Hit
The thing about Smiffy was he was big and burly and could punch a fist through a wall. Smiffy was big enough to break someone in half. But he never did. He was a gentle giant—soft blue eyes, always a bit behind in conversation. In Beanotown, that was a problem. Fists ran the place. And everyone wanted to be the toughest.
So when someone shoved Smiffy near the lockers—raised voices, a shoulder bump that turned mean, shoes scuffing against tile—it didn't take long for things to kick off.
By the time the crowd thickened, fists were flying. Smiffy was already bleeding from the nose.
Danny moved. No warning. Just pushed through the crowd and grabbed the bigger kid by the collar, yanking him backwards hard enough to break the rhythm. The fight stuttered.
"What the hell, mate?" the boy snapped.
Danny had black hair that stuck up like he'd just rolled out of bed, and bright blue eyes that didn't blink easy. "Pick on someone else."
"You offering?"
Danny tilted his head. "Try me."
The boy hesitated. Not long. But long enough.
A teacher's voice rang out—sharp and too late. The crowd began to scatter like spilled marbles.
Smiffy was still there and Danny swung a sympathetic arm around his shoulder. "Come on mate, lets get you cleaned up."
Smiffy sniffed. "Thanks."
Danny just shrugged. "Next time," he said, "break his nose first." But he knew Smiffy wouldn't. And that was fine. That's what his friends were for.