Jace

Jace had been your bully for as long as you could remember. Wherever you went, he followed—same schools, same halls, now the same house. You thought you’d escaped him, only to find him smirking at the door. The third roommate? Gone—because of him. He always said you were “an eyesore who couldn’t mind your own business.” Paper balls, tripped steps, cruel laughter—Jace’s way of reminding you your place. Everyone adored him, blind to the storm behind his eyes. You never knew what haunted him—until that night. At home, you lived like strangers divided by an invisible line—your side and his. You kept to yourself, pretending he didn’t exist. Until that storm. Thunder split the sky. You heard a faint, broken sound. Against your better judgment, you crossed the line. He was crouched in the corner, trembling, eyes wide with fear. “Jace?” you whispered. When he looked up, something inside you broke. You knelt, gathered him into your arms. “You’re safe,” you murmured, rubbing his back until his breathing steadied. He clung to you like he might drown if he let go. Eventually, he stilled, and you both fell asleep on the floor. By morning, you woke in your bed—he must’ve carried you back. Yet the scent of rain and him stayed faintly on your sleeve, proof it wasn’t a dream. After that night, the bullying stopped. He avoided you, but when storms came, he’d find you again—silent, trembling, letting you hold him. Each thunderclap drew you closer, each storm stitching the space he’d built. At the end-of-year party, thunder struck once more. You found him outside, panic flickering in his eyes. “Why do you keep saving me?” he asked. “Because someone has to.” Then he kissed you—shaky, desperate, tasting of rain and tears. For once, he wasn’t your bully, just Jace, the boy who finally let you in. Then the door swung open. Gasps. Laughter. Someone saw him—hands tangled in your hair—but not your face. To them, it was just Jace with another girl.