Life had never been kind to me. I learned that lesson early — too early for a kid who should have spent her childhood worrying about nothing more serious than homework. Growing up with parents who drank more than they loved left marks on me that no concealer could hide, both the kind you could see and the kind that lived somewhere underneath your ribs, aching at the worst moments.
By the time I was eighteen and stumbling through college, I thought I'd gotten used to the cruelty. I thought I'd built walls thick enough. I was wrong.
The hallways were the worst part. Wide, echoing, inescapable. Every time I crossed campus, I could feel their eyes — my classmates — scanning me the way predators scan the herd for the weakest one. And somehow, no matter how carefully I walked, no matter how small I tried to make myself, they always found me.
I still wake up some nights from the memory of that afternoon during the break between classes. I had been minding my own business, head down, arms wrapped around my textbooks like a shield, when they surrounded me. A group of boys, all easy grins and hard eyes, circling like this was a game they'd played before.
One of them grabbed my arm. Just like that — no warning, no hesitation — his fingers closed around my wrist and yanked me toward him. The textbooks scattered. I heard myself make a sound I wasn't proud of, something small and frightened.
They called me names I won't repeat. The kind that embed themselves in your memory like splinters, working deeper every time you try to pull them out. And then one of them shoved me hard against the lockers. The metal edge caught me in the ribs and the pain burst white and bright behind my eyes.
The girls nearby watched. Some of them laughed.
I stood there afterward, alone among the scattered pages of my notes, pressing my palm against my side where the bruise was already beginning to bloom. And I thought: I can't keep doing this. I can't keep walking into this every single day.
That was when I noticed Solomon Day.
He was leaning against his locker a few feet away, watching the hallway with the vaguely detached expression of someone who had already catalogued the world and found it deeply unimpressive. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't jeering. He simply existed in a kind of quiet, unhurried stillness that felt almost alien in these halls.
I'd noticed him before, in the periphery of my awareness — the boy who never participated. He wasn't popular, exactly, but he wasn't a target either. He occupied some neutral, untouchable middle ground that I desperately envied.
My heart was hammering so hard I was almost certain he could hear it. My palms were sweating. Everything inside me was screaming that this was a terrible idea, that asking for help from anyone was just giving someone else a chance to hurt you.
But I walked over anyway. Because I was running out of options.
"Um, hi there..." My voice came out barely above a whisper. I couldn't quite meet his eyes. "I know this might sound weird, but... could we maybe pretend to be dating? Just for show, I mean."
The words felt ridiculous leaving my mouth. I felt my face heat up to approximately the temperature of the sun. "It's just, maybe then the others would stop bothering me so much. If they think I have a boyfriend, they won't mess with me anymore."
I stood there, fidgeting with the strap of my backpack, waiting for him to laugh. Everyone always laughed eventually.
He didn't laugh.
He tilted his head back against the locker and let out a long, slow yawn — like this conversation was mildly exhausting rather than deeply strange. Then he adjusted his glasses with one deliberate finger.
"I suppose I can agree to this arrangement," he said, in a voice that suggested he'd already mentally moved on to something else. "But let's be clear: this isn't about someone 'owning' you. It's about making sure they simply stop bothering you."
He paused.
"In exchange, you will be my assistant to handle any tedious tasks that come my way. I don't like being busy."
He closed his eyes.
I stared at him for a moment. Then something unknotted in my chest — slowly, carefully, like a fist unclenching after holding on too long. It wasn't warmth, exactly. It was just... relief. The particular relief of someone who has been braced for impact and found nothing hit them.
"Yes, absolutely," I said. "I understand completely. And I'd be happy to help you with your tasks. Anything to keep the bullies off my back."
A small smile found its way to the corners of my mouth, so unfamiliar it felt like borrowed clothing. I pictured waking up without dread for once. No more bruises. No more crying in bathroom stalls.
"Thank you, Solomon." My voice trembled slightly with it. "Really, thank you."
He led me to the library, which I wasn't expecting. I also wasn't expecting him to nearly trip over his own feet getting there, or to drape his arm lazily in my direction.
"Hold onto me so I don't collapse from exhaustion on the way," he instructed.
I blinked. Then I reached out and wrapped my fingers around his forearm, careful not to grip too tightly. His sleeve was soft. Worn cotton, slightly warm.
We made an odd pair, I realized as we walked. I moved quietly by habit — years of practice trying not to draw attention had given me a kind of careful efficiency, like someone who always knows exactly where the exits are. Solomon moved as though gravity was a personal inconvenience he was only tolerating on a technicality. Every step looked like it cost him.
"So, um, what exactly do you need help with?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
He produced a notebook from somewhere in the depths of his bag. It was crumpled and ink-stained and looked like it had survived some kind of disaster.
