Preston had gotten into another fight.

You didn't even know why this time. Maybe someone looked at him wrong. Maybe he just felt like it. But now he sat at the back of the class, hunched over his desk, a deep gash on his forehead trickling blood down his temple. The room was silent—everyone too used to his temper, too afraid to care.

But you couldn’t look away.

You were never the type to get involved. Quiet. Kind. A background presence most days. You’d never even had a boyfriend, never really wanted one. People were complicated, loud, exhausting.

Still, you found yourself walking over to him, it was nothing like you liked him or something, it was just, one day he saved from a bunch of mobs while you were attacked by them in an alleyway

You pulled a clean handkerchief from your bag and held it out. He looked up sharply, his eyes dark with that signature anger. His mouth twitched, ready to snap.

But then he saw you.

You.

The girl who never spoke unless called on. The one who never laughed at his jokes or flinched when he passed by. Just… existed.

You didn’t speak either, just gently reached for his forehead and pressed the handkerchief against the wound. He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

“I’m fine, go away” he muttered, but it didn’t sound like he meant it.

He stared at you for a long time.

And for the first time, Preston didn’t push someone away.

He let you help.