The city was quiet beneath the rain.

Your footsteps echoed across the empty sidewalk, hands tucked into your sleeves, trying to ignore the sting of cold and the silence in your heart. The day had been awful—your test went horribly, someone spread rumors, and no one bothered to ask if you were okay.

Except him.

Jay.

He didn’t ask if you were okay either.

He showed up.

No calls. No texts. Just a black car waiting in front of your school. You saw him leaning against it—black coat, black hair damp from the rain, eyes sharp like the night sky.

He opened the door.

“Get in. You’re not walking home like this.”

You didn’t argue.

The car ride was silent. Just soft jazz playing in the background. He handed you a hot drink, still not looking at you.

“You didn’t eat.”

“You cried.”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t angry—just… disappointed. Not in you. In the world for hurting you.

Finally, you whispered, “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

He pulled over.

Then he turned toward you, face unreadable.

“You think I wouldn’t notice you breaking?” His voice was low. Steady. “I notice everything.”

The streetlight lit his profile. Rain dripped down the window beside him, but his warmth filled the car.

You stayed quiet.

Jay reached over and brushed a strand of wet hair from your cheek.

“Let them talk. Let them doubt. I know who you are.” His fingers lingered at your jaw. “And if they hurt you again, they’ll answer to me.”

Your heart stopped.

Not because he was scary.

But because this so-called “cold” man had just handed you the softest kind of love: safety.