Jean's Point of View
First day, and I was already clocking how many exits this cafeteria had. Three. The main hallway, the doors to the back courtyard, and the emergency one near the vending machines. Not because I planned to run. I just like knowing my options.
And then I heard the shouting.
I turned just in time to see someone shove Kieran against a table. Hard. The crash of metal legs against tile was loud enough to make half the cafeteria turn.
Kieran didn't stumble. He straightened up — eyes narrowed, jaw tight — and swung. A brutal right hook. It connected square with Thorne's cheek. The sound was ugly.
Someone shouted "Fight!" like it was the damn national anthem.
Two boys jumped in. Kieran dodged one of them, pivoted on his heel, and slammed his elbow into the guy's ribs. The dude folded like laundry.
But the other one came in from the side, catching Kieran in the jaw with a wild swing. His lip split, blood trailing down his chin — and for a second, he looked stunned.
And that's when I stepped in.
I didn't yell. I didn't scream.
I stalked into the circle of bodies like I'd been summoned.
"Touch him again," I said, voice a razor's edge, "and I'll break your arm."
Dead silence. The boys turned toward me, smirking.
"Who even are you?"
I smiled — just a little. "Your last mistake."
Then I moved.
He didn't see it coming. I stepped in close and drove my knee into his thigh — dead muscle shot. He hissed and staggered.
He swung at me out of reflex. I ducked.
Kieran, now grinning like a devil, moved in beside me. We didn't speak. Didn't need to.
One of the guys lunged for me — I caught his wrist midair, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him against the nearest table. He shrieked.
Another tried to grab Kieran from behind — dumb move. Kieran threw his head back, skull to nose. Crunch. The guy dropped like a sack of bricks.
And their leader — well, he was still trying to recover from the knee. I turned, grabbed a can of soda off a tray, and chucked it at him. It clocked him in the chest. He lunged at me, teeth bared.
He was sloppy. I wasn't.
He swung. I sidestepped and slammed my fist into his stomach. He buckled. I felt my knuckles scream in protest — skin splitting across bone.
Kieran saw my hand bleed and just laughed like it was the best part of his day.
Then someone grabbed me from behind and yanked.
Hard.
I went flying back, nearly slammed into a vending machine, vision swimming. Kieran yelled something I couldn't hear.
Next thing I knew, he was over me, fists swinging again. Protecting me like he was possessed.
Then came the shouting — teacher voices. Whistles. Arms pulling us apart.
It was over.
We were bruised, bloodied, and standing on top of a cafeteria battlefield like kings of nothing. Breathing heavy. Thorne was groaning on the floor. His boys didn't look much better. My hand was definitely busted. Kieran's lip was split, his knuckles raw.
We didn't look at each other right away.
But when we did?
It felt like the start of something dangerous.
They pulled us apart, finally. Red-faced teachers, security dragging. The fight was over — and we'd won. Not in a clean, cinematic way. But in a bloodied, breathless, no-regrets kind of way. The kind that leaves your knuckles split and your heart pounding like a war drum.
We were escorted to the clinic, neither of us saying a word. The hallway lights buzzed overhead. My fists throbbed with every step. Kieran's lip was still bleeding — and he kept spitting pink into a paper towel like it was no big deal.
And yet, as we walked side by side down that corridor, limping and scuffed, I couldn't shake the thought that kept crawling back through my brain like ivy pushing through concrete:
Those same fingers used to wrap around mine on summer days when scraped knees felt like the end of the world.
That version of us? It lived in another lifetime — buried under time, silence, and everything we never said.
We reached the clinic.
The clinic was white and too bright. Everything smelled like antiseptic and boredom. I sat on the bed, the sting of alcohol biting into my knuckles. Blood crusted under my fingernails, a mix of mine and theirs. The room felt too still.
Across from me, Kieran lounged back like this was nothing new. Like getting into a fight before lunch was just… Tuesday.
He had a bandage on his brow, one eye swelling slightly. His lip was cracked open, blood dried and flaking like rust on old metal.
And somehow, he still looked good. Annoyingly good.
The way the light hit his face made his jawline look sharper than usual. His messy hair was falling into his eyes — those stupid, stormy eyes. The kind you look into once and feel like you've known him for lifetimes, even if he can't remember knowing you at all.
His lips — torn and crooked — still curled in that half-smirk like he was proud of the damage. I should've looked away. Wanted to. But my eyes stayed locked, tracing each bruise like it meant something.
He had old scars on his hands. Faded. Familiar.
