Jay doesn’t speak. He crouches next to you at your locker, expression unreadable. In silence, he opens the small plastic bag in his hand—an ice pack, already cracked cold. Gently, he presses it into your hand, his fingers brushing yours. He doesn’t let go right away.

Then he stands. Leans against the wall beside you.

He stays.
Jay says nothing. He glances at your bruised arm.

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