Chapter 3 - A Heroic Sacrifice and a Life-Saving Decision

  Julie’s birthday party was chaos in the best way possible—but her house? That was something else entirely.

  When Ezra pulled up to the massive iron-wrought gates, flanked by towering stone pillars, his first thought was holy shit, she lives in a castle. The driveway alone was longer than his entire street, lined with sculpted hedges, pristine white stone, and a goddamn fountain—because of course, rich people needed those in their front yard.

  The house—no, mansion—was exactly the kind of place you’d expect a politician’s kid to live. Huge arched windows, a columned entrance, and a roof so steep it probably had its own zip code. Ezra knew Julie had money, but this? This was Governor’s Club money.

  Inside, the place was just as ridiculous—crystal chandeliers, sweeping staircases, and more marble than any house had the right to have. The guests matched the atmosphere—kids dressed in tailored clothes, their laughter polished and sharp, their smiles hiding knives.

  Ezra immediately stuck out like a sore thumb.

  He barely had time to process it all before the other kids descended like vultures.

  “Oh, Julie invited a charity case this year?” a boy with slicked-back hair sneered, sipping some stupidly tiny glass of sparkling juice.

  “Is this, like, a new program for underprivileged kids?” a girl with perfectly curled blonde hair mused, tilting her head at Ezra like he was some zoo attraction.

  Another boy snickered, eyeing Ezra’s clothes. “You know, I didn’t think you could buy jeans at the gas station, but I guess I was wrong.”

  Ezra clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. He could handle Bruiser. He could handle school bullies. But this? This was another level. These kids didn’t shove you, they dismantled you with words so effortless it was like breathing to them.

  “Julie,” one of the girls sighed dramatically, fake sympathy dripping from her voice. “Didn’t your dad tell you not to bring commoners into our circle?”

  Julie snapped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Vanessa,” she said, voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “I didn’t realize this was your party.”

  The girl—Vanessa—huffed, tossing her hair. “I was just—”

  “You were just flapping your mouth again,” Julie cut in. Then she spun toward the slick-haired boy, eyes narrowing. “And you, Frederick—last I checked, your dad’s company is on the verge of collapse, so maybe worry about that instead of where Ezra bought his clothes.”

  Frederick’s face flushed red.

  Julie turned to the blonde girl, who suddenly looked less confident. “And you, Bianca—I’d be careful about mocking gas stations when your mom’s on her third nose job from a botched Botox appointment.”

  The entire room fell silent.

  Vanessa’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.

  Julie grinned, grabbed Ezra’s arm, and yanked him away. “C’mon,” she huffed. “Let’s leave these poodles to their circle jerk.”

  Ezra, still processing, barely managed to stammer, “Did you just—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I just wrecked them,” Julie muttered, dragging him toward the bounce house in the backyard. “Now let’s go jump off shit before I punch someone.”

  Ezra blinked.

  Then, despite everything, he grinned.

  Yeah. Julie was the best.

  Loud music, mountains of food, and the main event—a massive, inflatable bounce house with an attached balcony where kids could jump into a sprawling ball pit below. It was, in Julie’s words, "The ultimate launchpad for greatness."

  Ezra wasn’t so sure about greatness, but he had to admit—it looked fun.

  Julie, of course, had grander plans.

  She sprinted up to him, practically vibrating with excitement, and shoved her phone into his hands. “You. Record me.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. “What exactly am I recording?”

  She pointed to the highest part of the bounce house balcony. “My legendary cannonball into history.”

  Ezra sighed, already sensing disaster. “Julie—”

  “Nope! No talking me out of it,” she said, already climbing. “Just make sure to get my good angle!”

  Ezra groaned but held up the phone, adjusting the shot. “If you break your legs, I’m sending this to the paramedics.”

  Julie just grinned, giving him a double thumbs-up before she turned, preparing for her leap.

  Then—

  Ezra shifted his foot and felt nothing beneath it.

  His stomach dropped.

  The bounce house was leaking air.

  A split seam ran along the side, right where Julie’s cannonball would have landed. The cut was small but widening fast, turning what should have been a soft, cushioned pit into a treacherous landing zone.

  Ezra’s heart slammed against his ribs.

  “Julie—WAIT!”

  She didn’t hear him.

  Her knees bent, arms spread—

  She jumped.

  There was no time to think.

  Ezra dove into the ball pit, twisting mid-air just in time to throw himself directly under Julie’s falling body.

  WHAM.

  Pain.

  Crushing, white-hot pain.

  The moment she landed, the air was slammed from his lungs. The weight of her impact sent a violent shock through his body—something cracked—and a second later, Ezra was gasping, his vision blurring, his ribs feeling like they had just been reduced to rubble.

  The world around him spun—distant shouting, someone calling for help.

  Through the haze, Julie scrambled off him, her hands shaking. “Ezra?! Ezra, what the hell?!”

  Ezra groaned. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt.

  He could barely manage a croaked, “You’re welcome.”

  Then—chaos. Adults rushing over, the wail of an ambulance in the distance, hands carefully lifting him onto a stretcher. Pain. Pain. Pain.

  And then—

  Darkness.

  When Ezra woke up, he was in a hospital bed, the ceiling too bright, the smell of antiseptic sharp in his nose. His ribs were on fire, and every breath felt like someone was stomping on his chest.

  But he was alive.

  And judging by the sound of someone furiously pacing nearby, Julie was, too.

