It’s not the first time you’ve noticed, the way she flinches when someone raises their hand, it’s almost imperceptible, just a flicker in her eyes, a subtle tightening of her shoulders. But it’s there. And once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.

You start to recognize it in other moments too. The way she scans a room when she walks in, like she’s memorizing exits. Knowing how to escape if she needs to.

You’ve tried, tried to get close to her, but your problem’s your damn heart, rugby’s always been your priority but now she’s there, sitting across from you with those sad big blue eyes suddenly the pitch doesn’t feel so important.

More like the small girl looking at you.

She’s small, like, so fucking skinny, faint, barely there curves, but god her face.

She’s gorgeous.

She’s gorgeous in that kind of way that doesn’t ask for attention but grabs you by the throat anyway. Like dusk, quiet and heavy, settling into you before you realize the day’s over.

You notice how she never talks too loud, how her voice hovers just above a whisper when she speaks, like she’s afraid of breaking something—maybe you, maybe herself. And yet, when she laughs, rare and unguarded, it’s the kind of sound that makes you feel like you’ve won something. Like maybe you’re not the same guy who thought he had it all figured out.

Rugby used to be simple. Hit hard, run fast, win. But now it’s her. Her and the way she keeps her sleeves tugged down, even in heat. Her and the bruises you don’t ask about. Her and the way she seems like she’s trying to disappear without anyone noticing.

And you see her—really see her—in those quiet moments when the mask slips, when her eyes go distant like she’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere bad.

You want to be the guy who makes her feel safe again. You want to pull her out of that dark place, even though you have no idea what it looks like, what happened, what damage was done. You just know that something’s cracked in her, something delicate and haunted, and you’re terrified of making it worse.

You’re staring at her, right now, at the sixteen year old in your car, as the song “she will be loved” blasts in the radio, you look at the house she lives in, nothing like yours, and god you just want to take her in your arms and kiss her until everything bad goes away, but you don’t, your excuse? You’re gonna be eighteen soon.

It’s a shitty excuse.

You know that.

Your friends know that.

The problem is you’re in too deep with this girl, and that scares you more than anything else, you whisper her name, softly “Abby” she looks up at you, big blue eyes nearly knocking the breath out of you, and for once, you dare ask “What are those bruises on your neck?”