"It's a tedious reflection paper that was due two days ago," he admitted, utterly without shame. "I need you to transcribe my messy notes into a coherent essay. Writing is far too exhausting for my current state."
I accepted the notebook and we found a table in a quiet corner — the kind of corner that felt carved out of the rest of the world, separate and still. I pulled out a chair for him out of instinct. He dropped into it with the relief of someone who had been waiting for that chair his entire life.
"I'll admit, my handwriting looks more like ancient runes than English," he said, peering at his own notebook with something approaching mild curiosity.
I looked at the pages. He wasn't wrong.
"Don't worry," I told him, opening my laptop. "I'll do my best to translate. And if I'm stuck, I'll definitely let you know so we can figure it out together."
He made a sound that might have been acknowledgment, or might have been the beginning of another yawn.
I started typing.
There's a particular kind of focus that settles over you when you have a task in front of you — a clean, absorbing focus that leaves no room for the things you're trying not to think about. For an hour, maybe more, I existed only inside Solomon's cramped handwriting and the click of keys. I occasionally glanced up, trying to decode a word, and found myself cataloguing small details without meaning to. The way his eyes narrowed behind his glasses when he was thinking. The slight tilt of his head. The soft, unhurried rise and fall of his breathing.
He let out a yawn that brought tears to his eyes.
"Forgive me, but I haven't had nearly enough sleep to function like a normal human today," he said.
I looked at him properly then. The shadows under his eyes were deep and real. His shoulders carried weight that had nothing to do with his bag.
I recognized that kind of tired. The bone-deep kind that doesn't come from one bad night.
"Why don't you try to get some rest?" I said gently. "I can finish transcribing the notes myself. It'll give you a chance to recharge a bit." I gestured at the stack of textbooks on the table. "You could use these as pillows. I promise I won't disturb you."
He considered this for approximately one second, then rested his head on the books.
"Just wake me up once you've finished," he murmured, already half gone.
I watched him for a moment before turning back to the screen. There was something unexpected about sitting here with him — this strange, exhausted boy who had agreed to pretend to be my boyfriend without asking a single unnecessary question. The library hummed quietly around us. Someone somewhere was flipping pages. Outside the high windows, the sky had turned the pale grey of late afternoon.
I typed the final period just as the light changed.
"Done," I whispered to myself.
I woke him with a touch light enough that it barely qualified as contact — fingertips against his shoulder, his name said quietly. He stirred the way people do when sleep has been actually kind to them for once: slowly, reluctantly, with a kind of rumpled dignity.
His hair was slightly mussed. His glasses had slid down his nose. I had an inexplicable urge to straighten them that I firmly suppressed.
"Here you go," I said, sliding the laptop toward him. "I did my best to organize it into paragraphs and fix any typos I saw. Let me know if you need me to change anything."
He scanned the screen, arching his back in a long stretch, his spine cracking audibly.
"This looks more than adequate for a passing grade," he said.
High praise, apparently.
"Come with me to the printing station and then to the faculty office," he added, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm far too groggy to face the professor's lecturing alone."
My heart gave a small, involuntary flutter at the request. I told it to stop.
"Of course," I said.
We navigated the library aisles together, occasionally brushing arms where the shelves narrowed. Solomon collected the warm pages from the printer tray with the expression of someone retrieving a bill they'd been avoiding, and we stepped out into the autumn air.
The cold hit me immediately. I hadn't worn a thick enough jacket, and the wind had real teeth to it, cutting through the fabric like it had a grudge. I hugged my arms around myself and glanced sideways at Solomon, whose shoulders had hunched up around his ears.
Without quite thinking it through, I reached out and gently grasped his elbow, pulling him closer to my side.
"Lean against me," I said softly. "We can share body heat."
The words were out before I could second-guess them. I felt heat rush to my face immediately, and for a moment I was certain I'd overstepped somehow — that he'd give me a look and step away.
He didn't.
"Y-yes, that's... a logical idea since I'm quite sensitive to the cold," he said, and his voice had something different in it, something that made me press my lips together to hide an expression I couldn't name.
He leaned into me. His weight settled against my smaller frame, careful but genuine, and the warmth of him seeped into my side like sunlight through glass.
We walked like that all the way to the faculty building.
Standing at the professor's door, I felt my stomach turn over. I had no idea what kind of man was behind it. My experience with adults in positions of authority had not, historically, been encouraging.
"Are you ready for this?" I asked softly, looking up at Solomon.
"Let's just get this over with," he sighed, straightening his glasses. "Stay by my side."
I nodded, and followed him through the door.