I wondered how many of them I'd seen before.
I looked away. For my own safety.
Because staring at Kieran too long was like staring at a spark with dry kindling in your chest — you don't realize you're on fire until it's too late.
He shifted on the cot, wincing. His gaze flicked to mine.
Our eyes met.
Only for a second. But it was enough.
I swallowed hard and dropped my gaze to my bruised knuckles.
He didn't remember who I was.
But God… I remembered everything.
And worse? I remembered what came after.
Kieran stirred, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, lashes brushing against bruised skin. "Hey," he rasped. Voice rough, like gravel dragged across pavement. But his eyes — those haunted eyes — searched my face like a puzzle he didn't want to solve.
"Did I…" he paused, squinting. "Have I seen you before?"
The question cracked something inside me. I froze. Breath snagged like thread caught on a nail.
Of course he didn't remember.
But hearing it still felt like being sucker-punched in a dream.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Just a slow, shaky nod — the kind you give when you're lying with your whole body.
Kieran frowned slightly. "No, seriously," he said. "There's this weird feeling. Like I have seen you before. You were pretty damn quick back there."
He nodded toward my bandaged hand. His voice was softer now, more curious than confrontational.
"I didn't expect that. Most people freeze. You didn't. You moved like…" He trailed off, head tilting. "Like someone who's done it before."
I looked at him, steady. "I didn't want to watch them tear you apart."
Half the truth.
Because the real reason? That lived in the pit of my chest. In memories I couldn't share, in promises he didn't remember making.
Kieran smirked, even as he winced. "So what, you just felt like being a hero?"
I shrugged. "Someone had to stop your pretty face from getting rearranged."
He chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You don't strike me as the charity type."
I leaned back, sighing. "Maybe I'm not."
He narrowed his gaze. "You're hiding something."
My pulse jumped.
I forced a cool look. "You're paranoid."
"No," he said, voice low. "I'm not. You knew what you were doing. And you didn't hesitate. So I'm asking again—why you?"
The room seemed to hold its breath.
I didn't answer right away. Couldn't. Because the answer was a minefield, and if I took one wrong step, it would all blow up.
So I lied. Neatly. Cleanly. Like someone who's had practice.
"Some fights are worth it," I said. "Even when they're not yours."
Kieran didn't buy it. I could see it in the flicker of doubt in his eyes. But he didn't push further. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned back with a wince. "You really did help me out. Guess I owe you."
I rolled my eyes. "Don't make it weird."
The nurse came in a few minutes later, asked a bunch of questions we barely answered, gave us ice packs and rules neither of us would follow.
Then she said we could go.
I stood first. My knuckles still throbbed with every heartbeat. But it was manageable.
I moved toward the door.
"Jean," Kieran said behind me, voice softer now. "You still haven't answered my question."
I didn't turn.
Because if I looked back, I'd unravel.
So I just said, "Maybe some questions are better left unanswered."
And then I walked out.
Leaving behind bruises, broken skin, and a boy who forgot the summer I still bleed for.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Kieran's Point of View
She left without a word.
No glance back. No smirk. No gloating. Just… left.
Jean always moved like she didn't owe anyone a damn thing. Back straight, eyes forward, the kind of walk that said I survived worse than you, so get out of my way. She didn't walk — she declared territory. Just a quick blur down the hallway, her messy bun bouncing like it had opinions of its own. There was something about the way she walked—determined, like she was always five steps ahead of everyone, even if she was bleeding.
I stayed standing even after the door clicked shut behind her, staring at the space she left like it had something to tell me. Something I missed.
The nurse cleared her throat. Loud. Deliberate.
Right. I nodded like that fixed everything, muttered a thanks I didn't mean, and headed out. My shoulder ached. My face throbbed. But mostly it was my head — that dull buzzing at the back of the skull that comes after adrenaline dies and you're just left with thoughts you didn't ask for.
The bell rang as I reached the classroom.
Last period.
The slowest, stupidest hour of the day. The one where time stretches like it wants revenge. I slipped into my seat in the back corner, the one with the busted chair and years of gum fossils underneath. My kingdom.
Jennie turned around before I even sat.
"What the fuck happened to you?" she whispered, eyes scanning my face like I was a crime scene.
"Got into a disagreement with the laws of physics," I muttered.
"You look like you won."
"Story of my life."
She frowned. "You should go back to the nurse—"
"I'm fine."
Jennie wasn't buying it, but she turned around anyway. I appreciated that. The ones who don't push — those are rare.
