Two Days Later
The school felt the same.
Too loud. Too fast. Too full of people he didn't care about.
But his eyes scanned for her anyway.
And then — there she was.
At her locker, sleeves too long, hair half-up like she hadn't had time to finish getting ready. She hadn't seen him yet. She was busy pulling a book from the top shelf — standing on tiptoes, mouth pressed into a thin line.
He exhaled, like something in him unclenched.
And then she turned.
Saw him.
And stopped.
Her expression didn't change — not much. Not for the others. But he caught it.
The breath she held. The small shift in her eyes.
And then —
She walked toward him. Quick, quiet steps. Her shoes barely made a sound, but he heard every one of them like a drumbeat.
And before he could say anything — before he could smirk or shrug or offer a lazy "Hey" —
She grabbed his hand.
No hello. No "you're back." No questions.
Just her fingers, small and cold, wrapping around his bruised knuckles like she'd been waiting to touch them for days.
She turned his hand over carefully, thumb brushing over the raw skin.
"You didn't ice it," she murmured.
He swallowed. "Didn't want to."
"You're an idiot."
"Probably."
Her touch lingered, light and reverent — like she didn't know whether to scold him or hold on tighter.
"You really punched him?" she whispered, not meeting his eyes.
He watched her instead. Watched the way her lashes dropped, the way her lips pressed together like she hated that she cared this much.
"He confessed to you," Alex said.
"That's not a reason to fight someone."
"He touched your arm."
She looked up sharply.
"And I told him no," she said. "I didn't need you to turn into a storm."
"You didn't have to need it," Alex said quietly. "I just… did."
She let go of his hand slowly, like her fingers didn't want to.
And then she stepped back.
"I didn't ask you to fight for me."
"I know."
"And I won't say thank you."
"I'm not expecting you to."
A pause.
Then, softer — almost too soft to hear:
"But I checked the suspension list every morning."
He blinked.
"And?"
"And today," she said, turning back toward her locker, "I didn't have to."
She turned back to her locker, rummaged for something, then spun on her heel and threw a small box straight at his chest.
It hit him with a soft thud.
He caught it out of reflex.
Band-Aids.
Strawberry-patterned.
He blinked. "Seriously?"
"It's all I had," she said flatly, already walking away. "Don't bleed on people next time."
He stared after her, lips twitching despite himself.
"Wait—Ava."
She didn't turn.
"Thanks."
She lifted one hand, half a wave, without looking back.
He stood there, bruised knuckles throbbing, box of pink Band-Aids in hand… and a grin creeping up that he couldn't fight.
She cared.
She really cared.
And she'd tried so hard to pretend she didn't.
Which made him fall even harder.
Because Ava didn't say "I missed you."
She threw it at you in the form of first-aid.
And for Alex?
That was already more than he'd ever been given.
----
Alex dropped onto the back steps behind the gym where his friends were already mid-lunch, still grumbling about his suspension like they were the ones who'd gotten benched.
"Finally," Jay muttered. "We thought they'd locked you up for good."
"Nah," Alex said, stretching out like a king returning from exile. "Missed me too much."
Finn smirked. "Yeah? You missed anyone while you were gone?"
Alex didn't answer. Instead, he pulled the strawberry Band-Aid box out of his jacket pocket and set it down on the step beside him like it was fragile.
The guys stared.
"What the hell is that?" Jay asked.
"Medicine," Alex said coolly.
"Is that—are those strawberries?"
Alex didn't flinch. "She threw it at me."
Finn blinked. "Ava?"
He nodded once.
"Dude, no way."
He leaned back on his elbows, smug. "First thing she did when she saw me? Grabbed my hand, checked my knuckles. Didn't even say hi. Just went full nurse."
Jay raised an eyebrow. "So... she's pissed but still taking care of you?"
Alex grinned. "Exactly. That's real love."
Finn snorted. "That's real delusion, man."
But Alex didn't care. He kept the box beside him the whole lunch break like it meant something sacred. Like it proved something he couldn't say out loud.
Because he could've pocketed it again, could've shrugged it off.
But he didn't.
Instead, he left it there — pink, ridiculous, and his.
A reminder that she still saw him.
Still worried.
Still his girl… even if she hadn't said it yet.