That’s the line. That’s the moment. That’s the difference between me and him. I see the way she breathes. I see the way her fingers twitch when she’s anxious. I see the way her silence isn’t emptiness, it’sarmor. And he tried to crack it with a smile and a hand on her arm.
I step closer, until there’s nothing between us but the tension. “You do it again,” I fume, “and it won’t be just talking next time.”
Micah leans back slightly, but the smirk doesn’t leave his face. He’s cocky. Stupid. He thinks this is a game. “Wow,” he drawls, “our mighty quarterback playing bodyguard now? Didn’t know you had a thing for damaged girls.”
The words hit like a blade.
Not because they’re true.
Because they’re cruel.
Because they’re careless.
Because they’re about her.
I don’t think.
I don’t speak.
I move.
My fist connects with his jaw before he finishes the grin. The sound is sharp—bone, skin, shock. He stumbles back, hand flying to his face, eyes wide with disbelief. There’s blood. There’s silence. There’s the kind of stillness that only comes after violence.
I step forward again, slow and deliberate, voice like gravel. “Say her name like that again, and I’ll break more than your jaw.”
Micah doesn’t answer. He’s too busy bleeding. Too busy realizing I’m not bluffing. Not posturing. Not playing.
Because Blair isn’t just some girl.
She’s not a punchline.
She’s not a weakness.
She’s the only thing in this world that makes me feel like I still have something worth protecting.
And if anyone tries to touch her again—
If anyone tries to speak about her like she’s less than sacred—
They’ll learn exactly what kind of monster I’ve been trying not to be.
My knuckles are still throbbing, skin split just enough to sting when I flex. I should be in class. I should be anywhere else. But I’m not. I’m walking toward Meadow View Hall, adrenaline still humming in my bloodstream, jaw tight, thoughts louder than they should be. I know she’s not there—Blair. Third period psych. She never misses it. Kinsley either. That’s the point.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the emergency key card. Kinsley gave it to me a week ago, pressed it into my hand with a worried look and a quiet, “Just in case she spirals.” She meant it as a lifeline. A safety net. She has no idea what she gave me. No idea what I’d do with it.
The lock clicks open.
The door swings in.
And I step into their world.
It’s small. Clean. Lived-in. Two beds, two desks, two lives folded into one room. Kinsley’s side is chaos—textbooks, makeup bags, a hoodie draped over the chair. Blair’s side is orderly. Ritual. A planner aligned with the edge of the desk. A journal tucked beneath it. A gray sweater folded with surgical precision. I don’t touch anything. Not yet. I just breathe it in.
This is where she hides.
Where she counts.
Where she tries to stay calm.
