Rafe's POV

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The walk out of the washroom is quieter than I thought it would be.  Eli didn't speak, not once. He just kept his head down, eyes hidden beneath his too-long fringe, backpack clenched tight in his hands like it was the only thing holding him together.

I stay close. Not because I think he'll fall apart again, but because I need to. It's not even a decision anymore. It just is.

We step out into the late afternoon light. The sky is a dull grey, hinting rain but holding back. The students have mostly cleared out, except a few in clusters near the gates, whispering. Watching. I want to glare at them, make them look away. But I don't. I focus on Eli instead.

He's walking faster now. Avoiding my eyes.

"Hey," I say gently, trying not to sound like I'm pressing him, "wait up."

Eli stops a few steps ahead, still not looking at me.

"Are you okay?" I ask, because I need to. "Like, really okay?"

He doesn't answer right away. Then—so soft I almost miss it—he murmurs, "You're the one who got punched."

"Yeah, well." I give a half-shrug. "Been through worse."

He finally looks at me, and something twists in my chest. His eyes are rimmed red, the corners still puffy from crying. He hates that I saw him like that. I can tell. He's folding in on himself again—shoulders hunched, mouth pressed into a flat line.

"I'm fine," I add. "Just a bruise. A cool one."

He doesn't laugh. But he does glance down at my hand, which I realize is slightly bleedy from where I knocked tyler out. 

"You should go home," Eli says quietly. "Rest. Ice your hand."

"And let you walk alone?"

"I'm not five."

"I didn't say you were."

"I can handle myself," he snaps, more harshly than I expected. Am I crazy for liking it that he snapped at me for the first time?

I don't respond right away. Just take a slow breath.

"I know you can," I say finally. "But maybe... you don't have to. And we can just walk together, what's the big deal?"

Eli looks away again. His jaw tightens like he's chewing on something sharp.

"I'm embarrassed," he mutters. "That's why. Okay?"

That gets me. He's not mad. He's ashamed. Of crying. Of breaking down. Of letting me see it.

"Eli... what happened earlier? That wasn't embarrassing. That was brave."

He scoffs, low and bitter. "Crying in a bathroom stall is brave now?"

"Letting someone see you like that. Letting me see you. Yeah. That takes guts."

He says nothing.

I shift the strap of my bag and gently nudge his arm. "Come on. Let me walk you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

I sigh. "I am."

"Don't lie."

"I'm not lying. You're just stubborn."

"Look who's talking," he shoots back, eyes flickering with a reluctant spark. I almost smile.

We stand there a moment in silence, facing each other like we're on opposite sides of something invisible.

"I just want to make sure you're okay," I say again, softer now.

Eli looks down. "You keep asking that."

"Because I mean it every time."

He doesn't reply, just nods once, like he's trying to absorb it but doesn't know how.

After a beat, I reach out. My fingers brush his—hesitating at first—but then I close my hand around his.

Eli freezes.

I expect him to flinch or pull away.

He doesn't.

His hand stays in mine—small, cold, a little tense—but there. Present. Real.

He looks at me, eyes wide. A mix of confusion, caution, and something else. Shyness. Like he doesn't know what to do with kindness that doesn't come with strings.

"Is this okay?" I ask quietly.

He nods, barely, and whispers, "Yeah." I don't miss the heat creeping on his ear. 

So we walk like that. Side by side. No more arguing. No more pretending. Just two boys with bruises in places no one else can see, holding hands on a cloudy afternoon.

My house is closer. When we reach the street I live on, I stop at the corner and glance toward my porch. Then back at him.

"You want to come in? Just for a bit?"

Eli hesitates. "I should head home."

"You sure?"

He nods again. But he looks like he wants to say more. His eyes dart to my knuckles, the bruising starting to bloom beneath the skin.

"You're really okay?"

"Yeah. I promise."

He still doesn't let go of my hand.

I think he doesn't realize it until I gently loosen my fingers.

"Oh," he murmurs, pulling back suddenly like he's touched something hot. His cheeks flush.

I smile a little. "It's okay."

He backs up a step, awkward. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

I nod. "Tomorrow."

He starts to turn, then stops.

"Rafe?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For...um...everything."

I want to say You don't have to thank me. But I know Eli. I know how hard it is for him to say that at all.

So instead, I just say, "Anytime."

And I watch him walk away. Shoulders still a little tense, hands tucked into his pockets. But his steps are steadier now.

—

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The morning air has that early spring chill—cool enough to sting your nose, but warm enough that I didn't bother with a hoodie. The sky's clear today. Pale blue, streaked with fading morning clouds. I've got my bag slung over one shoulder and my headphones in, though I'm not really listening to the music. It's just to keep people away from talking to me. My thoughts drift more than the song playing.

I didn't sleep much last night.

Not because of the bruises. They barely ache now—just a dull throb when I flex my knuckles. It's not the pain. It's Eli. The way he looked at me yesterday when I held his hand. Like he couldn't believe I did it. Like no one ever had.

That look's been replaying in my head since.

I'm halfway down the sidewalk toward school when I see him.

Eli.

My hoodie on him. Same slouched shoulders. Same guarded posture. But he sees me too, and something in him shifts. Straightens, maybe. He waits by the lamppost, kicking at a crack in the sidewalk, trying to act like it's casual. It isn't. Not with the way he keeps glancing up like he's afraid I might walk past him.