The teacher droned on about something. Probably cell structures or the Industrial Revolution. Or both. It all blurred together when you're floating two inches outside your own skull. I leaned forward on my desk, cheek against arm, and let the world slip.
Didn't mean to sleep. Just… blinked a little too long.
Darkness, half-dreams. Broken fragments of memory and motion. Jean's voice — sharp, familiar, echoing through it all.
Then light.
I came to slowly, like climbing out of mud. The clock said I'd been out twenty minutes. The classroom was quieter now, emptier. A few desks still occupied, but most had bolted when the bell rang. And there she was.
Jean.
At the front of the room, leaning against the teacher's desk like she owned it, flipping through handouts. Not snooping. Not messing around. Actually asking the teacher questions. Her voice was low, calm. Professional, almost. Like she was two people — the one who threw punches in the hallways and the one who corrected grammar in essays.
The teacher looked relieved when she finished, mumbling something about staying out of trouble and hurrying out like the walls were closing in.
Then it was just us.
I stayed still, pretending to sleep. Watching her without watching her. Her back to me, scrolling her phone like nothing mattered. Like she hadn't just turned a normal school day into an episode of something gritty and slow-burn.
"You gonna keep pretending to sleep, or should I call an ambulance?"
I groaned, mostly for dramatic effect. "Depends. You planning to finish the job or just check my pulse?"
She turned halfway toward me, one eyebrow raised. "Please. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
"Comforting."
"Why are you still here?"
"Same reason you are, probably."
She crossed her arms. "I'm not hiding."
"Didn't say you were. But people don't usually stick around after they almost get suspended."
She shrugged. "I had questions."
"About what — schoolwork or self-defense techniques?"
She smirked, and for a second I swore I saw something soft slip through. Not pity. Never pity. Just… recognition.
"You talk a lot," she said finally.
"Bad habit."
"Annoying one."
"Yours too."
We stared each other down, but it wasn't hostile. Not exactly. There was something underneath it. Like we were both toeing the edge of a cliff, daring the other to jump first.
She grabbed her bag. "Are you leaving or just planning to haunt the classroom forever?"
I stood, stretched. "Following you, obviously. In case you collapse under the weight of your ego."
She didn't dignify that with a response.
We walked side by side, but not together, through the empty hallway. The echo of our footsteps was weirdly loud. I kept sneaking glances — not because I wanted to, just… reflex. She looked the same. And different. Still untouchable. Still ice. But quieter now, like the storm had passed and left something else behind.
Outside, the sun hung low in the sky, painting everything in an orange-gold glow, like the world was trying to be pretty just for us. The parking lot was almost deserted now — only two cars left.
One was mine — sleek, understated, and expensive. The kind of car people wouldn't expect me to own. I liked it that way. Let them wonder.
The other — jet black, tinted windows, humming like it was bored of sitting still. Hers, apparently.
Jean walked toward it like it was second nature.
I stood still.
She had a car?
Since when?
And why did it feel like that mattered?
Maybe because it wasn't just the car. It wasn't the money — I knew that game too well. It was the ease. The way she moved, like she wasn't just surviving this town, but already planning her exit strategy. Like she was always five steps ahead of me — ahead of all of us.
It wasn't just the car. It was everything it stood for — mystery, distance, a life with lines I couldn't read. Jean was already on the next page, and I was still stuck rereading the first paragraph.
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes catching mine.
No words.
Just waiting.
Jean stopped beside her car, arms folded — her default stance. Like she didn't trust the world enough to let her hands rest.
"Well?" she asked, her voice a single word, expectant.
"Well," I echoed, because I couldn't help myself.
"You're still here."
"So are you."
She glanced at my car, then back at me. "Didn't expect you to drive something this nice."
"You thought I walked everywhere?"
"I just didn't think you'd care about impressing people."
I shrugged. "I don't. But I do like a smooth ride."
She gave the smallest smile. "Makes sense."
The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable, just heavy — like we were both waiting for something.
"Why'd you do it?" I finally asked.
She didn't pretend not to know what I meant.
A breeze kicked up, tugging at her jacket, blowing a strand of hair across her face. She didn't fix it. Just let it hang there, like it didn't matter. Like she didn't care who noticed.
"It wasn't about him," she said, her voice softer now. Almost like she hated the honesty in it. "Sometimes you just have to remind people you're not an easy target."
That was the most honest thing I'd heard all day.
Fair enough.
She didn't ask if I was coming. She just opened her car's door and slid in.
And I just stood there, not sure if I was being left behind… or invited.