Sweet Romance12 min read
I Slapped the School Bully and Fell for the One Who Saved Me
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I slapped him in the cafeteria. The sound of my palm against his cheek was so loud I could feel it in my teeth.
"Hey," he said, stunned. "This is the first time anyone's hit me. Figure out a way to save my face, will you?"
I swallowed. "No." Then I ran.
I heard his laugh behind me. "Heh. Shy girlfriend, huh?"
My name is Hailey Bowen. I had been hiding my crush for a year and a half, keeping it folded like a secret note. When the boy I liked, Finley Ashford, and a girl who'd been chasing him, Francesca Fitzgerald, suddenly seemed to be a thing, my world went white around the edges.
That night, at a party, Finley had lost a stupid bet and ended up wearing a silly fox tail someone made as a joke. I stumbled over to him, drunk enough to be brave.
"Can I touch the tail?" I asked, giggling.
He grabbed my wrist and said, between his teeth, "Hailey, the tail's not in his pants."
I blinked. "What's wrong with you? It's just a tail."
I pulled his hand, teasing, "Let me touch my invisible tail."
He froze.
He drank a beer and walked away.
I fell into a couch and slept like the dead. The next morning I texted, "Finley, last night I was drunk. Sorry."
He answered fast. Two sharp sentences. "He doesn't mind. I do. I'm Finley's girlfriend, Hailey. Please stay away."
I read those words and the world slipped. Francesca Fitzgerald—pretty, relentless, always there—had suddenly claimed him like she had the right.
"Know," I typed, and then deleted the chat.
My heart kept finding reasons to look at Finley's profile anyway. I couldn't help it.
Then Jasmine Alvarez—my friend—peeks at her phone. "Francesca posted. Engagement-looking photo and an anime boyfriend pic. Yep. It's official."
I felt the floor fall from under me.
The next day I went to the cafeteria like a ghost. I ate to push the hurt down, chewing as if I could build a wall.
He sat across from me. Finley set down a tray with less food than mine and smirked, teasing, "No invisible tail today?"
I choked on food. He handed me a bottle of water. "Slow down."
We sipped from the same bottle. For a beat I felt the world tilt.
Then Francesca appeared, bottle in hand, walking toward us. My chest broke all over again. I grabbed my tray and fled. I didn't make it far. My tray hit someone. Food spilled on a white T-shirt.
He looked up. A grin, a little rogue, one visible canine tooth. My stomach did a strange flip.
"Tomas Bullock," I heard my mind say, even though we'd never been friends.
"Buddy, that spill hits hard," he said, casual. He dabbed his shirt with a napkin.
I mumbled an apology. He smiled, then his eyes narrowed at a girl sprinting over—Francesca.
"Want me to help?" he asked, and then, before I could answer, he put an arm around me and said to Francesca, "He's taken. She's mine. Stop chasing him."
She didn't believe it.
Then Tomas turned to me and pretended to kiss my cheek—no, not my cheek. He kissed a spot where his hand had been.
I slapped him.
The sound was catastrophic.
Silence.
Then I saw Finley's face. He looked from me to Francesca with something complicated in his eyes.
Tomas leaned down and spoke low enough that my heart raced.
"First time getting slapped," he said. "Figure out how to save my face."
His voice was unexpectedly dark. I wanted the ground to open. I ran.
"She ran," Tomas said, laughter thin like a blade. "Own girlfriend, shy."
I didn't sleep that night. I worried. I'd hit a guy known for trouble. I had embarrassed myself and probably signed my own doom.
I woke to the dorm exploding with gossip.
"One girl slapped Tomas?" Jasmine asked, wide-eyed.
"Turns out Finley and Tomas went at it," another friend said.
My throat filled with a bubbling hope that was silly and wrong. Finley fighting Tomas—was that because of me?
"Rumor says it was for Francesca," a girl said, and my dream popped like a bubble.
I twitch down the ladder and fumble. Bad luck trailed me like a shadow. I twisted my ankle.
That night I ate spicy chicken alone, thinking maybe I could drown sorrow in food.
Tomas waited at the cafeteria entrance the next day. He called me out.
"Hailey Bowen," he said, slow. "Last time you slapped me, what now?"
"Apologize," I tried.
