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always grinned when this happened. He couldn’t help it.

The aftermath wasn’t his favorite, for obvious reasons. But this? The way James’s knuckles felt as they slammed into his gut?

It made him clench his teeth.

was good at dodging—adrenaline always slowed down time, so he had the leisure of watching punches slice through the air. had taken enough hits in his life that he’d gotten good at making them miss. It wasn’t like James was a slouch at this though; he was a haymaker for sure.

James’s face twisted with rage, eyes darkening. The corners of ’s mouth ticked up.

Most of the time, when people fought , they were yelling at him too. But James was silent as he slammed his fist, sharp and violent, under ’s chin, cutting ’s smirk off. His head was still tilted, face warming in the midday sun, when James backhanded hard enough that his shoulder met pavement.

It felt real good to lie there for a minute.

James didn’t even give him a second to breathe. He scraped off the ground, pinned him to the brick wall. Slotted close, thigh to chest, he shoved his broad hand across ’s throat. James pulled his arm back, biceps bunching with muscle to continue punching in the head, and realized at once that he couldn’t take it.

He flinched, closed his eyes. Waited for his vision to explode in red and yellow, but the hit never came. When he got the courage to look, James was staring back at him hard.

Then James let him go. Watched ’s knees buckle without his support, saw the heels of his boots skid in the gravel, pathetic. But he didn’t mock , or tease.

“Leave me alone,” James said instead. Pulling his backpack onto his shoulders. “You don’t always have to be such a dick.”