  He turned his head—yep. There she was, practically wearing a hole in the floor. Her dad, Mr. Keykey, stood nearby, arms crossed, looking like a man trying not to freak out.

  Julie froze the second she saw him awake.

  Then, in a blur, she was right next to him, eyes wide, face pale with guilt.

  “Ezra,” she breathed, hands hovering over the hospital bed railing, like she wanted to grab him but was too afraid of breaking him more.

  Ezra groaned. “If you’re about to say I’m an idiot, I already know.”

  Julie let out a sharp, breathy laugh—but there were tears in her eyes.

  “You saved me,” she whispered, voice thick. “You could’ve died, you moron.”

  Ezra tried to shrug. Bad idea. A wave of pain shot through his ribs. He hissed. “Yeah, well… maybe don’t cannonball into defective bounce houses.”

  Julie sniffed, rubbing her arm, looking more shaken than he’d ever seen her.

  That was when Mr. Keykey stepped forward, his normally confident, commanding presence a little softer than usual.

  “You’re one hell of a kid,” he said gruffly. “But what you did was dangerous. You could’ve been hurt a lot worse.”

  Ezra sighed. “Mistakes happen.” He glanced at Julie before looking back at Mr. Keykey. “But my dad always says… mistakes don’t have to hold you down.”

  The man’s expression shifted, something flickering in his eyes.

  After a long pause, he nodded.

  Julie, however, wasn’t done.

  She grabbed his hand—gently, like he was made of glass. “Ezra,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

  Ezra blinked.

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I don’t care what those assholes at school say about you.” Her voice wobbled. “You’re not weak. You’re not ‘weird.’ You’re not any of the things they say.”

  Ezra swallowed hard. He knew of the cumstain nickname, but there was more??

  Julie held his gaze.

  “You’re brave.”

  Ezra looked away, feeling heat rise to his face. “Well… you know. Someone’s gotta keep you from dying.”

  Julie let out a watery laugh. “Shut up.”

  For a long time, they just sat there.

  Mr. Keykey finally cleared his throat. “I’ll let you two talk. I need to check in with the doctor.”

  Once he was gone, Julie sighed, running a hand through her hair. “You scared the hell out of me, Ezra.”

  Ezra smirked weakly. “Scared myself too.”

  Julie huffed. “Never do that again.”

  “I promise nothing.”

  She rolled her eyes, but there was relief in them now.

  And as they sat there—his ribs broken, her nerves shot, but both of them alive—Ezra realized something.

  He didn’t need everyone at school to respect him.

  He didn’t need every kid in the cafeteria to stop mocking him.

  Because the people who mattered—

  They already knew who he really was.

  The drive home from the hospital was mercifully quiet, the hum of the car engine filling the space between Ezra and his dad. The painkillers were still doing their job, dulling the worst of the soreness, but his ribs still ached like hell every time the car hit a bump.

  Seth, hands steady on the wheel, gave him a sidelong glance.

  "So," he said casually, "wanna tell me how exactly you ended up in the hospital for a birthday party injury?"

  Ezra sighed, slumping against the passenger seat. “Julie was gonna do a cannonball off the bounce house balcony into the ball pit, but—”

  “—Wait, wait, wait.” Seth held up a hand like he needed to pause reality itself. “Let’s rewind real quick. You’re telling me that these kids’ parents bought a bounce house with a balcony?”

  Ezra blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

  Seth let out a low whistle. “Man, I grew up with bounce houses where you were lucky if they weren’t duct-taped together at the seams. These kids got two-story bounce castles?” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “I clearly messed up raising you in the wrong tax bracket.”

  Ezra snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway—Julie jumps, and I realize the bounce house has a rip in it, so I jump in first to break her fall.”

  Seth drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, nodding. "Mhm. Heroic. Selfless. Classic Ezra. But..." His lips twitched. "That’s not quite what I heard from Mr. Keykey."

  Ezra blinked. “What?”

  Seth hummed dramatically, as if recalling an epic tale. “Oh yeah. According to him, you didn’t just jump into the ball pit—you dived in like a noble warrior, sacrificing yourself for the greater good.”

  Ezra rolled his eyes. “I mean, I did dive, technically.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, that’s not how Mr. Keykey told it,” Seth said, grinning now. “He said you soared through the air, flipping twice, arms spread like some kind of divine protector of children’s bounce houses.”

  Ezra huffed out a laugh. “That’s not what happened.”

  “No? Because I heard you let out a battle cry—something like, 'I GOT YOU, JULIE!'—before shielding her with your iron ribcage of justice.”

  Ezra snorted, covering his mouth. “That’s not what I said!”

  “C’mon, kid, we’re already here. Just own it.” Seth waved a hand in mock grandeur. “It’s a legendary moment. Ezra, the Guardian of the Ball Pit.”

  Ezra grinned. He could play this game too.

  “Well, actually,” he said, settling into the ridiculousness, “I did scream something. It was way cooler, though.”

  Seth raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Hit me.”

  Ezra paused for dramatic effect before bellowing, “'YOU SHALL NOT FALL!'”

  Seth let out a sharp bark of laughter, nearly swerving the car.

  “Okay, that’s good,” he wheezed, wiping at his eyes.

  “And, uh,” Ezra smirked, “I actually did flip twice. But not on purpose. It was, uh… gravity-assisted.”

  Seth shook his head, grinning. “Right, right. Because when Ezra, the Guardian of the Ball Pit, leaps into action, gravity itself bends to his will.”

