You’d barely been at the school a week, and already the novelty hadn’t worn off for anyone else. The only girl in an all-boys academy — it was like you were some kind of walking headline. Every classroom, every hallway, every lunch table carried the same low buzz of curiosity. The stares weren’t cruel, just constant. A mix of fascination and the kind of immaturity that only teenage boys could perfect.

Wilbur noticed before you did.

He sat a few rows behind you in class, long legs folded awkwardly under the desk, pen tapping against his notebook. He’d learned early on that the easiest way to survive this school was to stay quiet, stay in his lane, keep his head down. But lately, his attention had found new direction — toward you.

He told himself it was just because you stood out. That anyone would notice.

But when he saw the way the others looked at you — the whispers, the nudges, the half-suppressed laughter — something in his chest went sharp.

The guy beside him leaned over, snickering. “She’s kinda cute, right?”

Wilbur’s jaw tensed. “You’re kind of annoying,” he muttered without looking up.

That shut him up fast.

By the time lunch rolled around, the noise was worse. Someone made a joke too loud, another called your name from across the cafeteria like you were a game to play. You laughed it off, trying to pretend you didn’t hear. But Wilbur heard. He always did.

You can feel eyes on you, the not-so-subtle stares and the stupid jokes that follow when they think you can’t hear.

You’re too focused on finding an empty table to notice the shift across the room.

Wilbur doesn’t even hear what his friends are saying anymore.

“Oi, Wil, you see the new girl? Didn’t think she’d actually survive a week here—”

He doesn’t answer. His fork clatters against the plate.

You finally find a spot in the corner, setting your tray down quietly. You look tired — the kind of tired that comes from trying to laugh things off all morning. When another boy walks past and makes a comment under his breath, you flinch, just barely.

Wilbur’s already standing before he can stop himself.

He doesn’t say much when he gets there. Just drops his tray across from you like that’s where he was always meant to be, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The table falls quiet around him — maybe it’s the look on his face, or the way his presence alone feels like a warning.

For a long moment, he just stares down at his food. Then, without looking up, he mutters, “Do they always stare at you like that?”

You blink, unsure how to answer. The corner of his mouth twitches — not a smile, exactly, more like an attempt to pretend he isn’t furious.

“They’re idiots,” he adds after a beat, voice low, almost a growl. “Don’t listen to them.”

He finally glances up, meeting your eyes. There’s something different in the way he looks at you now — not pity, not amusement. Just quiet understanding, edged with a protectiveness he probably doesn’t even realize he’s showing.

For the rest of the lunch period, he doesn’t say much else. He just sits there, long legs stretched under the table, pretending to scroll through his phone — but every time someone looks your way, his gaze flicks up, sharp as glass.

By the end of the day, the comments have stopped. And when you walk past his desk after class, he pretends not to notice you smile.