I don't.

"Morning," I say, falling into step beside him.

"Hey," he says, barely audible.

We walk in silence for a bit. He stays close—closer than yesterday—and I pretend not to notice the way his arm occasionally brushes mine. I want to hold his hand. No, what if he pulls away. I don't wanna make it awkward.

Then, after a minute:

"Does it still hurt?" he asks.

"What?"

"Your hand." He gestures vaguely to it, not meeting my eyes.

"Oh. Nah. Barely."

He frowns. "You're lying."

I grin. "A little."

He nudges my arm with his elbow. "Idiot."

"WoW. New information ." 

Eli huffs, but it's not annoyed. It's fond. I'll take it.

"You really okay, though?" he asks again, softer this time. "Like, actually?"

"Yeah. I promise."

He nods, but I can tell he still doesn't fully believe me. I don't push it. He's asking because he cares. That's enough.

The rest of the walk is quiet. Comfortable. He doesn't seem in a rush to get away from me. We get to school a little early. The halls are half-empty and cold, the way they always are in the morning. When we head to class, Eli sits next to me like it's normal now.

And maybe it is.

In class, I catch him glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking. His eyes linger on the bruise on my jaw, the one that's faded to a dull yellow. I pretend not to notice. He doesn't say anything, just pulls his sleeves over his hands like he's trying to disappear.

By third period, he's finally talking again.

Sort of.

"You sure it's not fractured?" he asks under his breath while the teacher's scribbling something on the board.

"I've had fractured. This isn't that."

He gives me a skeptical look.

"Seriously," I say. "I'm fine."

He fiddles with the sleeve of his hoodie. "You shouldn't've fought him."

"I'd do it again."

"That's not the point."

"It is to me."

He glances at me then—quick, sharp—and I see something flicker in his expression. Worry. Maybe guilt. Maybe both.

"I'm sorry," he mutters.

"Don't be."

"I made things worse."

"You didn't. Tyler was always going to be a dick. I just gave him a reason to do it in front of people."

Eli doesn't smile. But he does go quiet after that. And even though his hands stay fidgety and his legs bounce under the desk, I think he feels a little less heavy. 

Lunchtime rolls around, and we're back in our usual corner of the courtyard. It's shaded, quieter than the center tables. Eli's half-heartedly poking at whatever sandwich he packed, and I'm finishing off a banana, stretching my legs out under the bench.

I don't mean to say it. It just slips out. Yes, I want his attention.

"So," I try to make it as casual as i can, "It's my birthday."

Eli's head jerks up like I just dropped a bomb. Good, his eyes are on me now.

"What?"

I blink. "Uh. My birthday. Today."

"You didn't tell me that!"

"I'm telling you now."

"Now?" He looks genuinely distressed. Oops! "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"I don't usually celebrate it."

Eli stares at me. "But—what—why not?"

I shrug. "Just another day."

"That's—" He stammers. "That's not—God, I don't have anything. I didn't bring anything. Not even—I don't even have a card—"

"Eli," I say, trying not to laugh. "It's okay."

"No, it's not! You walked me home yesterday, held me, literally fought someone, and now it's your birthday? You're supposed to tell people that." 

He is blabbering, I can tell or else he won't just mention that I held him yesterday.

"Says who?"

"Everyone!" he huffs, clearly flustered.

I chuckle and lean back on my elbows. "You wanna come over tonight?"

Eli freezes. "What?"

"My aunt won't be home. She's doing some weekend spa thing. House'll be empty."

"You want me to... come over?"

"Yeah. I mean, only if you want to. Just... hang out. Watch something. Eat pizza. Birthday stuff."

He stares at me like I've grown another head.

"Eli?" I say, suddenly self-conscious. "You don't have to. I just thought—"

"I'll come," he says, too quickly.

Did I mention my birthday so that I can make him come over today? Yes. Did i actually thought he will agree to come over? No. I blink. "You will?"

He nods, cheeks turning pink. "Yeah. I mean—if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

There's a beat of silence. His sandwich sits untouched in his lap.

"I don't have a gift," he mutters.

"You don't need one."

"But I want to."

"You really don't have to."

Eli looks down, pulling at the threads on his sleeve. "What do you want, then?"

I pause. Watching him—this boy who panics over a missed birthday, who flusters at the idea of coming over, who still doesn't know what he means to me—I know exactly what I want.

"You," I say simply.

His head snaps up. "What?"

"Just... spending it with you. That's enough."

Eli turns bright red.

"I—uh—I mean—okay—but—are you sure that's not lame?" he fumbles.

"Very sure."

His eyes dart to the side, then back to me. He's biting his lip now, but there's the faintest ghost of a smile there. Shy. Soft. Real.

"I'll come over after dinner?" he says.

I nod. "Yeah. I'll text you the address again."

Eli nods, still flustered. His eyes linger on me a second too long before dropping back to his lap. He clears his throat, then finally takes a bite of his sandwich like he needs something to do with his mouth.

I watch him for a while. The blush on his cheeks. The twitch at the corner of his lips. The way he's still trying to act cool and failing.

Might be the best birthday I've had in years.