  Ezra dramatically pressed a hand to his chest. “I am one with the bounce house.”

  Seth howled, smacking the steering wheel. “Oh, hell yeah, that’s going in the story forever.”

  Ezra, still laughing, and clutching his ribs in laughter and pain, leaned back against the seat, feeling lighter than he had in days.

  The bruises still ached, his ribs still stung—but at that moment, none of it mattered.

  Because this?

  This was good.

  Ezra had expected this summer to suck.

  Sneaking onto a construction jobsite with his dad was already technically illegal, but working instead of getting an allowance? That was downright cruelty.

  At least, that’s what he thought—until he met the crew.

  Big Bubba, Tweak, Terry, Daisy, and Jezoos were a rough-looking bunch, the kind of blue-collar veterans who could probably build a house with duct tape and sheer spite. They were loud, sweaty, and covered in sawdust, and when Ezra first arrived, they sized him up with the same look a man gives a puppy trying to bite a truck tire.

  And then Big Bubba—who was exactly as large as his name suggested—grinned, crossed his massive arms, and ruined Ezra’s life forever.

  “Well, hell, wouldja look at that—it’s Cumstain!”

  Ezra’s soul left his body.

  Ezra spent the first few days moping. Every time someone threw the nickname at him, he just gritted his teeth and took it. It wasn’t exactly the same as Bruiser’s bullying, but it still stung.

  After a week, the crew noticed.

  One afternoon, while stacking lumber, Tweak—a wiry, grease-covered electrician who always looked like he had just been electrocuted—tossed a bottle of water at Ezra and squinted at him.

  “You know, kid,” he said, taking a swig of his own water, “I’ve seen snails with more fight than you.”

  Ezra wiped his forehead, scowling. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t like being called Cumstain.”

  Tweak howled, nearly doubling over. “Ohhh, buddy!” He turned to Terry, a burly, bearded man with concrete dust permanently embedded in his skin. “Terry, you hear that? He don’t like his nickname!”

  Terry wiped his hands on his jeans and grinned. “Oh, that’s precious. Hey, Cumstain, y’wanna hear a secret?”

  Ezra crossed his arms. “What?”

  Terry leaned in. “Ain’t nobody ever liked their nickname. Ever.”

  Daisy—a broad-shouldered woman who could probably break a 2x4 with her bare hands—nodded. “Hell, my first crew called me ‘Thunderthighs’ ‘cause I could outlift all of ‘em. I hated it.”

  “So what happened?” Ezra asked.

  “I outlifted all of ‘em again.” She smirked. “After that, they said it with respect.”

  Ezra blinked.

  Jezoos—a soft-spoken carpenter with a thick Spanish accent—chuckled. “I was ‘Rookie’ for three years. Even when I wasn’t a rookie no more.”

  Big Bubba wiped his face with a rag, grinning like a man who had been waiting for this conversation all day. “Kid, lemme tell ya something about life.”

  Ezra braced himself.

  “If someone gives you a nickname, you got three choices: Fight it, run from it, or make it yours.” He grinned even wider, “You wanna know the best part about nicknames?”

  Ezra remained silent, still trying to process despite the emotions welling up.

  “The best part about nicknames is that if you like ‘em, you get to keep ‘em.” He paused for dramatic effect. “An’ if ya don’t like ‘em.. Ya get to keep ‘em!”

  Tweak snapped his fingers. “Boom. Wisdom.”

  Big Bubba pointed a massive finger at Ezra. “You fight it? They’ll say it more. You run from it? You’ll never stop hearin’ it.” He leaned in. “But you own it? You take that name and say, hell yeah, that’s me?”

  Bubba grinned.

  “Then it ain’t an insult no more. It’s a damn badge of honor.”

  Ezra stared.

  “That’s the trick to life, kid,” Daisy added, crossing her arms. “You don’t let ‘em see you sweat.”

  Jezoos nodded. “If they see it gets to you, they win.”

  Tweak grinned like a mad scientist. “So, Cumstain,” he said, drawing out the name dramatically, “whatcha gonna do?”

  Ezra thought about it.

  Then—

  He grinned back.

  By the end of the summer, Ezra wasn’t moping anymore.

  If someone yelled, “Hey, Cumstain!” he’d shoot back, “Whattaya need, Ball Sweat?”

  If they teased him about his white-streaked mustache, he’d rub his chin and say, “Jealous you can’t grow one yet?”

  When Big Bubba clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning, and said, “Y’know, I think we made a man outta you this summer,” Ezra just smirked and said, “Damn right. Call me Cumstain again—I dare you.”

  Bubba threw back his head and laughed.

  “You see?” he said, nudging Daisy. “Told ya he’d come around!”

  Ezra had never felt more proud.

  Because this time?

  The nickname wasn’t an insult.

  It was respect.

  The summer had changed Ezra.

  Julie noticed it right away.

  When Ezra asked her out—to an actual date, not just their usual meetups—she pounced on the opportunity to tease him.

  “Ohhh,” she had grinned, practically skipping beside him as they walked through the park. “So this is a date? You trying to woo me, Ezra?”

  Ezra smirked slightly. “Maybe.”

  Julie blinked.

  …Something was different.

  Normally, Ezra would have turned bright red, stammered, immediately backpedaled, something. But instead? He just kept walking—like he was biding his time.

  Interesting.

  Julie narrowed her eyes mischievously.

