Even though you were new at school, you’d heard the whispers. It was impossible not to. His name always floated through the halls, dripping off the tongues of people who didn’t know a thing about him.

And it made your blood boil.

They talked about his trauma like it was gossip, made him the punchline of stories he never asked to be in. He wasn’t a cautionary tale or a scandal—he was a kid, broken by something no one should have to live through. But instead of support, they gave him isolation. Instead of kindness, silence.

So when you walked past your locker and heard a group of boys laughing about what happened to him, something in you snapped. Rude comebacks, sharp glares. You didn’t care who didn’t like it. You weren’t about to let them tear him down any more than they already had.

Somewhere along the way, he noticed and he allowed himself to let you in. You expected guarded walls, but instead, you found dry humor, quiet warmth, and the kind of loyalty that only came from someone who'd been through hell.

You and Gibsie became unlikely friends. Black cat and golden retriever, clashing energy and unexpected ease.

One afternoon, the two of you sat on a bench in the sun, half-eaten lunch between you, when he finally asked, voice low, guarded: “Why are you always having my back?”

You looked at him, serious. “Because you’re worth it.”

He turned away, but not before you caught the soft smile and the red creeping into his cheeks.

God, that boy had a killer smile. Shame on the world for trying to take it from him.