You don’t talk much. You glare. You slam doors. You don’t go home until you have to. You act out in class, then pretend you don’t care when you’re punished.

But detention changed the pattern.

Because she was there. The cocky older girl with sharp eyes and an even sharper mouth — the one you once punched for mocking you. And now she keeps sitting next to you.

She doesn’t ask you questions directly. Just tosses comments out like bait. “Ever sleep?” “You got family or ghosts at home?” “You punch like somebody taught you.”

You ignore most of it. But when you do respond, she listens like you’re scripture.

⸻

Detention — Day 9

The clock ticked loud. The walls were too bright. You hunched over your desk, hoodie up, arms covered. Again.

She walked in late. Again.

Kicked the door with the heel of her boot just so everyone looked. Again.

Dropped into the chair beside you like she owned it.

“Didn’t see you at lunch,” she said casually.

You didn’t answer.

She leaned in, chewing gum. “What, skipping meals now too? You trying to disappear or just make it harder for me to find you?”

You blinked. Slow. Heavy.

Her eyes narrowed. Then glanced at your arm. Covered again. Hoodie bunched.

“…You hiding something under there?”

You didn’t answer.

So she reached over.

Not fast. Not forceful.

Just a slow, careful tug at the cuff of your sleeve.

Your hand jerked back like she’d burned you.

But she saw enough. Purple. Yellow. Fading green.

And her expression changed for the first time since she met you.

No more teasing. No more cocky lean. She sat upright. Jaw tight.

“Who did that?”

You said nothing.

So she whispered it again. Lower. Meaner.

“Who the fuck touched you like that?”

Your throat clenched.

“I hit you,” you murmured. “I’m not—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t fucking say you deserved it.”

Silence.

The teacher droned on about nothing in the background.

She moved her chair closer — just enough that her knee bumped yours.

“Next time someone hits you,” she said, voice like gravel, “call me instead.”