The first time Vivian saw him, he didn’t even look up.

  Harbor House felt bleak and gray, like all the color had drained away since the day her parents died. Vivian stood frozen in the doorway, clutching her worn bag tightly, fingers pale from gripping the frayed strap. Voices buzzed around her, muffled as though underwater, but she didn’t care enough to listen. She hadn’t spoken a single word since that night, since she’d watched the robber drop her parents’ lives onto the floor like broken toys. Her silence was her shield, the only thing left she could control.

  The common room was loud, chaotic, filled with kids who laughed and fought and pushed. Vivian’s eyes drifted across them without really seeing until they landed on a small, thin boy hunched quietly over his tray. His dark hair was messy, falling over eyes fixed downward. His clothes looked old, frayed sleeves nearly hiding small hands that fidgeted nervously, picking at loose threads. Something about him felt familiar—maybe the quiet hurt, maybe the way he shrank into himself, desperate to be invisible.

  She recognized that feeling, deep in her chest, where everything still hurt.

  The first day at Harbor House had quickly taught Vivian how things worked. Two girls, taller and meaner, had cornered her near the table where supplies were kept. Sarah, the one with the bright pink headband, had shoved Vivian roughly.

  “You’re the new girl?” Sarah sneered, leaning close. “You look weird.”

  Beside her, Holly giggled cruelly. “Why’s your hair so messy? You don’t talk? What’s wrong with you?”

  Vivian said nothing, her dark eyes staring blankly back at them. She felt nothing, nothing but cold, creeping anger building silently beneath her skin.

  “Answer when we talk to you,” Sarah demanded, shoving her again, harder this time.

  Vivian’s gaze flickered down, catching sight of a stapler resting on the table. Without thinking, she snatched Sarah’s wrist and slammed her hand into the stapler, pressing down hard once, twice, again and again, rapid and relentless. Sarah’s screams filled the room, Holly shrieking in horror, until adults pulled Vivian away, shocked at the small girl’s silent violence.

  No one bothered her after that.

  Yet Vivian found herself watching the quiet boy from afar. He never fought back when the bigger kids tormented him, never raised his eyes when they stole his food. Something in Vivian ached watching him accept their cruelty. It felt wrong. It made her angry in a way she didn’t fully understand.

  Then came the day Derek took the boy’s bread right from his tray, smirking cruelly. The boy’s head stayed bowed, small hands clenching helplessly. Vivian felt a surge of raw, uncontrollable fury. Without hesitation, she stepped between them, small frame rigid, fists tight at her sides.

  “What’s this? Doll-Face thinks she’s tough?” Derek mocked, eyes glittering with amusement.

  Vivian didn’t respond. She just stared at him, eyes blazing with silent defiance. Derek reached to shove her aside, and something inside Vivian exploded. She lunged at him, fists and nails flying wildly, the rage she’d kept hidden finally breaking free. Vivian barely registered her own snarls, the shocked gasps, Derek stumbling backward. Everything blurred into a haze of violence until adults dragged her away, small body thrashing in blind fury.

  Afterward, whispers followed her everywhere, cruel taunts about Doll-Face, about her madness. Vivian ignored them easily. Words meant nothing to her anymore. But she noticed the boy never joined in their whispers. Instead, he watched her silently, cautiously, eyes wide with something she couldn’t quite understand—something that made her chest hurt a little less.

  She began quietly seeking him out, settling close enough to feel his presence but not crowding him. He never chased her away. Instead, he sometimes glanced at her, eyes large and wary but oddly kind beneath messy dark hair. Vivian studied his face secretly—the gentle curve of his chin, the soft line of his cheekbones, his dark eyes carrying a sadness she recognized as deeply as her own.

  One afternoon, she sat alone, absently tracing images in a forgotten comic book. He approached slowly, cautiously, and settled beside her. She stiffened at first, ready to withdraw, but his quiet voice stopped her.

  “Do you like comics?” he whispered softly.

  For a long, uncertain moment, Vivian stayed silent, heart racing. Finally, she nodded slightly. The boy nudged the comic gently toward her, eyes sincere. She took it carefully, as if it might vanish. Warmth bloomed tentatively in her chest.

  They spent the afternoon quietly together. Vivian stole careful glances, seeing him watch her with hesitant kindness. Without thinking, she smiled faintly, startled at the unfamiliar lightness inside her. From then on, Vivian found herself silently drawn to him, cherishing each small kindness—the crackers he subtly placed on her tray, the comics he quietly offered. Each gesture felt immense to her, though he probably never realized how much.

  The day Derek and his friends cornered her, Vivian’s rage surged again. But when the boy threw himself at Derek, fighting desperately despite being outmatched, Vivian froze, stunned. Her heart pounded painfully as she watched him take blow after blow, all for her. Tears filled her eyes, confusion mixing with something deeper, something achingly powerful.

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  When it ended, she knelt trembling beside him, seeing his battered face, eyes swollen shut but still somehow kind. Gently, Vivian pressed the bracelet into his palm, the one she’d made clumsily with her mother before everything shattered. Giving it to him felt right, felt important. It was all she had left.

