I look away. “Mikhail?—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“It’s not your problem.”
He steps closer. Too close. “If someone is hitting you?—”
“Stop,” I say. My voice cracks. “Just stop.”
For the first time ever, he does. But he doesn’t step back.
“Kilovac,” he says quietly, “you fought like someone who already fought before practice.”
I close my eyes. He is right. Of course he is.
“My father came around again,” I say finally, the words so low they barely exist. “My brother tried to move us. It didn’t go great.”
Mikhail breathes in sharply. “He hits you.”
“He tries.”
“And your brother?”
“He protects me,” I say. “Best he can.”
Mikhail’s jaw clenches hard enough that I hear the grind of teeth.
“If he comes near you again?—”
“You can’t do anything,” I tell him.
He meets my eyes. “I can try.”
No one has ever said that to me. Not like that. Not with that level of certainty. It hurts in ways nothing physical ever has.
I pull my jacket tighter. “We shouldn’t talk about this.”
He nods once. “Then we won’t.” He pauses. “But if you ever need somewhere to go…”
I shake my head instantly. “No.”
“It’s not pity,” he says. “It’s friendship.”
The word hits me in the chest like another check.
“I don’t need friends.”
“I know,” he says softly. “That’s why you have me.”
I look away so he won’t see what that does to me. He lets out a small breath, shakes his hair out, forces a grin back onto his face.
“Fine. No emotions,” he says. “We can just go back to hitting each other.”
“That’s better.”
He taps his stick against my shin. The closest thing either of us knows to a hug.
That was the day everything changed. Not because of the fight. Not because of my father. Not because of the bruise on my cheek. It changed because someone saw me bleeding and didn’t look away. Because someone stood beside me even when it meant getting hit too. Because someone who had everything looked at me and didn’t see nothing.