  “Well, well,” she mused, sidling closer. “I don’t know if you have the rizz to pull this off, buddy.”

  Ezra rolled his eyes. “Rizz isn’t real.”

  Julie gasped dramatically. “HOW DARE YOU.”

  He just shrugged. “It’s just confidence with extra steps.”

  Julie stared. This was not the same Ezra who used to melt at even the tiniest bit of teasing.

  What the hell happened to him?

  She smirked, upping the ante.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “So, what, you think you’re all grown up now? Big, strong blue-collar worker man?” She nudged him harder. “I bet you still cry when your dad shaves off your mustache.”

  Ezra didn’t even flinch. “That’s funny, ‘cause I remember you almost crying the day you found out what cum was.”

  Julie gasped again, louder, covering her heart. “HOW DARE YOU CALL ME OUT LIKE THAT.”

  She shoved him. Ezra barely stumbled.

  …Alright. He was holding out. He was playing the long game.

  Julie squinted suspiciously.

  “Oh, I see what’s happening,” she said slowly. “You’re just letting me talk.”

  Ezra glanced at her. Smirked.

  Julie’s stomach flipped.

  Oh. Ohhh. He’s planning something.

  She couldn’t take it anymore.

  She pushed harder.

  “Y’know,” she said casually, folding her arms behind her head, “I think you’re getting too comfortable, Ezra. You used to be so cute when I teased you.”

  Ezra raised a brow. “Used to be?”

  Julie froze.

  …Damn it. He was picking apart her wording now.

  Okay. Screw it.

  She poked the bear.

  “Well,” she said, grinning wide, “since you’re so tough now, I guess I can call you Cumstain again.”

  As soon as it left her lips, she regretted it.

  Julie clapped both hands over her mouth, eyes wide.

  Ezra stopped walking.

  Slowly, so slowly, he turned to face her, his expression unreadable.

  And then—

  That smirk.

  The kind of smirk that a man gives when he’s already won.

  He tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp, and said:

  “I reckon I’m just proof your mom doesn’t swallow.”

  Julie’s soul left her body.

  She staggered back like she had been struck by the hand of God.

  “EZRA?!?” she screamed, hands flying to her head as if trying to hold her brain inside her skull.

  The wind stopped blowing.

  The earth held its breath.

  Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off.

  Julie doubled over, wheezing, laughing, choking all at once.

  “YOU CAN’T—” she gasped. “YOU CAN’T JUST SAY THAT!”

  Ezra, grinning like a madman, shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking.

  Julie, still gasping for air, pointed at him with pure, unfiltered respect.

  “…You’re not Ezra anymore.”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re…”

  She swallowed hard.

  “…The Cum-Back Kid.”

  By the time the sun started to dip below the horizon, Ezra and Julie had finally run out of steam.

  They had spent the last hour hurling insults at each other like Olympic athletes, their usual banter now an actual sport.

  “You’ve got the fashion sense of a blind possum in a tornado.”

  Julie gasped, clutching her chest. “You absolute cretin. You dress like a middle-aged divorcee going through a crisis at Home Depot.”

  Ezra laughed so hard he nearly fell off the park bench.

  Julie smirked. “I win.”

  Ezra wiped at his eyes, breath still hitching from laughter. “Nah, you always think you win.”

  Julie grinned. “That’s because I do.”

  Ezra just shook his head, settling back against the bench as they both caught their breath. The park around them had grown quiet, the distant sound of crickets starting to creep in. The streetlights flickered on, casting soft golden halos onto the pavement.

  For the first time that evening, neither of them spoke.

  It wasn’t awkward.

  Just… comfortable.

  Julie sighed, leaning her head back. “So… what do you wanna do? Y’know. When we’re older.”

  Ezra blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Uh… Like, job-wise?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ezra thought for a moment. “I dunno.”

  Julie huffed. “Lame answer.”

  “I mean,” Ezra chuckled, “I like construction, I guess. I could see myself working with my dad. But…” He tilted his head. “I wanna build something bigger. Maybe, like… a whole city.”

  Julie raised an eyebrow. “A whole-ass city?”

  “Yeah,” Ezra said, grinning. “And you can be in charge of its museums. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

  Julie snorted. “Hell yeah, I would. I’d rewrite history my way.”

  Ezra laughed. “That’s literally what the White Coats do.”

  Julie gasped. “Take that back.”

  “Nope,” Ezra said smugly, “you’re the new White Coat now.”

  Julie smacked his arm. “I will end you.”

  Ezra just grinned wider.

  Julie huffed, folding her arms. “For real, though? I wanna dig up the past. I wanna be the person who finds the things no one else even knows are out there.”

  Ezra nodded. “I can see it. You’d be the type to lose your mind over some old bones.”

  Julie kicked his foot lightly. “Yeah? Well, you’d be the type to build something just so you can knock it down and build it again.”

  Ezra laughed. “Sounds about right.”

  Julie smirked, shaking her head. Then—without thinking—she nudged his shoulder with hers.

  Ezra nudged back.

  Julie bumped him harder.

  Ezra shoved her just slightly, grinning.

  Julie grinned back.

  Then, before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in and—

  Oh, shit.

  Their faces smashed together so fast it was like a bad car crash.

  Julie’s nose hit Ezra’s cheekbone, Ezra missed her mouth entirely, and when they finally adjusted, it was sloppy, uncoordinated, and a goddamn disaster.

