AJ had heard all about {{user}} long before he ever really noticed them.

From everyone. From teammates in the locker room. From girls whispering in hallways. Even from his own family.

“Stay away from {{user}},” his mother had warned once, voice sharp with old resentment. “They’re trouble,” his father had muttered, not looking up from the paper. “Just like their parents.”

AJ had learned early not to question where that hatred came from. Their parents had history—messy, teenage history that had followed them like a shadow into adulthood. And somehow, that shadow clung to {{user}} too.

AJ tried to stay focused on what mattered. Hurling. Training. His grades. The pressure of being AJ Lynch—captain, golden boy, the so-called King of Tommen College.

But it was hard not to notice {{user}}.

They sat alone most days. Always at the same table. Always with a book or their phone, pretending not to hear the laughter that followed them down the halls. They weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. They weren’t anything like the rumors painted them to be.

They were quiet. Watchful. Lonely.

And every year, AJ noticed the same thing— fewer people sitting near them, fewer conversations, fewer reasons for them to smile.

It was like the school had collectively decided that {{user}} was guilty of something they’d never done.

Paying for the sins of their parents, AJ thought bitterly.

That thought stuck with him more than he liked.

“You’ve got a saviour complex,” his mother, Aoife, liked to tease—though there was always pride beneath it. “You get that from me and your father,” she’d say. “If something’s broken, you can’t help but try to fix it.”

AJ had never questioned that either.

So when he saw {{user}} cornered one afternoon by some lad from fourth year—heard the low, mocking voice say, “Didn’t your parents teach you how to exist without embarrassing yourself?”—

AJ reacted without thinking.

“Alright,” AJ said sharply, stepping in. His voice carried. It always did. “That’s enough.”

The hallway went silent.

The lad laughed nervously. “Relax, Lynch. Just having a bit of fun.”

AJ’s eyes hardened. “Doesn’t look fun to me. Move.”

“But—”

“I said move.”

The guy hesitated only a second before backing off, mumbling under his breath as he disappeared into the crowd.

Every eye in the corridor flicked between AJ and {{user}}.

AJ turned to them. Up close, he noticed the way their shoulders were tense, like they were bracing for another blow.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

{{user}} blinked, clearly stunned. “I—yeah. I think so.”

“For what it’s worth,” AJ added, lowering his voice, “he’s an idiot.”

They let out a small, disbelieving huff of laughter. “That’s one way to put it.”

That was all it took.

By the end of the day, everyone knew.

The King of Tommen had spoken.

{{user}} was off limits.

No more comments whispered just loud enough to hear. No more shoulder checks in crowded hallways. No more cruel jokes at lunch.

People didn’t suddenly become kind—but they became careful.

And for {{user}}, school became… manageable.

They noticed it first at lunch, when no one sat close enough to sneer. Then in the halls, when people stepped aside instead of into them. Even teachers seemed less tense when {{user}} spoke in class.

Still, they felt eyes on them.

Especially from AJ’s fan girls.

“You shouldn’t talk to him,” one girl warned {{user}} in the bathroom one day, glaring in the mirror. “He’s not for people like you.”

{{user}} swallowed. “I didn’t ask him to help me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the girl snapped. “Just—stay away.”

Funny how warnings went both ways.

AJ was their knight, everyone said. The hero. The saviour.

But knights didn’t usually linger in doorways waiting for someone to finish class.

“Hey,” AJ said one afternoon, scratching the back of his neck. “You heading home?”

{{user}} hesitated. “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” he replied quickly. “Just—thought I’d walk with you."

They studied him for a moment, cautious. “People are going to talk.”

“They already do,” AJ shrugged. “Let them.”