"Pay?" he scoffed. "Not short on cash."
"Then? Let you hit me back?"
He grinned. "Sure."
He lifted his hand. I thought he'd strike. He tossed a water bottle at me.
It hit my nose. Blood.
He stared. "Damn."
He opened his bag. "Paper."
His friends scrambled and found a crumpled tissue. Tomas pressed it against my nose and then, suddenly, made me look up. He shoved gauze into my nostrils, mortifying me in front of everyone.
"You're acting weird," I said.
"You look like a tomato," he said, but then softened. "Drink water."
He walked me across the yard after class, steady. He fixed my ankle with a strip of tape and checked my palms for scrapes.
"Why did you slap him?" he asked finally.
I shrugged. "Because—because I didn't like a fake kiss."
Tomas snorted. "Fair enough."
He sat down across from me on the steps and joked, "You know, I'm way better than your imaginary boyfriend."
I felt something like a smile creak out. He handed me the watch box—the same box I'd been about to give Finley, a gift I'd chosen months ago and never delivered. Tomas put it down like it was treasure.
"You bought this?" he asked.
"I did," I admitted.
He opened it, then closed it, then slid it back. "Wear it," he said. "If you want."
I blushed. "It's Finley's."
"Then give it to him if you want," Tomas said. "Or let me keep the box. Boxes can be honest."
He made me laugh. For the first time since everything fell apart, I felt safe.
Being with Tomas was strange. He was scary in stories, but up close he had small habits that unmade the scare: a long-lashed blink, a careful way with his hands when he let me lean on his shoulder, a small, private smile that showed he wasn't only a bruiser.
At practice, I was terrible at running. My mom used to say I'm lazy. I nearly fainted during the eight-hundred. Tomas stood on the sideline, looked at me, and said, "Breathe through your nose, out through your mouth. Don't pant."
"Like that?" I asked.
He laughed. "No, dumbass. Do it right."
I did, and I moved from the very back up a notch. I felt proud in a small, sweaty way. Tomas clapped like it was the final of the Olympics.
At the basketball court I watched Finley—tall, focused. I couldn't help staring. My nose bled a little; Tomas slapped a napkin on my face and teased me. Then he stormed onto the court. He didn't need to; he was good. He played hard, and things got rough.
Someone said something about me—something mean and stupid—and it exploded into a fight. Tomas kicked a guy clean on the chest; others followed. I went to pull Tomas off, and he shoved me, hard. I fell. My palms scraped.
He came back, furious, and helped me to my feet. "What are you doing getting in front of me?" he hissed. "You're fragile."
"I wanted to stop you," I said.
He helped me limp to the clinic. He called, in a voice that had no room for argument, for antiseptic and plasters. "We'll meet downstairs in ten," he told the boy who brought the supplies.
On the walk back, Finley stopped like a distant sunrise. He looked at us, at Tomas holding my wrist steady, at the scrape on my palm. His expression flickered. Then he walked away.
That night I made up my mind. I would not chase Finley like a shadow. If it was going to be real, it would be because we both wanted it.
Tomas and I began to talk more. At odd hours he texted me things—ridiculous news links, a photo of a cat sleeping with a boot, a link to a grape-juice brand with the comment "yours." He sent surprise red envelopes through the payment app, and he showed up with things: a quiet chocolate cake, a new bandage when I twisted my ankle, an offered helmet on his motorcycle.
There were small, quiet things that made my heart trip: the time he took off his jacket when I shivered although the sun was high; the time he kept my water bottle and drank last from it; the way he frowned when I said I wanted to keep Finley's box safe.
"Why save the box?" I asked once.
"Boxes matter," he said. "They keep stories."
On Finley's side, a storm was breaking. Francesca had been spreading lies. She'd faked messages and screenshots. I'd believed it at first.
One afternoon Finley walked over to me where I sat on the low wall. He looked tired.
"Hailey," he said. "I never agreed to anything with Francesca."
"She posted—" I began.
"I know," he cut in. "She used my phone. She posted stuff without me."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.
He looked down. "Because I was trying to protect something I needed more. My future."
I understood coldly. "So you chose that over me."
Finley looked like a boy with a choice between two doors. "I didn't want to hurt you," he said. "I couldn't ask you to wait. I'm sorry."
