It was late, the school hallways mostly empty, when you heard the sound of something hitting a locker — hard. You turned the corner to see Joey Lynch leaning against the metal, fists clenched, breathing hard. For a moment, you considered walking away, but something in the way his shoulders slumped stopped you.

“Rough day?” you asked quietly.

He startled, turning toward you, his usual mask of bravado missing. For a long second, he just looked at you, like he was trying to decide if he could trust you. Then he huffed a laugh — bitter, but soft — and shrugged.

“Something like that.” You didn’t push, just sat on the floor a few feet away.

After a beat, he slid down to sit across from you, head tipped back against the locker.

“You’re weird,” he said finally, but there was no heat in it. And when he smiled — tired but real — it felt like something cracked open in your chest.