The thing about her—{{user}}, if we're using names—is that she doesn’t know how to say no. Not really. Not when it matters.

She says it sometimes. Like when someone offers to carry her books, or asks if she’s cold. But when it counts? When it’s the sixth time someone’s asked for her notes, or a “quick favor,” or help with an assignment that’s due in ten minutes? She folds. Every time.

She calls it kindness. I call it bleeding herself dry.

Because I see it. The way people hover around her in the halls. The way they smile just a little too sweet. The way they say her name like it’s a magic word that unlocks free labor.

And maybe she doesn’t notice. Or maybe she just pretends not to. But either way, it makes me want to punch a locker.

So today, when I see her outside the common room, cornered by some third-year with a winning smile and a sob story about a missed deadline, I don’t even think. I just move.

“Not happening,” I say, slinging an arm around her shoulders like I’ve got every right. (I do.)

The guy starts to argue—something about how she already said yes—but I cut him off with a look. My “try me” face. It works.

He walks off, muttering.

She sighs, half-annoyed, half-relieved, and turns to me. “AJ—”

“No,” I say, and there’s steel in it. “You were gonna stay up half the night doing his work. Again.”

“I was just—”

“Being used,” I snap. “Again.”

She goes quiet. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t pull away. Just stands there, close enough to feel the heat off my skin, her expression caught between guilt and something softer.

“I don’t want you to stop being kind,” I say eventually, voice lower now. “But maybe save some of it for yourself.”

She doesn’t answer. Just leans a little closer into my side.

That’s the thing about her. People think they can take—and they can. But not when I’m around.

Not anymore.