The last bell had already rung, the hallways draining of sound like water slipping down a drain. Most students sprinted for the gates; Wilbur didn’t. He moved slow, deliberate, hands in the pockets of that battered black jacket he wore like armor. He liked the quiet. He liked walking alone. He liked not having to pretend he cared about anyone’s small talk.

And yet— every day, without fail— his eyes drifted toward the seat beside him in every class. Toward you.

He’d never admit it, but your presence was the one thing that didn’t grate on him. You didn’t fill the silence with forced giggles or ask him dumb questions about why he was “always so emo.” You just… existed next to him, calm, steady, never demanding anything. He let you close in ways he let no one else. Not friends—not that he had many—not even teachers dared sit in his orbit for too long.

So when he passed by the empty classroom on the way to his locker and caught a flash of someone curled up on the floor in the corner, he almost ignored it. Almost.

Then he recognized your shoes.

He froze. The casual slouch disappeared instantly.

“…No. No way.” His voice sharpened—anger first, fear trailing behind it like smoke.

He stepped into the room fast, pushing the door open so hard it hit the stopper with a crack. The lights were off, curtains half-drawn, the air stale from hours of lectures—but none of that mattered. His gaze locked on you. Your shoulders shook, your knees pulled to your chest.

And then he saw it.

The bruise blooming across your arm.

A livid, ugly mark.

Wilbur’s breath left him in one sharp exhale. Something primal flickered across his face—protective, furious, confused why his chest hurt so much at the sight of you like this.

He dropped to a crouch in front of you, not touching you yet, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Who did that.”

Not a question. A promise disguised as one.

His eyes weren’t their usual bored brown—no, they were burning now, scanning your expression, your arm, your trembling hands. His jaw tensed so hard you could see the muscle jump.

“Look at me.” He leaned in, softer for half a second—because it was you—before the anger cracked through again. “Who. Did. That.”

You stayed silent, of course. You always did. But this time, he could see your mouth trembling, the way you flinched when you shifted your arm. Tears streaked your face, catching in the dim classroom light.

Wilbur inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Okay.” His voice dropped low, dangerous. “Fine. Don’t talk. You don’t have to.” He reached out, so gently it was nothing like the violent storm brewing in him. His fingers brushed your wrist, holding your arm steady as he inspected the bruise. He swallowed, rage twisting something behind his ribs.

“They’re going to regret touching you,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. Then louder, firmer, almost shaking, “Stay here.”

He stood. Not tall—towering.

He’d always been lanky, awkward in that pretty, boyish way—but right now he felt twice his size, shoulders squared, posture rigid, steps heavy with intent.

He headed for the door. Stopped. Turned back to you.

There was something raw in his expression now—protectiveness mixed with a quiet fear that he wouldn’t name.

“You’re not alone,” he muttered, almost angrily, as if the words embarrassed him. “Not anymore. I’m handling this.”

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t need it.

Because whoever hurt you?

They’d just made the worst mistake of their life.