He’s Not Ruined

I’m fucking pissed.

Did Mike do something to Mr. T?

We had a substitute today who claimed Mr. T had “family issues” and needed time off. I call bullshit. I actually love that class, and Mr. T is a good lecturer—one of the few who actually sees me.

I slam the front door so hard the walls shake and march straight toward Mike. It clearly takes him by surprise.

“Easy, sunshine,” he says.

“Fuck you,” I snap. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” he asks calmly, which just makes it worse.

“Mr. T. What did you do to him?”

He denies it, of course. Says he had nothing to do with it. I know he’s lying—I just can’t prove it.

“You’re a manipulative as*hole,” I say, voice shaking, “just like my dad.”

That one lands.

His jaw tightens. He grabs my face, not rough, but firm enough that I have to look at him. “Listen to me, and listen carefully, sunshine. I am nothing like that loser. The only reason he’s still breathing is because he’s your father. Otherwise—”

He stops himself, then lets go and walks upstairs.

That night, I insist on sleeping downstairs. My nightmares are back. I haven’t had them since I moved into this house.

“Sunshine… sunshine, wake up.”

I drift in and out, something warm wrapped around me. When I wake up properly, I’m in my bed. Mike is curled around me like I might disappear if he lets go.

For a crazy guy, he’s such a cuddler.

I’m still mad at him though.

We shower together in silence the next morning. No teasing. No jokes. Just steam and tension. Then we go to school.

And there he is.

Mr. T. Alive. Whole. Very much not kidnapped.

I feel so stupid I want the floor to open up and swallow me.

I turn slowly to Mike. He’s biting his lip, trying—and failing—not to laugh. I cover my face with my hands. He leans in and kisses my lips anyway.

“Don’t you two lovebirds get enough of each other at home?” Mr. T says.

The whole class laughs.

I sink as far down in my chair as humanly possible and consider changing my name, my degree, and maybe my entire existence.I stay frozen long after the laughter dies down, my ears burning like they’re on fire. Mr. T clears his throat and somehow continues the lecture like he didn’t just emotionally body-slam me in front of thirty people. I don’t hear a single word he says. All I can feel is Mike’s knee pressed against mine under the desk—grounding, intentional, annoying.

I shoot him a warning look. He grins.

After class, I try to escape before anyone can talk to me, but Mike catches my wrist. “Relax, sunshine. You survived.”

“I hate you,” I mutter.

“You’ll get over it.”

Outside, the air feels lighter. I finally breathe. Mr. T passes us and gives me a small, knowing smile, like he’s in on some cosmic joke. I nod back, still embarrassed but relieved. He’s fine. I was wrong. Mike didn’t ruin him. That thought alone makes my chest unclench.

We walk in silence for a bit. Then I sigh. “You didn’t have to say that.”

“Yes, I did,” Mike replies. “People don’t get to claim you like that.”

“I wasn’t being claimed,” I argue weakly.

He stops walking and looks at me. “You don’t always notice when it happens.”

That shuts me up.

At home, nothing is said, but everything is felt. He hands me tea without asking. I sit closer than I mean to. When my shoulder brushes his, neither of us moves away.

I still don’t like how he does things.

But I can’t deny one thing—I feel safe.

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