"The quadratic formula isn't actually that complicated," I explain, watching Riley doodle stars in the margins of her math notes. "It's just a pattern you need to memorize."

We're sitting on my living room floor, textbooks spread around us. After her breakdown in the library yesterday, I half-expected her to avoid me. Instead, she showed up at my locker after last period, announced she was failing calculus, and declared I owed her tutoring services.

It's strange seeing her in my space. Riley has always existed in moments of crisis—on bridges, in quarries, in empty locker rooms after failed games. But here, in my home, she seems both out of place and exactly where she belongs.

She's wearing one of her typical oversized sweaters, this one dark blue with tiny stars embroidered around the cuffs. I wonder if she chose it deliberately, another layer of armour against the world.

Against me.

Against whatever haunts her phone with endless calls.

I catch myself staring at her hands as she fidgets with her pencil. The same hands that pulled me back from the edge of that bridge. The same hands that now shake slightly whenever she reaches for her phone.

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Perfect GPA." She tosses her pencil aside with a dramatic sigh. "Some of us mere mortals struggle with the concept that letters and numbers can mate and produce equations."

"That's... a disturbing way to think about algebra."

She grins, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of the girl from the bridge—the one who talked about ice cream flavours while saving my life. But there's something different about her today. A heaviness in her movements, shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide.

"Can we take a break?" she asks. "My brain is starting to leak out my ears."

"We've only been studying for twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes too long." She's already reaching for her bag. "I brought movies. And before you protest, this falls under rule number two: trying new things."

"How is watching movies trying new things?"

"Because, Mr. Perfect Schedule, when was the last time you just... stopped? Watched something without analysing it for deeper meaning or worrying about wasting time?" She pulls out a stack of DVDs. "When was the last time you did anything just because you wanted to?"

I open my mouth to answer, then realize I can't remember.

"That's what I thought." She starts sorting through the movies. "We're starting with an absolute classic—"

"If you say Titanic, I'm kicking you out."

"Please." She holds up a case. "The Princess Bride."

Two and a half hours later, we're halfway through our second movie. The living room has grown darker, shadows creeping in from the corners. I should turn on a lamp, but I'm afraid any movement might wake her. The TV casts a blue glow across her face, making her look almost ethereal—and more exhausted than I've ever seen her.

From this angle, I can see things I usually miss. The way her fingers twitch occasionally, like she's drawing in her sleep. The small scar near her hairline that I've never noticed before.

She looks younger like this. More vulnerable. Less like the fierce guardian who pulled me back from the edge and more like someone who might need saving herself.

The calculus books lie forgotten under empty pizza boxes and the wrapper from the chocolate bar Riley insisted was "essential to proper movie watching."

I'm not really following the plot anymore. I'm too distracted by the way Riley's head has gradually tilted toward my shoulder as she grows more tired. By the way her sarcastic commentary has faded into soft, even breaths.

By the way her sleeve has ridden up, revealing her wrist.

The scars I noticed that first night are there—old, silvery lines that speak of past pain. But there are others now. Newer ones. Angry red lines that weren't there when she held out her hand to help me up from the bridge.

Some look fresh. Days old, maybe.

One in particular catches my eye—slightly crooked, like her hand was shaking when she made it. I think about that night, about how many star facts she texted me. Was she holding the blade between messages? Was she trying to save me while hurting herself?

The thought makes me want to wake her up, to demand answers, to wrap her in blankets and never let her leave. To protect her the way she's been trying to protect me.

But I know better. Riley doesn't need another person trying to control her life. She needs someone to stand beside her, to catch her when she falls, to be there when she's ready to talk.

If she's ever ready.

I think about all our conversations, all the times she deflected personal questions with random facts. How many of those moments were masks? How many times did I miss the pain behind her smile?

My chest tightens. While she was saving me, who was saving her?

She shifts in her sleep, and her sleeve rides up further. More scars. More stories she won't tell. Her phone sits face-down on the coffee table, silent for once. I wonder if she blocked the mystery caller or if they finally gave up.

Somehow, I doubt either is true.

"No," she mumbles, twitching slightly. "Please, don't—"

"Riley." I touch her shoulder gently.

She jerks awake with a gasp, eyes wild. For a moment, she looks ready to run.

"You're okay," I say quickly. "You're at my house. We were studying, then watching movies. You fell asleep."

Recognition floods her face, followed quickly by embarrassment. She pulls away from my shoulder, tugging her sleeves down.

"Sorry," she mutters. "I haven't been sleeping well."

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that." She runs a hand through her hair, which has mostly escaped its messy bun. "What time is it?"

"Just past eight." I hesitate, then add, "Want to talk about it?"

"About what?"

"The nightmares. The phone calls. The..." I gesture to her wrist, now safely hidden under her sleeve.

She goes very still. "You saw."

"I saw before too." I keep my voice gentle. "Just like I always see how you check your phone every few minutes, even though it terrifies you."

"Stop." The word comes out barely a whisper.

"No." I shift to face her fully. "You don't let me run from my demons. Why should I let you run from yours?"

"Because my demons have teeth." She stands abruptly, gathering her things. "I should go."

"Riley—"

"This was a mistake." Her hands shake as she shoves books into her bag. "I'm supposed to be helping you, not... not..."

"Not letting me see that you're hurting too?"

She freezes, one hand on her phone. "I'm fine."

"Rule number three."

"Don't." She backs toward the door. "Please, Ethan. Just... don't."

But I'm already moving, placing myself between her and the exit. "You made me scream in a quarry. Made me talk about my father, about the pressure, about everything I've been bottling up. Why won't you let me do the same for you?"

"Because I can't!" The words burst out of her. "I can't talk about it. I can't think about it. I can't—" She cuts off, pressing her hands to her face. "I can't be weak right now. I have to be strong. For you. For—" She stops again.

"For who?"

She shakes her head.

"Riley." I step closer, slow enough not to startle her. "Let me help."

"You can't." But she doesn't back away when I reach for her hands, drawing them gently from her face.

"Try me."

For a moment, I think she might actually tell me. Her eyes meet mine, and I see something there—fear, yes, but also a desperate kind of longing. Like she wants to trust me but doesn't know how to.

Then her phone buzzes.

The moment shatters. She pulls away, checking the screen. Whatever she sees makes her face go pale.

"I have to go."

This time when she moves toward the door, I let her. But I catch her arm as she passes, gentle enough that she could easily break free.

"Rule number one," I remind her. "Answer when I call or text."

She nods once, still not looking at me.

"And Riley?"

Now she does look up.

"Whatever you're running from? Whoever keeps calling? You don't have to face it alone."

Something flickers across her face—pain or gratitude or maybe both.

Then she's gone, leaving me with half-watched movies and the lingering scent of charcoal and chocolate.

I look down at my hand, the one that held her wrist. There's a smudge of concealer on my palm—evidence that some of those scars weren't as old as she wanted me to believe.

My chest aches with a new kind of pain. Not the crushing weight of expectations or the drowning pressure of perfection.

This is different. Sharper. More focused.

I want to protect her. From whatever—or whoever—drove her to that bridge. From the memories that haunt her dreams. From the blade she uses when everything gets too loud in her head.

The realisation hits me like a badly thrown pass.

I'm falling for the girl who saved my life.

And I have no idea how to save hers.