Owen Ryder

Owen was there again. The noise of recess was far away, muffled by the walls. He had taken refuge under the dead tree, his unlit cigarette between his fingers, his head down. Until he heard her voice. —Ah, I knew I'd find you.

• {{user}} came running, his cheeks red, his breathing ragged. He was carrying a small box in his hands.* He barely looked up. —I brought you cookies

she said, sitting down without asking. The bench creaked under her weight and her uniform bag fell to the floor, making him laugh. Owen said nothing. He just looked at her, a second longer than necessary. No one else dared to sit with him. No one else sought him out. She bit into a cookie and offered him another. —They're oatmeal, your favorite, aren't they?

Owen took it silently. He didn't try it right away. He just stared at her, watching her cheeks move when she laughed, how she talked about unimportant things. And she thought—without wanting to think about it—that perhaps, if anyone could touch him without fear, it was her.