The afternoon dragged until fourth period, the kind of slow that made the clock sound louder. Word must’ve traveled; the usual shoulder-check crowd gave us space in the hall. Not a lot—just enough to be noticeable if you were paying attention.
By the end of last period, the hallways boiled again. You could feel the pent-up static of everyone wanting out. Gabriel and I were halfway to the doors when Brent—the linebacker with more bicep than brain—peeled off from a knot of guys and stepped into our path. Jake and Tyler drifted after him like orbiting junk.
“Hey, guitar boy,” Brent said, blocking the exit with his body. “Heard you’ve been feeling brave.”
Gabriel didn’t slow. “Heard you’ve been feeling bored.”
Jake snorted. “You get a mouth with those strings?”
Gabriel’s eyes flicked once to me, then back to Brent. His voice stayed calm. “You gonna let us walk, or do you need a chorus?”
Brent grinned, all gums. “You think your shadow’s gonna save you again?”
I didn’t grin back. I didn’t move, either. Just angled a half step so I could see all three at once. A teacher’s voice floated down the hall behind us, too far to help and too close to risk anything flashy. Not here.
Tyler tried the classic shove, the kind that says I’m testing the water. Gabriel pivoted, weight planted. The shove landed and went nowhere.
“Last chance,” Gabriel said. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried.
Brent’s grin thinned. He reached out, slow, like he was going to tap Gabriel’s chest with two fingers—a condescending little gesture that usually worked on smaller kids.
I moved.
My hand closed around Brent’s wrist mid-extension, not a grab so much as a quiet stop. I didn’t squeeze. I didn’t twist. Just enough pressure—a warning written in muscle and tendon.
“Hands to yourself,” I said, level.
For a second, we were a picture: his fingers caught inches from Gabriel, my grip steady, the hall noise dropping a notch as the nearby crowd felt something shift.
Brent tried to yank back. His eyes flicked to mine. Whatever he saw there took a notch out of his certainty.
“You good?” I asked Gabriel without looking away from Brent.
“Yeah,” Gabriel said. “I’m good.”
I released Brent’s wrist like I’d just remembered to be polite. He stared at his hand, then at me, then at Gabriel, recalculating.
Jake tried to fill the silence. “This is dumb. Let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Tyler muttered, suddenly fascinated by anything that wasn’t us.
Brent stood there a beat longer, pride fighting with instinct. Pride lost. He stepped aside, the way a door does when it realizes it’s not a wall.
We walked. The crowd breathed again, volume snapping back like a rubber band.
Outside, the air was crisp and cool. We cut toward the buses without talking. Halfway there, a shout snapped behind us—someone dropped a metal toolbox on the pavement near the auto lab. Heads turned late. I’d already mapped the sound and location before the first clatter finished echoing. When I glanced at Gabriel, he was already looking at me, eyebrows raised.
“You heard it first,” he said.
“Every bolt,” I said. “Every bounce.”
He huffed a laugh, more relieved than amused. “I thought you were going to snap his wrist.”
“I thought about it,” I said. “Then I thought about the paperwork.”
That pulled a real laugh out of him. He slowed near the bus line, foot resting on the curb. “You didn’t step in until I needed you.”
“That’s the idea.” I tipped my chin toward the doors. “You stood your ground. You didn’t need a rescue.”
“Felt like… I don’t know. Like I knew which way it would break before it did.”
“Instinct,” I said. “You’re reading them.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “If they try again?”
“Then we do it again,” I said. “Until they learn.”
A brisk set of footsteps cut toward us. Mr. O’Leary, Algebra, a stack of folders under one arm. His eyes flicked over the two of us and the cluster of kids by the doors, measuring something he’d half overheard and mostly guessed.
“Everything alright here?” he asked.
“All good,” Gabriel said, easy.
Mr. O’Leary looked at me a beat longer than necessary, then back to Gabriel. “Good,” he said, like he’d decided to leave whatever he thought he’d seen right there on the pavement. He headed for the faculty lot.
We stood in the exhaust-scented quiet for a moment. The bus hissed, doors folding open. Gabriel glanced at the line, then back at me.
“You coming by later?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “You can tell me how many chords you learned not to throw at people.”
“Funny,” he said, but he was smiling. “Thanks. For the… micro-intervention.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t do anything.”
He gave me the look that said he knew better. Then he climbed on the bus, turned once in the aisle to meet my eyes, and that small, conspiratorial grin flickered—the inside-secret grin. The one that said he knew exactly what I was, and that it didn’t scare him.
The doors folded shut with a sigh, and the bus pulled away. I watched it go, the wolf in me calm, satisfied. Lines had been drawn today. Not with teeth. Not yet. But clear enough for anyone paying attention. And from here on out, they’d be paying attention.