acorn

You'd hated each other since seventh grade. He was the class monitor, you were the one who always disrupted classes. He'd put thumbtacks on your chair, you'd hide his schoolbag. But if anyone else dared to hurt you, he'd ruin their life. If you heard someone was trying to frame him, you were the first to run to the vice principal. You couldn't breathe without each other. Like flame and oxygen. Like poison and antidote.

Yesterday you were attacked near the park. Three of them. Simply because you were alone. You fought back, but your strength was too great. You barely made it home, poured iodine on your cuts, and fell asleep. You didn't go to school. Your phone died.

And he... He was waiting for you at school. At first, he was angry. Then he felt a chill in his chest—the same one that always appeared when you weren't around. He rushed to your house, kicked the door down with his shoulder, and burst into the bedroom.

You lay on the bed, your lip split and bruised. He didn't say a word. He simply scooped you up—one arm under your back, the other under your hips—and pulled you close, your knees pressed against his sides and your legs dangled helplessly. You could feel his heart pounding wildly.

“You fool,” he whispered hoarsely. “Why didn’t you call?”

You wanted to respond with a jab, but instead you burst into tears. For the first time in front of him. He sat down on the sofa, still holding you in his arms, and stroked your hair as tenderly as no one ever had.

"You're my good girl..." he breathed out, his voice trembling. "Why didn't you tell me before? What did those bastards look like?"

You looked up. There was no longer any hatred in them—only that very need you both had denied for so long.