"I don't want to be waiting for someone ready to leave for another continent," I said. "I think it's better if we stop before we start."
He nodded, and there was that clean, aching relief of something ended with honesty.
After that, things changed. Francesca, who had been the architect of a cruel joke, couldn't hide forever.
One week later, the student union hosted an awards gala—big crowd, faculty, student reps. Francesca had a seat at the front because her father, someone in the department, had pulled strings. She had been putting on a show for months: messages, staged photos, and whispered rumors. The time had come for the truth to be known.
I didn't plan a confrontation. I thought perhaps it would never happen. But Tomas had saved a screenshot from Francesca's account and had dug up the copied messages Francesca had planted into Finley's phone to make everything look real.
He found me at the backstage corridor, where the halls smelled of stage makeup and plans.
"Tonight," he said, eyes flat. "Be ready."
I didn't know what he'd do, but I trusted his instincts.
The auditorium was packed. Finley sat a few rows back, polite and composed. Francesca sat center stage, smiling as if she owned the room. Microphones, cameras, phones—everything shone.
Tomas and I slipped into the wings. He held my hand like armor.
"Remember," he whispered, "short, loud, honest."
He pushed me forward.
I walked out with a stack of printed screenshots in my hand, my heart jackhammering. I could hear the hush.
"Excuse me," I said, voice carrying. "I need to say something."
All eyes swung. Francesca's smile faltered.
She gave me a look that said do this and I will break you. I kept moving.
"I used to like Finley Ashford," I said, loud enough now. "He never agreed to be with Francesca Fitzgerald. She posted messages from his phone without his consent. These are screenshots Francesca made herself. She edited them to look like they were ours."
"Hailey, what—" Francesca whispered, but the microphone didn't need her.
I held up the prints. "This one is her phone, this one is the saved draft on Finley's cloud. Here is a message Francesca sent to herself pretending to be Finley."
A murmur rose.
"Do you have proof?" Francesca shouted, face hardening. "You can't just—"
"I have more," Tomas said from the wings, stepping out. "She used his password. She used his birthday." He laid down a printout of site logs.
"Stop. This is private," Francesca cried, suddenly small. "You can't—"
A student photographer made a video. Cameras angled. Phones rose.
I kept talking. "She told me she was his girlfriend. She told many people. She edited messages to make it true. She did it to get close to him and push others away."
"That's a lie!" Francesca said, voice rising, then cracking. "You don't know anything!"
Then the room did something that took my breath away—people started to turn away from Francesca. The dean leaned forward. The student council president frowned.
"Do you admit what you did?" Tomas asked, quiet now.
Francesca's face contorted with rage and fear. "I... I did things to... to help him. He looked busy. I tried to... I didn't mean to—"
Her words were a stuttering mess. The crowd hummed. Phones recorded. I saw Finley stand then, pale as a sheet.
"You made my phone post things I never said," he said, voice low. "You used my password and my birthday to make it believable. You lied to me and to her. Why?"
Tears filled Francesca's eyes. "I loved him!" she cried. "I thought everyone ignored me."
"Love doesn't mean forgery," the dean said, and his tone cut like chalk. "You have violated privacy and lied in a way that hurt someone. We'll investigate, but publicly this is unacceptable."
The students began to talk, then to shout, then to boo. A circle formed. Some people recorded. A few clapped at Finley's integrity. Others muttered about privilege and manipulation.
Francesca stuttered through denials, then anger, then finally, collapse. She sank into a chair and covered her face. Her carefully cultivated alliances didn't materialize into defense—her social power had been crafted from falsehoods now falling apart.
"You're always so sure you get what you want," Tomas said, voice iron. He stepped close and said to Francesca, very plainly, "This isn't just about you. You hurt people. You used someone and made him look like a liar. You made her feel like trash in her own life."
People leaned in. The whispers grew savage.
Francesca's face shifted. First, it was anger—red and defiant. Then denial—mouth pressed hard. Then she cried, openly. "I'm sorry," she said, small and raw. "I didn't mean—"
Some students scoffed. Somebody took a picture. "Should we call security?" someone asked.