  Julie pulled back first, wide-eyed, lips slick with saliva.

  Ezra was just as stunned.

  Julie wiped at her mouth. “Dude.”

  Ezra blinked rapidly. “Was that—was that bad?”

  Julie, still processing, made a face. “I think—statistically, that was the worst first kiss in human history.”

  Ezra snorted. “Cool. So, uh… do we, like… try again or just pretend that didn’t happen?”

  Julie stared at him for a second.

  Then—

  She grabbed his collar and yanked him in for round two.

  And this time?

  It was only slightly less terrible.

  But somehow, Ezra didn’t mind at all.

  Ezra planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and grinned like a man with nothing to lose.

  Bruiser had spent months making his life miserable.

  And now?

  It was Ezra’s turn.

  Bruiser sneered, towering over him. “Watch where you’re goin’, Cumstain.”

  Ezra didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

  He just tilted his head, smirked, and fired back:

  “Damn, Bruiser, you’re really obsessed with me, huh? What’s wrong—Daddy not giving you enough attention at home?”

  The entire hallway imploded.

  Laughter. Gasps. Someone choked on their drink.

  Bruiser froze.

  For the first time ever, he didn’t immediately strike back.

  Ezra saw it.

  That tiny flicker of something else behind his eyes.

  Anger. Humiliation. And—for just a second—fear.

  Because Ezra was right.

  And Bruiser knew it.

  The beating that followed was well worth it. It was earned.

  Ezra sat in the nurse’s office, an ice pack pressed to his bruised cheek. His ribs ached, and his hands still buzzed with adrenaline from the fight.

  It had been worth it.

  But now? He had to deal with the aftermath.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was summoned to the principal’s office, where he found Bruiser already sitting across the desk, arms crossed tight, scowling like a kid who knew exactly how bad this was about to get.

  The principal sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead. “Ezra. Brandon. Again?”

  Ezra glanced at Bruiser. The guy looked… different. Tense in a way that had nothing to do with their fight.

  Then the door swung open.

  And that was when everything changed.

  Bruiser’s father stormed inside.

  The man was huge, thick with muscle, his face hard-edged and permanently scowling. His eyes narrowed at his son with immediate disgust.

  "You again, boy?"

  Ezra stiffened.

  The room chilled.

  Bruiser barely moved. He just stared at the floor, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

  Ezra had never seen him like this before.

  Then, in a low, drawling voice, his father mocked,

  "Let me guess. You were out there actin’ like a damn fool again… Sweet Pea."

  Ezra’s blood went cold.

  Bruiser flinched.

  The principal shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  Ezra finally understood.

  Sweet Pea.

  Not a pet name. Not a joke.

  That was what his father called him.

  The real nickname. The one meant to humiliate, break, and beat him down.

  Ezra swallowed hard.

  Suddenly, Bruiser didn’t look so big anymore.

  Suddenly, Ezra didn’t feel like fighting him at all.

  Seth was calm as they drove home, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping idly on the dashboard. Ezra, still processing, finally broke the silence.

  “Dad?”

  Seth glanced at him. “Yeah?”

  Ezra hesitated.

  Then, softly, he asked,

  “…Why do people like Bruiser’s dad even have kids?”

  Seth exhaled through his nose. “Damn, kid. Goin’ straight for the gut punches today, huh?”

  Ezra stared out the window.

  Seth was quiet for a moment before answering.

  “Some people don’t have kids ‘cause they want a family, Ezra. They have ‘em ‘cause they want someone to control.”

  Ezra’s fingers tightened on his jeans.

  “…That sucks.”

  “Yeah,” Seth agreed. “Yeah, it does.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  Ezra stared out the car window, watching the trees blur past in streaks of green and gold. The ache in his ribs had dulled to a persistent throb, but his mind was still reeling from what had just happened in the principal’s office. His fingers tightened on the fabric of his jeans, gripping the material as if it could ground him.

  He swallowed hard before speaking. "Dad… what’s with ‘Sweet Pea’?" He didn’t look over, just kept his eyes fixed on the road stretching ahead. "Why did Bruiser’s dad say it like that?"

  Seth let out a long breath through his nose. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel—a habit Ezra recognized as his dad gathering his thoughts, choosing his words carefully. "I’ve heard it before," Seth admitted. "A lot, actually. Around job sites. Around guys like Bruiser’s dad. You wanna know the truth, kid?"

  Ezra nodded.

  "It’s what they call kids ‘cause they can’t legally call ‘em retarded," Seth said bluntly, no sugarcoating, no hesitation. "It’s just soft enough to not get them in trouble, but hard enough that the kid knows exactly what they mean." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like he had seen it firsthand. "It’s not a nickname. It’s a leash. Something to remind a kid they’ll never be good enough, never be worth shit, not even to their own old man."

  Ezra’s grip tightened. The words settled in his stomach like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. He had thought Bruiser was just a mindless thug, just a bigger, meaner kid who got off on making others miserable. But this? This was something different. This was worse.

  For the first time, Ezra didn’t feel like fighting back.

  For the first time, he didn’t feel angry at Bruiser.

  He just felt sorry.

  The next day, Ezra didn’t feel like dealing with anyone.

  Bruiser hadn’t bothered him. Not in the halls. Not in the cafeteria. Not anywhere.

  And that felt weirder than getting punched.

