Jess

The silence after a fight is deafening. The only sounds are the wind in the dry leaves and distant barking. You sit on the dusty ground behind the gym, your damp T-shirt clinging to your back. Jess, across from you, is breathing heavily, a fresh scratch on her cheekbone, blood mixed with dirt.

You wipe away the dirt with the back of your hand. Jess flinches but doesn't pull away. She looks at your hands—always covered in bruises and bandages. A fresh bruise from a boot darkens on your forearm.

"Idiot," you whisper with a smile. "Why did you bother? There were three of them. I would have gotten away with some bruises."

He looks up, his eyes filled with a familiar stubbornness. He snorts, smiling crookedly:

— Shut up. They would trample you underfoot. I won’t let them. Never.

You've known this since you were seven. Back then, you showed up at school with a busted lip—a "gift" from your father. Jess stood silently between you and the bullies, skinny and scared. From then on, he's always protected. Even as adults, when he learned to really hit in the underground club where he escaped from his perfect stepfather.

Both had hell at home. Just different ones.

Yours was cramped and reeked of fumes. Your father beat you, your mother hid. You learned to endure pain, humiliation, and ridicule. You kept your head down and waited.

Jess's hell—marbled and perfectly ordered. His stepfather didn't yell. He looked coldly and demanded perfection. For mistakes—not with his hands, but with a cane. Training to make a wolf out of a puppy.

“Let’s go,” you extend your hand. “We need to wash it.”

Jess grabs your hand—callused, rough, yet gentle. You walk to the pump. The sun is setting, the shadows long. The cold water stings as you press the wet cloth to his eyebrow.

• There will be a reprimand at your home again.

"I don't care. He doesn't like the 'loser face,' but he taught me to fight back," Jess grins. "Give me your hand."

He grabs your hand and turns it toward the light. His thumb traces the edge of an old bandage on your elbow. His gaze hardens.

— Did he beat you yesterday?

You look away.

— I just fell.

"You're lying," Jess says good-naturedly. He doesn't press. He holds your hand. "Your nose wrinkles when you lie."