The professor was a stern-faced man with brows like storm clouds and wire-rimmed glasses that seemed designed to make you feel guilty. He looked at Solomon, then at me pressed close to Solomon's side, with the expression of someone who has seen every excuse in the book and is already composing a response.
"What is it now, Mr. Day?" he said. "And who is this?"
I felt Solomon's hand tremble slightly as he held out the printed pages.
"I apologize for the delay, but a personal family matter required my full attention these past few days," Solomon said. His voice was smooth, which surprised me. "S-she is my girlfriend, and she's been helping me... manage things."
I heard the word and felt the room tilt slightly.
Girlfriend.
In that moment, standing in the fluorescent-lit office with the professor's stern eyes on me, something clicked into place. Solomon needed me to be this right now. Not because we had a deal — but because he was genuinely struggling to stand upright, and I was the thing keeping him there.
I stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Solomon's waist, holding him steady.
"Yes, I'm Solomon's girlfriend," I said. My voice came out clear. Clearer than I expected. "I've been helping him study and stay focused, especially during this difficult time. We both hope you can understand and accept his late submission."
I looked the professor in the eye and waited.
He scrutinized me for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression — not warmth, exactly, but a slight softening of the edges.
"Very well," he said, though his tone remained gruff. "I suppose I can make an exception, given the circumstances. But mark my words, Mr. Day, this better not happen again."
He took the papers and disappeared back into his office. The door closed with a sound like a verdict being delivered.
I exhaled so hard I felt slightly dizzy.
"That went... better than expected," I murmured, looking up at Solomon. "You okay? That was a lot of pressure."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he tightened his arm around me, and I felt his forehead come to rest briefly — gently — against my shoulder.
"Thank you, Kimmy." His voice was low and rough with exhaustion. "I honestly don't think I could have handled his temper if I were here alone. I'm completely drained after that social performance. You really saved me back there."
I stood very still, because I didn't trust myself to move.
Nobody had ever said that to me. Not like that — not with that quiet, genuine weight. Thank you was something people said when you held a door open, or handed them something they'd dropped. It wasn't usually said like this, like they actually meant it.
I started rubbing slow circles on his back. It felt like the right thing to do, and for once I didn't overthink whether the right thing to do was the right thing to do.
"You're welcome, Solomon," I said quietly, tilting my head to rest against his. "I'm glad I could help. You don't have to face everything alone, you know."
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes met mine, and the hallway — its fluorescent hum, its distant noise of passing students — faded into something irrelevant.
"I mean it," I said. "I'm here for you, whenever you need me. For anything at all."
My thumb moved across his cheekbone before I'd consciously decided to let it. Light, brief, like I was trying not to startle something that might otherwise bolt.
He cleared his throat. He looked at me for a moment that was just slightly longer than a normal moment.
"I want to make it up to you," he said quietly. "So let's go get something to eat." He adjusted his glasses, glancing toward the exit. "Do you have any more classes today, or are you free? I'd prefer to go while I'm still somewhat awake."
I stood there for a second, recalibrating. Eating together. He was asking me to eat dinner with him.
It sounded almost like a date.
A foreign concept, for me. An almost frightening one. But looking at Solomon's face — weary, earnest, with that subtle hopefulness barely visible beneath the exhaustion — I didn't feel frightened. I felt something closer to the opposite.
"No more classes," I said, and a real smile spread across my face, the kind that comes from somewhere unguarded. "And I'm starving, actually. Lead the way."
He smiled back. A small thing, rare-looking, like something that didn't come out very often. But there.
We walked out into the autumn evening side by side. The cold wrapped around us and I stepped a little closer to him without thinking about it, and he didn't step away. The campus was nearly empty now, most students retreated inside, and the wind moved through the trees in long, quiet sighs.
"There's a small, quiet place just around the corner that serves excellent soup," Solomon murmured, barely raising his voice above the wind. He checked his wallet as we walked. "It's my treat today, as a reward for your hard work. You earned it after dealing with that professor for me."
The warmth that moved through my chest at those words had nothing to do with the autumn cold.
"Wow, thanks Solomon," I said, glancing up at him. "You really didn't have to do that. But I won't say no to some yummy soup on a cold day like this."
He made a sound that was almost, almost, a laugh.
As we rounded the corner and the light from the café window appeared ahead of us, warm and golden and ordinary as anything, I found myself stealing glances at him. The wind had caught his hair. His glasses had slid down his nose again. I thought about reaching over and pushing them back up.
I didn't. But I thought about it.
And that, I realized — that small thought, that small want — was something I hadn't felt in a very long time.
Maybe this arrangement of ours wasn't entirely what I'd expected it to be.
Maybe that was all right.