  Ezra had spent so much time bracing for the next shove, the next insult, the next moment where Bruiser would remind him exactly where he stood. But now? There was nothing. No sneering glances, no laughter at his expense. The absence of torment left a hollow feeling in his chest, as if he had been training for a fight that never came.

  So instead of wandering the halls, waiting for something to happen, Ezra slipped into the library.

  It was warm inside, the air thick with the scent of old books and coffee, a quiet hum settling over the space like a well-worn blanket. The muffled voices of students working in hushed tones, the occasional tap of a keyboard, the sound of pages flipping—it all felt safe. Like a place where no one could get to him.

  Mrs. Doyle, the sweet old librarian, spotted him immediately from behind the counter. She peered over her glasses with a knowing smile, the kind grandmothers gave when they saw right through your excuses.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, adjusting her cardigan as she stood. “Skipping lunch, are we?”

  Ezra shuffled awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Uh. Just needed some quiet.”

  Mrs. Doyle hummed thoughtfully, pressing her hands together. “Well, we have some wonderful books that might be good for you.”

  She gestured toward the farthest section of the library, past the rows of history and literature. Ezra followed her lead, glancing around as she led him to a quiet corner near the back.

  Then, he saw the sign above the bookshelf.

  "NEURODIVERGENT READERS – AUTISM SECTION"

  Ezra blinked. “Wait, I think—”

  “Oh, don’t worry, dear.” Mrs. Doyle patted his arm gently before he could even finish his sentence. “You’re safe here. Take your time.”

  Ezra opened his mouth, hesitated.

  He had tried to correct her. Really, he had. But something about the way she looked at him—so soft, so sure, so damn sweet—made the words catch in his throat.

  She meant well.

  And Ezra? He just didn’t have the heart to tell her she had completely misunderstood why he was here.

  So instead… he just nodded.

  “Uh… thanks.”

  Mrs. Doyle beamed. “Of course, dear. Let me know if you need help!”

  And with that, she shuffled away, leaving Ezra alone in the autism section.

  …Well, this was awkward.

  Still, since he was already here, he figured he might as well look around.

  His eyes drifted across books on brain function, social cues, ADHD strategies—topics that didn’t feel like they belonged to him, but for some reason, still made him curious.

  Then, something caught his attention.

  "ROME: THE ART OF WARFARE"

  Ezra tilted his head.

  Roman battle tactics?

  He pulled the book from the shelf, letting the pages flip through his fingers.

  At first, it was just idle curiosity. Something to pass the time.

  Then, it became fascination.

  Flanking formations.

  Turtle formation.

  Pincer movements.

  Ezra’s fingers tightened around the book. Ezra sat cross-legged on the library floor, the thick pages of Rome: The Art of Warfare spread open before him. The words felt ancient, yet alive, carrying the weight of thousands of years of strategy and discipline.

  Flanking formations.

  Ezra’s eyes traced the detailed diagrams, the neat rows of Roman soldiers moving in synchronized precision. Flanking wasn’t just about attacking from the side—it was about cutting off escape routes, forcing the enemy to fight on multiple fronts, stretching their defenses thin until they broke under the pressure. Roman generals didn’t rely on brute strength. They exploited weaknesses, targeting not just the body of their enemies, but their minds.

  An undisciplined army—a reckless, emotional force like Bruiser in a fight—would charge headfirst, swinging wildly. And just like that, they could be flanked, overwhelmed, crushed.

  Ezra smirked slightly. Big guys can’t throw punches in two directions at once.

  Turtle formation.

  Now, this—this was genius.

  Roman legions were not like other armies. They didn’t fight as individuals. They fought as one.

  The testudo, or "turtle" formation, was a masterpiece of coordination. Soldiers locked their massive rectangular shields together, forming an impenetrable wall in the front while the men behind them raised their shields overhead, creating a moving fortress. Arrows? Spears? Useless. The legion advanced silently, a slow, rolling death machine.

  The silence was key.

  Roman forces did not scream as they charged. They did not roar their names into battle. That was for barbarians, for fools.

  They fought quietly, because discipline won wars, not noise.

  Ezra could almost hear it—the methodical stomp of iron-clad boots, the scrape of shields locking into place, the cold, unshakable control of an army that refused to break.

  If Bruiser fought like a fury-driven barbarian, then Ezra had spent his whole life trying to fight like a lone soldier.

  But maybe that was his mistake.

  Maybe he needed a shield wall.

  Pincer movements.

  The maneuver was simple in theory—attack the enemy from two sides at once—but in execution, it was a death sentence for those caught inside. The Romans would let an overconfident army push forward, thinking they had the upper hand, only to suddenly crash in from both sides, cutting them off from retreat.

  Surrounded. Trapped. Hopeless.

  Ezra’s grip tightened on the book.

  Roman forces didn’t need to be the biggest. They didn’t need brute force.

  They had something far more dangerous.

  They had strategy.

  Brute strength broke under the weight of patience.

  Reckless charges fell apart in the face of discipline.

  Emotionally-driven enemies could be baited, trapped, dismantled.

  Ezra smirked.

  He had spent so long fighting back on Bruiser’s terms.

  But Bruiser wasn’t a strategist.

  Ezra was.

  And the next time Bruiser tried to attack him, he wouldn't be facing a lone soldier.

  He'd be walking straight into an ambush.

  This was strategy.

  This was control.

  This was power.

  And for the first time all year, he felt like he had found something that made sense.

  Maybe life was a battlefield.

  And maybe he’d spent too long fighting like a soldier—brute force, fists up, trying to match an enemy who would always be bigger.