Francesca crawled into a shell. She tried to plead with Finley. "Please," she begged. "I'll make it stop. I'll—"
He was steady. "You need to face this with the dean. Privacy, forgery—this isn't forgiven with an apology. People were hurt because of your lies."
A circle of her 'fans' slowly dispersed, backing away. People muttered about 'entitled daughters.' Someone called out "sham!" and a ripple of laughter cut the air.
Francesca's reactions changed in real time: she tried denial; then tears; then she shouted accusations at me; then she begged Finley. The crowd watched it all like a slow fall from a small height.
"You're finished here," a student remarked under their breath. "Look at her—no one trusts a liar."
Security escorted her out, and not gently. The dean announced an inquiry and told Francesca she would be suspended pending results. Photos and videos circulated instantly. A few people cheered; others simply stared in stunned silence.
I saw faces in the crowd I expected to applaud—friends of Francesca—quiet and unwilling. A few students shook their heads. Some snapped pictures for gossip; others whispered, "She got what she deserved."
At the heart of it, Francesca's expression changed most of all. The confident mask slipped. She looked at Finley and me, at Tomas, and then at her own hands. She had to watch as the story she had built turned on her.
When she finally left, no one followed.
We walked out together with the students filing past, phones out, the buzz of judgment trailing behind.
"It took guts," Finley said, quietly, to me as we walked. "Thank you."
"You were brave," Tomas said to Finley, nodding.
The dean arranged a formal apology to the student body later. Francesca's suspension was announced, and the department posted a statement on digital conduct and privacy.
There was a cost. Francesca, who had used manipulation to climb, had been stripped in public. She begged and begged; some students looked away, some took her photo, and a handful clapped when the dean promised consequences. Her face was a study in regret and rage working like waves.
After the storm, still dizzy, I found Tomas waiting outside in the cooling night.
"You did good," he said.
"You did better," I answered.
He smiled in that private way. "You so dumb you slapped me," he teased. "But that was the beginning."
"Beginning of what?" I asked.
He reached for my hand. "Maybe the beginning of us."
I leaned in. He smelled like smoke and something warm. I kissed him.
Later, in quiet moments, Finley and I spoke sometimes. He was disappointed in himself for letting things drift because of fear of losing his plan. I forgave him for being human, for choosing carefully. He had his place in my memories, safe and kind and wrong for me.
Tomas and I built small routines: he would insist on walking me to classes sometimes, he'd leave a warm jacket over the back of my chair, he'd text ridiculous things late at night. He'd tease me about my grape-juice obsession and then show up with two bottles for us to share.
I learned he had a soft side nobody expected. He disliked sloppiness, kept the city in tidy lists, and had a rotten habit of smoking. I nagged him like a sister at first. He listened.
One night, after we'd been together for months, we went to the river where we'd sat the first time. He took from his pocket the empty watch box—the one I had given him on a drunken whim—and placed it in my hand.
"Promise me something," I said, the old temptation to speak like a chapter's end tightening my throat.
He rolled his eyes. "What? No cheesy things."
I laughed. "Keep the box. We don't need the watch. But keep its story."
He nodded and kissed my forehead.
The final tapestry knot was simple: Francesca got punished publicly and officially—for invasion and for manipulation. She lost the carefully built façade and had to answer to the dean; people who once followed her peeled away like brittle paint. Her reaction had been a raw collapse, and the crowd watched as hope and power leaked out of her hands. The shame was public. It served as a lesson about how fragile the image is when it's built on lies.
As for Finley, he left that summer for his scholarship. We didn't fall apart. We waved like unhurt friends at his departure, and I hoped for him quietly.
Tomas stood at the gate and held my hand. "Don't be dumb," he said. "Don't chase what leaves. Stay."
I squeezed his fingers and thought of the empty watch box in my bag, folded neatly like a secret.
"Okay," I said. "I won't chase what leaves."
We walked home beneath the street lamps. He hummed a song badly, and I corrected the words. He laughed. I tucked my hand under his arm.
Sometimes the smallest things hold the largest meanings.
The empty watch box sat in my desk drawer, the lid scratched, the brand still visible. Whenever I saw it, I remembered the night with the fire, the slap, the KTV, and the river. I smiled, knowing that when a story has both ashes and light, it is alive.
The End
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