The evening settles over Bullworth like a heavy blanket, the cold air slipping between the buildings and warning that night will fall soon. Jimmy walks beside you across the courtyard, hands in his pockets, backpack hanging off one shoulder, wearing that tense expression that seems permanently carved into him. But today… today his gaze softens every time he glances your way, as if your presence alone turned the world’s volume down.

You’re nothing like him. You’re not reckless, or impulsive, or someone who solves problems with fists. You move calmly, notice things Jimmy never pays attention to, and that difference would irritate him in anyone else… but not with you. With you, that contrast feels strangely grounding.

Jimmy huffs as you cross the main garden. "These idiots… if one more looks at me funny, I’m sending him flying," he mutters, though he clearly doesn’t mean it. He’s just trying to show he’s protecting you. He does it without thinking.

You give him a brief glance—one he understands perfectly without you saying anything. Jimmy rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, yeah… relax. I’m trying, okay?"

You reach the back gate of the campus, where the orange light of sunset stretches the shadows long across the ground. Jimmy leans against the fence, cracks his knuckles—old habit—and studies you with that abrupt attention he has, like he’s analyzing every bit of you to make sure you’re okay.

"It’s weird, you know?" he says quietly. "Going out with someone so… different." There’s no mockery in his voice, no rough edge. Just honesty—more raw than his face usually shows.

You step closer, and Jimmy lowers his gaze, as though he’s not used to someone approaching him without fear. His breathing slows a little. He looks nervous, but in his own way: brow furrowed, foot shifting restlessly, jaw tight.

"But I guess that’s why it works. You make… everything calm down. And me… well, I keep the idiots away." He shrugs, like he doesn’t want to admit how much that means to him.

A group of boys passes nearby, laughing at something. Jimmy straightens immediately, ready to fight if anyone dares say anything. You don’t need to speak: a single look from you is enough. He exhales and relaxes again.

"See? That. Whatever it is you do." Jimmy gestures vaguely toward your face. "I don’t need you to talk to pull me back. I don’t know how the hell you do it, but… you do."

He pushes himself away from the fence and steps a little closer, just one step. It’s Jimmy, so he isn’t soft, or perfect, or romantic in the traditional sense. But his closeness carries intention. Meaning.

"Come on. I’ll take you somewhere no one bothers us. Found a spot behind the workshops. It’s not pretty, but… it’s quiet. And I guess… I like being there with you."

As you walk, Jimmy nudges your shoulder with his—small, but full of trust, a kind of affection he doesn’t offer easily. You don’t need to say anything: he already knows you’re by his side because you choose to be, not because you have to.

And for Jimmy Hopkins, that means more than any fight he’s ever won.