  But war wasn’t won by strength alone.

  It was won by strategy.

  By patience.

  By outmaneuvering your enemy before they even realized what had happened.

  And one day…

  When the time was right…

  Bruiser wouldn’t even see it coming.

  The scent of freshly baked bread and simmering tomato sauce filled the kitchen, wrapping around Ezra like a warm embrace. Nonna Francesca moved between the stovetop and the counter with effortless grace, her hands working through decades of muscle memory as she stirred a pot of rich, bubbling ragu. Ezra sat nearby, watching her in quiet admiration.

  This was home, even if it was just for the holidays.

  His father sat at the kitchen table, idly spinning a spoon between his fingers, silent. Ezra noticed it immediately. His dad was never this quiet. Even when he wasn’t saying much, there was always a presence to him—some unspoken weight in his voice, a steady rock beneath all of life’s chaos. But tonight, he just looked… tired.

  Ezra didn’t ask right away. He let the warmth of the kitchen fill the silence, let Nonna’s soft humming and the crackling fireplace in the other room set the rhythm of the evening.

  But as they sat down to eat—plates full of hearty pasta, crusty bread, and steaming bowls of minestrone—Ezra couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  “Dad?” he asked, cautiously twirling his fork through the pasta. “You alright?”

  His father glanced up, eyes shadowed, but he still managed a half-hearted smirk. “Just old memories, kid.”

  Ezra frowned. “Memories of what?”

  His father set his fork down, his movements deliberate. “Your mom.”

  The words were simple. But they stopped Ezra cold.

  It wasn’t often that his father brought her up. Ezra had grown up knowing almost nothing about her, except for the fact that she had died when he was little.

  And the way his father never talked about it.

  Ezra swallowed hard. “What about her?”

  Seth exhaled, rubbing his fingers along the edge of his plate. “Nothing important,” he muttered. “Just some old memories.”

  Ezra wanted to push. He needed to push.

  But something about the way his father’s shoulders tensed, the way he avoided looking at him—it told Ezra that he wouldn’t get the answers tonight.

  Maybe not ever.

  So he just nodded, staring down at his plate, feeling the weight of the missing pieces.

  Later that night, after dinner, they gathered by the crackling fireplace, the warm glow flickering against the old wooden walls of Nonna’s cozy home. She sat in her favorite chair, wrapped in a thick knitted shawl, a cup of steaming tea in her hands. Ezra and his father sat across from her, the flickering light softening the lines of their faces.

  Nonna Francesca took a slow sip of her tea before speaking.

  “Resilience,” she began, swirling the cup in her hands, “is the most important thing you can ever learn in this life.”

  Ezra leaned forward slightly, listening.

  “I was sixteen when I thought I wouldn’t make it,” she continued, her voice calm, steady, but carrying weight. “War came to my home. People I loved were taken away. I had nothing, and I had no choice but to keep moving forward.”

  Ezra swallowed, suddenly feeling very small.

  Nonna’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “You see, mio caro, life will knock you down. Again and again. And every time, you will feel like you can’t get back up.” She set her cup down, looking directly at Ezra. “But that’s the secret. You always get back up. That is what makes you strong. Not the fight, not the pain—but the choice to keep going.”

  Ezra sat back, his mind spinning.

  This year had been hell. The bullying, the fights, the constant feeling of not knowing his place in the world. But hearing Nonna say it like that—like it was just part of the journey, something everyone had to go through—it hit differently.

  His father, who had been quiet all evening, finally spoke up.

  “She’s right,” he murmured, staring into the fire. “Doesn’t matter how bad it gets. You either stand up, or you let the world keep kicking you while you’re down.”

  Ezra thought about Bruiser. About Sweet Pea. About all the people who got knocked down and never got back up.

  Maybe that was the real difference between them.

  Maybe that’s why he wasn’t broken.

  Over dinner the next evening, Nonna shifted gears.

  “You know,” she mused, breaking off a piece of warm bread, “I’ve traveled far, met many people, seen many things. And do you know what I’ve learned?”

  Ezra shook his head, already knowing she was about to tell him.

  “No matter where you go, no matter how successful you are, family is everything.”

  Ezra’s father grunted, but Nonna ignored him.

  “Friends come and go. Money rises and falls. But family? Family is your anchor. They are the ones who stand beside you when everything else falls apart.”

  Ezra watched his dad carefully.

  Something about the words struck a nerve.

  There was a sadness behind his eyes, something unspoken.

  And Ezra couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with his mother.

  Nonna reached across the table, squeezing Seth’s hand gently. “Even when we argue, even when we struggle—we are still here for each other.”

  Ezra glanced at his dad, remembering all the times he had been there.

  Every fight. Every late-night talk. Every ride home after a rough day.

  Even if they didn’t talk about his mother, even if his dad kept secrets—

  He had always been there.

  And maybe… that was enough.

  Later that night, as they sat by the fire once more, Nonna leaned back in her chair, letting out a contented sigh.

  “You know,” she murmured, closing her eyes, “it’s not the big things you remember in the end. It’s the small ones.”

  Ezra tilted his head. “Like what?”

  Nonna smiled. “Like a good meal. A laugh shared. A hug that lasts just a little longer than usual. Those are the things that stay with you.”

  Ezra sat back, thinking.

  People were always chasing something. Success. Revenge. Validation.

  But maybe… Nonna was right.

  Maybe the real important things were happening right now.

