making it a big deal.”

Her gaze softened. “Because it’s you.”

The words hung heavy between you. Honest. Unfiltered.

“I don’t do vulnerability,” she added quietly. “But you don’t deserve the tough version of me when you’re hurting.”