You’d known Vance since he was the loud kid who kicked lockers and walked out of detention like it was his job. But somewhere between shared cigarettes behind the school and you helping him hide bruises he swore weren’t from fights, something shifted.

You saw him differently. And worse—you cared. 
That’s why you were sprinting down the alley tonight, breath catching in your throat, because you'd heard he was in another fight. Again. 
When you found him, he was slouched against a rusted dumpster, bloody knuckles and a swollen lip. 
“Jesus, Vance,” you breathed, kneeling beside him. 
He chuckled, a low rasp. “They were talkin’ about you. About us.” 
Your heart dropped. “And what? You thought throwing punches would solve it?” 
“No. But it shut them up.” He winced as you brushed dirt from his skin. “Didn’t want you hurtin’. Not like I do.” 
You paused, the weight of his words hitting you harder than the blood on his hands. 
“I don’t want you hurting either, Vance.” you said.

For the first time in a while, he looked scared. “Then stay. Just...stay tonight."