  Like the warmth of the fire.

  Like the sound of his grandmother’s voice.

  Like the way his father, despite everything, still sat beside him.

  Ezra breathed in deeply, letting it sink in.

  Maybe life was less about chasing big moments… and more about appreciating the ones right in front of you.

  And maybe—just maybe—he was exactly where he needed to be.

  The winter air was crisp, biting at Ezra’s skin as he stepped onto the porch of Nonna Francesca’s home. The world outside was still, blanketed in the deep silence of the countryside. The stars overhead were sharp and bright, stretching endlessly over the rolling hills of Italy.

  His father sat on the porch steps, a steaming cup of coffee resting in his hands, the rising vapor curling into the cold night air. Ezra hesitated before stepping forward, drawn by a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

  He had been thinking about it all night.

  His mother.

  The memories were faint, distant, like something out of a dream. He knew her face only through pictures. He had no recollection of her voice, no memory of being held by her. Just an overwhelming sense that something had always been missing.

  And now, as he stood there in the hush of the winter night, he needed to know.

  Ezra sat beside his father, pulling his knees up to his chest. The wooden porch creaked beneath their weight, but neither of them spoke at first.

  Finally, Ezra took a breath and asked, “Dad… what really happened to Mom?”

  His father stiffened.

  Ezra saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers tightened slightly around the coffee cup. It wasn’t anger, but something deeper. Something heavy.

  For a long moment, Seth didn’t answer.

  Ezra almost regretted asking.

  But then, his father exhaled, a long, slow breath that turned to mist in the cold air. He set his coffee down on the step beside him, rubbing his hands together before finally speaking.

  “I’ve dreaded this moment,” Seth admitted, his voice lower than usual. “Not because I don’t want to tell you. But because I don’t know how to tell you.”

  Ezra’s stomach clenched. But he waited.

  His father ran a hand through his hair, staring out at the distant hills. “Your mom… she was complicated. Beautiful. Smart. But troubled. And I loved her—I really did.” His voice softened. “I thought she loved me, too.”

  Ezra swallowed, feeling a knot tighten in his throat.

  Seth let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “Turns out, love ain’t always enough.”

  For the first time that night, he looked directly at Ezra. There was pain in his eyes. A kind Ezra had never seen before.

  “She cheated on me, Ezra.”

  The words hit like a punch to the gut.

  Ezra blinked. “What?”

  Seth nodded slowly, rubbing his thumb over his palm. “Not just once. Not twice. It was… a pattern. I didn’t know at first. Or maybe I did know, but I didn’t want to believe it. I thought maybe I wasn’t being enough. Maybe I was the problem.”

  Ezra’s breath felt shallow. He had expected anything but this.

  His father continued, voice distant. “I found out. And I didn’t say a word. I just… played along, like I didn’t know.” His fingers curled into fists, his knuckles pale in the moonlight. “I thought if I just worked harder, if I just… loved her enough, maybe it would stop. Maybe she’d see me again.”

  Ezra didn’t realize he was shaking until his father let out another quiet laugh—but this time, it was bitter.

  “But she found out that I knew.”

  Ezra’s stomach twisted.

  Seth’s jaw tightened. “And I think that’s what broke her.”

  The silence between them was thick.

  Ezra’s hands clenched in his lap. “What do you mean?”

  Seth exhaled, his breath unsteady. “Your mother… she had abandonment issues. She never told me everything, but I knew she had been left behind before. By people she trusted. And when she realized I knew… and that I hadn’t left her yet… I think it scared her.”

  Ezra could hardly breathe.

  “I tried to help her,” Seth murmured. “I really did. But the cheating—I couldn’t stand it, Ezra. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.” His voice was tired, like the weight of this story had been pressing on him for years. “I didn’t scream. I didn’t accuse her. I didn’t even fight. I just… let her see it in my face. The disappointment. The hurt.”

  Ezra felt something sharp stab into his chest.

  Seth’s voice dropped lower. “She couldn’t take it.”

  Ezra gripped his knees, his body tense. He knew what was coming, but he didn’t want to hear it.

  “One day, I came home from work,” Seth whispered, eyes dark. “She was in the bedroom.”

  Ezra’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

  “You were crying next to her.”

  The world tilted.

  Ezra’s breath hitched.

  “She overdosed on pills.”

  Ezra felt nauseous.

  His father’s hands trembled. “You were too young to understand. You just sat there, holding her hand, crying for her to wake up.”

  Ezra squeezed his eyes shut. He felt sick.

  Seth looked away, swallowing hard. “I should’ve done something. I should’ve seen the signs. Maybe if I had fought harder—maybe if I hadn’t just… let it happen—”

  Ezra couldn’t take it.

  Without thinking, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around his father.

  Seth froze.

  Ezra held on tighter.

  “You did do something,” Ezra whispered, his voice shaking. “You stayed. You raised me. You were there.”

  Seth’s chest rose and fell beneath him, his breaths uneven. His hands hovered for a second before he finally, hesitantly, returned the hug.

  Ezra squeezed his eyes shut.

  For the first time, he realized how much his father had been carrying alone.

  And for the first time, Seth let himself be held.

  They sat there in the quiet winter night, father and son, bound not by blood, but by the shared weight of grief.

  Seth had spent so long believing he had failed.

  Ezra had spent so long believing something was missing.

  But in this moment, they had each other.

  And maybe, just maybe—

  Family really was everything.