  Later, alone in the darkness of her room, Vivian sat curled up tightly on the thin mattress, a small sniffle escaping despite her fierce attempt to hold it back. She didn’t cry for her parents; those tears had dried up long ago, replaced by a numbness she clung to desperately. Instead, this quiet sadness was for him—the silent, skinny boy who had fought with reckless determination for her, who had bled for her, and who now lay bruised and broken because of her. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. She didn’t want to leave him behind, but they were already whispering about sending her away again, moving her like she meant nothing. Hot anger flared in her chest at the memory of those older boys, at their cruel fists and mocking faces. She pressed her small, trembling fists against her eyes, swallowing down the burning rage, grief, and confusion. He was her only friend—her only anchor in a world that wouldn’t stop taking things from her. And now they were stealing him away too.

  Years later, when she saw him again, Vivian wouldn’t recognize him. The memories had been buried too deep, hidden behind walls of numbness and forced forgetting. If she only knew who he was—if those lost memories of a small boy who had once fought desperately for her returned—she would know without a doubt that he was hers, had always been hers.

  The thought drifted, blurring gently, shifting into awareness filtering back through a fog of dull, persistent pain. Her head felt leaden, throbbing dully as she shifted slightly beneath unfamiliar sheets. The world eased into muted clarity—soft gray light slipping through curtains she didn’t recognize, the low mechanical drone of an air conditioner, the faint scent of antiseptic and something medicinal lingering in the air.

  A heaviness rested against her side. With effort, Vivian turned her head, gaze falling downward, and stilled at the sight before her.

  Noah sat half-slumped beside the bed, head resting awkwardly on one arm draped across the mattress, his posture uncomfortable, twisted from exhaustion. Dark shadows circled his eyes, evident even in sleep, his brow drawn tight in troubled lines. His breathing was uneven, catching every few moments as if his subconscious was unable—or unwilling—to relax fully. Strands of black hair fell forward across his forehead, tangled from neglect.

  She stared at him for a long moment, memory flooding back slowly, painfully, piece by fractured piece. Her parents’ bodies cold behind the store counter. Blood slick and hot between her fingers. Vince’s battered form, the brutal aftermath of violence she couldn’t stop—his skull shattered, blood pooling beneath him, seeping relentlessly into the carpet. Serena’s lifeless, frozen body beneath Martha’s basement. Martha’s soft apologies before the blast—the world tearing apart in fire and sound. And finally, Noah’s desperate, stricken face as she collapsed into darkness.

  And then—the hammer. The man, his eyes wild, lunging toward her. Noah had come from nowhere, slamming himself into the attacker without hesitation, throwing his body recklessly between her and death. Always protecting her, whether she recognized him or not—just as he’d done once before, when they were children, when he’d taken fists meant for her without a second thought.

  And afterward—when she stood trembling, blood dripping from her hands, the hammer heavy in her grasp—Noah hadn’t flinched. She remembered it now with perfect clarity: the bruised, bloody lines of his face, and the slow, dark smile that curled at his lips. He hadn’t recoiled from the violence she’d unleashed; instead, he’d looked at her with a fierce satisfaction, as if he’d finally seen something in her that he’d always suspected, something he recognized. Even then, he’d been the only one to truly see her—every side, every shattered edge—and never pull away.

  Everyone she’d ever cared for was gone. Every loss was a bitter confirmation: caring led only to grief, attachment only to agony. But here he was—still beside her, stubbornly present despite everything that had tried to rip them apart. Despite everything she was, everything she’d done.

  She watched him closely, her fingers moving almost without thought, hesitating briefly before brushing lightly against Noah’s tangled hair. He stirred faintly, the crease between his brows deepening, but he didn’t wake. Vivian felt something complicated and powerful twist inside her chest. A recognition that pierced through years of buried trauma, finally clear—this was him. The quiet, skinny boy from Harbor House, the only one who’d ever fought for her back then. The boy she’d forgotten, the memory buried deep beneath layers of grief and pain. He’d been there for her then, just as he was here now, exhausted and spent because of her.

  Her throat tightened, a rare sting of emotion rising as the realization settled fully. Carefully, gently, she traced her fingers along Noah’s temple, lightly brushing aside the strands of hair that shadowed his battered face. Even now, asleep but restless from worry and exhaustion, he looked ready to fight—to guard her against whatever threatened. He had already proven he would risk everything for her, had proven it repeatedly, even before either of them knew who the other truly was.

  Vivian exhaled softly, gaze sharpening with quiet intensity.

  She knew better than anyone what loss felt like. She’d memorized every cruel lesson the world had forced upon her. But this—him—she wouldn’t lose. She couldn’t.

  Carefully, Vivian let her fingertips linger against Noah’s cheek, steady—a silent claim.

  He jolted awake at her touch, eyes snapping open. For a split second he looked disoriented, panicked, muscles coiled tight as he searched wildly for a threat. Then his gaze landed on her, and everything stilled. Shock gave way to relief, so sharp it bordered on pain. His shoulders sagged, exhaustion and guilt shadowing his face. His eyes flickered over her, uncertain, as if afraid she’d vanish if he moved too fast or said the wrong thing.

  Vivian’s chest tightened. She offered a gentle smile, something aching quietly inside her for the years lost, the memories buried. “Hey,” she whispered, voice soft but steady.

  Noah stared, frozen, barely breathing. Tentatively, his hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against hers on the bed, as if needing confirmation she was really there, really awake.

  She curled her fingers gently around his, feeling his careful grip tighten instantly in response, desperate, possessive, protective.

  He’d always been hers. And she’d always been his—whether they’d recognized each other or not. And this time, Vivian swore silently, no matter what it took or what it cost, no one would ever take him away from her again.