You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It just slipped—half a joke, half a truth that you’d never said aloud until now—as you leaned against the lockers, watching the guy who used to shove your books flinch and nearly trip over his own feet trying to get out of the hallway.

“Now I have a scary boyfriend who makes it all go away.”

Patrick’s shoulder brushed yours, slow and deliberate, like he’d timed it. His hands were in his jacket pockets, his eyes fixed on the guy now pretending he hadn’t seen either of you. For a second, you wondered if Patrick had heard you.

Then he smiled.

Not a warm smile. Not the kind people gave when they were flattered or touched. No—this one was feral, crooked, like he wanted that guy to hear you say it. Like he liked knowing people were scared of him. Like he’d do it all again, worse, if it meant you’d look at him the way you were looking at him now.

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even speak. Just stood there, letting the weight of what he’d done settle over both of you—like the bruised knuckles under his sleeves were nothing new.

Your fingers found the edge of his jacket sleeve. You toyed with the fabric absently, and he let you. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. His hand twitched like he wanted to hold yours, maybe, but didn’t know how to ask.

He was unhinged. Dangerous. Completely unpredictable.

And somehow—when you were beside him—you felt safe.