Till sat hunched on the back steps of the school, head bowed, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other still shaking faintly from the fight. His lip was split and swollen, and the side of his face throbbed where Ivan’s fist had landed hard—too hard.

He’d stopped trying to spit out the blood. He just let it sit on his tongue like a reminder.

The cigarette between his fingers had gone out. He hadn’t noticed.

The air was heavy, the sky dimming with the slow fade of late afternoon. He expected to be alone, as usual. Ivan never lingered after their fights. He’d throw the last punch, storm off with a muttered curse or a half-glance, and disappear.

But this time, the footsteps returned.

Till didn’t look up. He figured Ivan had forgotten something—his bag, maybe, or whatever piece of himself he always seemed to leave behind after they tore each other apart.

Then he felt a shift. A presence standing in front of him. And something… careful.

Ivan didn’t speak. He just moved slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal. In his scraped-up hands was a crown of clumsily woven wildflowers—daisies, weeds, crooked dandelions, smashed purple petals barely holding together.

Till blinked up at him, startled. “What the hell—”

But Ivan didn’t wait. He crouched down and, with a gentleness Till didn’t know he had in him, placed the flower crown onto Till’s head. Adjusted it slightly. Made sure it sat just right.

The gesture was so absurd, so soft, it knocked the breath from Till’s lungs more than any punch had.

Ivan sat beside him, arms resting on his knees, eyes still refusing to meet Till’s.