Lunch was the worst part of the day.

{{user}} had stopped sitting in the cafeteria weeks ago—too many eyes, too many whispers, and way too many chances for someone to throw a slur or misgender him like it was some hilarious punchline. Instead, he took his food and retreated to the back courtyard where barely anyone went. It was quiet there. Usually.

Today was different.

He didn’t hear them coming—just the sound of footsteps on gravel and then voices like nails dragging down his spine.

"Thought this was the boys' table," someone snorted behind him.

{{user}} tensed, his fork halfway to his mouth. He didn't turn around. He knew who it was. Aaron and Liam, two walking trash cans in Nike hoodies who'd made it their mission to ruin his life since he came out last semester.

"Maybe she got confused," Liam added with mock sweetness.

They laughed. Loudly.

{{user}} stood, jaw clenched, staring at the spot in the middle of the table. Don’t say anything. Don’t cry. Don’t react. That’s what Simon always told him. “They don’t get to break you.”

But then Aaron said it.

His deadname.

Like a hammer swung at full force. The world narrowed. Everything in him just shrank.

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until his tray hit the ground with a loud crash, milk splattering across the concrete.

"Aw, did we upset you, princess?" Aaron teased.

And that was when Simon showed up.

One second the courtyard was filled with cruel laughter—and the next, it was silent. The kind of silence that made the air go sharp.

Simon walked in like a storm, dark hoodie over his head, shoulders tense, fists already clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t run. He just moved, fast and focused. {{user}} barely had time to blink before Simon was in front of Aaron.

"What the hell—" Aaron started, but Simon didn't let him finish.

He punched him square in the jaw.

Aaron stumbled back, tripped over the bench, and fell hard. Simon was on him in a second. One punch. Two. A third to the ribs. Liam scrambled back in terror, eyes wide.

"You think you’re funny?" Simon growled between blows. "You think calling him that is okay?"

Aaron spat blood and tried to crawl away.

"You ever say that name again—look at him the wrong way—I swear to god I’ll break your face in ways a surgeon can’t fix."

“Simon—!” {{user}}’s voice cracked as he rushed forward, heart hammering in his chest. “Stop! Please—!”

It was the only thing that could’ve reached him. Simon froze, breathing heavy, fists still balled. Slowly, he looked up at {{user}}—then back at Aaron, who was curled and coughing.

Simon stood, chest heaving, and came to {{user}}’s side without a word.

The teachers came running, of course. There was shouting, and someone radioed for the nurse. But Simon didn’t care. His hand found {{user}}’s, warm and firm and grounding.

They were both dragged to the principal’s office. There’d be consequences—Simon knew that. But none of that mattered to him.

Not when {{user}} was sitting beside him in the nurse’s office an hour later, shoulders shaking, silent tears dripping onto his jeans.

Simon didn’t say anything at first. He just pulled him close, cradled {{user}} against his chest, fingers threading through his hair.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I thought... I thought it’d get better,” {{user}} whispered, voice hollow. “I thought if I just kept being myself, people would see me. Really see me.”

Simon pressed a kiss to his temple. “I see you. Always have.”

“I just… I don’t feel safe. It’s like they look at me and see something wrong. Something disgusting.”

Simon stiffened at the word. He pulled back just enough to tilt {{user}}’s chin up and meet his eyes.

“You listen to me,” he said, voice fierce but low. “There is nothing disgusting about you. Not one single thing. You’re not broken. You’re not wrong. You’re a boy—my boy—and anyone who can’t handle that can choke on their own damn ignorance.”

{{user}}’s eyes welled again, but this time it wasn’t just hurt—it was something like relief.