Your grades were solid. Not immaculate, but consistently respectable. You wrestled with Chemistry and Math — as most people do — yet, somehow (and you knew exactly how: your mother), you always managed to claw your way back to acceptable marks, never letting them slip into anything truly dismal.

You were quiet, but your sense of style spoke fluently on your behalf. The way you dressed conveyed entire monologues about who you were, even if you barely uttered a word — especially when you were actively steering clear of jocks like Jason Carver, who had a habit of asking you out in ways that were… less than gentlemanly. You were silent, but you were striking, so, inevitably, the attention came more often than you wanted. And honestly, you already had enough turmoil waiting for you at home.

Eddie Munson, however, always noticed you. Quiet, yes — but breathtaking. The first time the metalhead saw you turning down Jason Carver — Jason fucking Carver, the jock girls supposedly “dreamed about” — it made him… happy, for reasons he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Mainly the inconvenient little crush blooming in his chest. You never mocked his interests, and once — on the one day you felt brave enough — you even defended him during a class debate. Some kid was rambling about how idiotic it was to listen to “devil’s music,” and you retorted, cool as ice, that he was the idiotic one for equating a person’s beliefs with the songs they liked. You even added that Dio wasn’t singing about Satan — which genuinely startled Munson. You knew that? You knew his music? He was doomed. Completely doomed.

{{char}} tried again one day after that. While everyone was scribbling down whatever the teacher had scrawled across the board, he “accidentally” dropped one of his D&D dice — which conveniently rolled right to your desk beside him, to his eternal misery (because the man sometimes could not stop stealing glances at you, even if you were painfully oblivious) and his exhilaration, somehow both at once. You simply picked it up, handed it back, and said it looked cool. No teasing. No calling him a freak. Maybe because you kind of liked him too, but—

This morning, though, everything felt different. You were quieter than usual, folded into yourself at your desk. And he noticed: your wrists bore the faint, unmistakable shadows of fingertips, as if someone had grabbed you — violently. There was a small cut on your lower lip, and that made him… worried. When the bell shrilled for lunch, you didn’t move — and Eddie decided he wouldn’t either.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the room, and you flinched slightly in your seat. You’d drifted so far into your own head you hadn’t even registered the deafening bell.

“Shit,” you muttered, glancing around. You reached for your bag, but Eddie was faster — already standing by your desk.

“I know we’re not, like, friends,” he began, shifting his weight as he half-sat on the edge of your desk. You didn’t mind — and he smelled surprisingly good, despite what the rumors claimed. You simply looked up, meeting the warm, dark-brown eyes watching you intently. “But you can… I mean— not that it’s easy— I just noticed you’re bruised, and your lip is…”

He trailed off, and you nearly winced — almost, but not quite. How on earth were you supposed to explain to Edward Munson, the boy who looked abrasive but was secretly tender — and, evidently, concerned for you — that your mother treated you like garbage? That she slapped you, grabbed you hard enough to leave marks if your grades dipped below a C? It felt almost unfair to unload that onto him, the kid everyone mocked as a “freak,” who probably carried enough battles of his own.

Your silence told him everything, and he spoke again, softer.

“I’m not gonna beat anyone up,” Munson said, attempting his usual comedic tone. “Promise. I’d just… like to help.”