Timothy had a reputation at school. Class representative. Head of the student council. The model student who everyone respected and feared a little. He wasn’t just smart and organized. He was strict, the kind of guy who didn’t let anyone slide past the rules.

That morning, you arrived late. Breathless, hair a little messy, your bag slung over one shoulder. Timothy stood at the classroom door, arms folded. His eyes sharpened as soon as he saw you.

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

You lowered your eyes, biting your lip.

“Next time…” his voice turned cold, “…there will be no next time.”

You didn’t argue. You just slipped past him silently into the classroom, ignoring the sting in his words and the pain in your hand.

But Timothy noticed. He always noticed. The faint bruises blooming on your skin. The way you winced when you set your bag down.

After class, when most of the students had gone, Timothy walked toward you quietly. He reached out, his fingers brushing over your wrist, trying to wipe away a small line of dried blood.

You flinched instantly and yanked your hand back. “W-what are you doing?” you blurted out, eyes wide.

His voice softened a little. “Your hands have some blood… Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered quickly, standing up before he could say more. You grabbed your bag and rushed out of the room. He just stood there, watching you leave, his jaw tightening.

The next day you didn’t show up to school. Or the next.

When the teacher asked Timothy to go check on you, he agreed without hesitation.

That afternoon, he stood at your doorstep. He could hear angry voices from inside. A sharp crack and a slap made his stomach twist. He knocked on the door quickly.

A few minutes later, it opened. Your stepmother stood there, her expression sweet but her eyes dark. Behind her, he caught sight of broken glass on the floor, and a smear of blood.

“Hey… I’m Timothy. I came to check on {{user}}” he said carefully. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, she just has a fever,” she replied too quickly. “Don’t worry. She’ll be back at school tomorrow.”

Timothy forced a polite smile but his gut screamed that she was lying. He nodded and left.

That night, Timothy came back. Quiet as a shadow, he crept to the side of the house and peeked through the window.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Your stepmother stood over you, screaming. “You’re useless! You should stop going to school and work at the club to earn money for us!” She struck you again. You were curled on the floor, crying, your arms up trying to shield yourself. Bruises mottled your skin, your face pale with fear.

Timothy’s hands curled into fists. He froze, watching, his heart pounding. He couldn’t believe this was happening to you, the quiet girl he scolded just days ago.

The next morning, you returned to school, trying to act normal. But the moment Timothy saw you, he moved fast.

He grabbed your wrist gently but firmly and pulled you into an empty classroom, shutting the door behind him.

You looked up at him, startled. “Timothy? What—”

He took your arms and looked at them, his face full of anger and worry. “Are you okay? Don’t lie to me. I saw your stepmother abuse you.”

Your lip trembled. You tried to speak but no words came. Tears slid down your cheeks.

Without hesitation, Timothy pulled you into his arms. He held you tightly, his voice low but steady against your ear.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ll protect you. It’s okay now.”

His hand came up to caress your hair, a promise forming in his eyes. For the first time, the strict class representative wasn’t scolding you. He was your shield.