orange blood

Jake Sim was the kind of person who radiated warmth like a literal sun. Since he’d transferred from Australia, he had become the centerpiece of the school’s social hierarchy without even trying. He had that effortless, boyish charm—the kind that came with a messy black middle part, deep puppy eyes, and a laugh that made everyone within a fifty-foot radius feel like his best friend. He was the star of the soccer team, the guy everyone wanted to sit next to, and yet, his focus was notoriously difficult to pin down.

Until he saw her.

It happened in the cafeteria, a place of chaotic noise and clashing smells. Jake was surrounded by his new teammates, laughing at some joke he’d already forgotten, when his eyes drifted toward the back of the room. There, tucked away in a corner that the sunlight didn't quite reach, sat a girl.

She was tall, even sitting down, with long, straight black hair that fell like a curtain around her face, shielding her from the world. She didn't have a tray of food. She didn't have a phone to scroll through. She just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her brown eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. She looked less like a student and more like a ghost haunting the institution.

"Who’s that?" Jake asked, his Australian lilt cutting through the chatter of his friends.

Leo, a guy on the soccer team, glanced over and snickered. "Oh, that’s Isabella. Don’t bother. She’s a freak. Doesn’t talk, doesn't do anything. My brother says she’s basically a servant at their house. Her older brother, Marcus, is in our year. You’ve met him, right?"

Jake felt a strange, cold prickle under his skin. He knew Marcus. Marcus was loud, arrogant, and spent most of his time bragging about his family’s wealth. He hadn't mentioned a sister.

"She’s just... sitting there," Jake murmured, his protective instincts—usually reserved for his younger siblings or teammates—flaring up unexpectedly.

"She’s invisible, mate," Leo shrugged. "Best to keep it that way."

But Jake couldn't. For the rest of the week, he found himself scanning every room for that curtain of black hair. He watched the way other students would purposely bump into her shoulder in the hallway, sending her books sprawling. She never fought back. She never even looked up. She would just silently gather her things, her movements mechanical and hurried, as if she were afraid of taking up too much oxygen.

Jake began to plot. He wasn't the type to just barge in; he could see the fragility in her posture. If he approached her now, she’d bolt. He needed a way in. So, he leaned into his friendship with Marcus, playing the part of the interested new friend, waiting for the invitation he knew would come.

***

Isabella’s world was defined by the weight of things. The weight of the laundry baskets, the weight of the vacuum, and the crushing weight of the silence she was forced to maintain.

"Isabella! The floor in the foyer is streaky. Do it again!" her sister, Sophia, barked from the top of the stairs.

Isabella didn't look up. She simply gripped the mop handle tighter and moved back toward the entrance. Her hands were rough from cleaning products, and her back ached from sleeping on the thin mat in the basement closet she called a room. It was a small, cramped space under the stairs, smelling of damp concrete and old pipes. She hated it, but she had no choice. In this house, she was an inconvenience that performed labor.

She heard the front door open and the boisterous laughter of her brother.

"Yo, I’m telling you, Jake, my parents won't mind. We’ve got the best gaming setup in the district," Marcus’s voice boomed.

Isabella pulled her hair forward, trying to hide her face as she scrubbed the floor. She didn't want to be seen. Guests were the worst because they meant more dishes, more trash, and more chances for her to be humiliated.

"Whoa, watch out," a deep, melodic voice said.

Isabella froze. A pair of clean, expensive sneakers appeared in her field of vision. She looked up slightly, her brown eyes meeting the most intense gaze she had ever encountered.

It was him. The boy from school. The one everyone loved. Jake Sim.

He wasn't looking at her with disgust or indifference. His brow was furrowed, his puppy-dog eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and something that looked suspiciously like hurt.

"Isabella?" he asked softly. His Australian accent made her name sound like a song, the 'r's soft and the vowels warm.

"Don't mind her, Jake," Marcus said, tossing his bag onto the sofa Isabella had just straightened. "She’s just doing her job. Hey, Izzy, go get us some sodas and make sure there’s snacks. We’re hungry."

Isabella scrambled to her feet, her head bowed. She didn't say a word. She couldn't. She had been taught that her voice was a nuisance.

As she retreated to the kitchen, she could feel Jake’s eyes on her back. It was a physical sensation, a warmth that made her skin tingle. It was terrifying.

***

Jake felt a simmer of rage bubbling in his chest, a stark contrast to his usual golden-retriever persona. He sat on the edge of Marcus’s bed, pretending to care about the video game on the screen, but his ears were tuned to the sounds downstairs. He heard the clinking of plates, the running of water, and the sharp, demeaning tone of Marcus’s mother as she told Isabella she was "useless" for forgetting the napkins.

"Your sister... she doesn't eat with us?" Jake asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Marcus laughed, not looking away from the screen. "Nah. She prefers the kitchen. Besides, she’s got work to do. Someone’s gotta keep this place running while we’re busy."

Jake gripped the controller so hard his knuckles turned white. He stayed for hours, playing the long game. He wanted to see how deep this went. He wanted to know everything so he could figure out how to fix it.

Dinner was served an hour later. Isabella brought the food out—a spread of ginger beef, rice, and vegetables that smelled divine. She placed the dishes down with practiced precision, never making eye contact.

"Sit down, Jake," the father said, gesturing to a chair.

Jake sat, but his eyes stayed on Isabella. She didn't have a place setting. She stood in the corner of the dining room, her hands folded behind her back, waiting like a servant in a period drama. It was sick. It was twisted.

"Isabella, aren't you eating?" Jake asked. The table went silent.

Her eyes snapped to his, wide and panicked. She shook her head minutely.

"She eats later," the mother said dismissively. "Jake, try the beef. It’s a family recipe."

Jake ate, but the food tasted like ash in his mouth. He watched Isabella out of the corner of his eye. She looked so tired. Her shoulders were slumped, and she looked even thinner up close than she did at school.

Later that night, after Marcus had fallen asleep during a movie, Jake quietly slipped out of the room. He told himself he was looking for the bathroom, but his feet led him toward the kitchen.

The house was dim, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the windows. He stopped at the kitchen doorway and felt his heart shatter.

Isabella was there, standing by the counter. She wasn't eating from a plate. She was picking the leftovers off the serving dishes they had used, eating the scraps of meat and cold rice with her fingers, hurrying as if she were afraid of being caught.

"Isabella," he whispered.

She jumped, a small gasp escaping her throat. She looked at him, her lips glistening with grease, a look of pure, unadulterated shame on her face. She dropped the piece of food she was holding and backed away, her hands trembling.

"I-I'm sorry," she mouthed, though no sound came out.

"Hey, hey, no," Jake said, stepping into the kitchen. He kept his hands visible, his voice dropping to a register so soft it was barely a breath. "Don't be sorry. You don't have to be sorry for being hungry."

He walked toward her, and she retreated until her back hit the refrigerator. Jake stopped, giving her space. He saw the way she looked at him—like he was a predator and she was the prey. It killed him.

"I'm Jake," he said, even though he knew she knew. "I... I think you're really brave."

Isabella stared at him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Why was he talking to her? Why was he looking at her like she was a person? No one looked at her like that. Especially not someone like him—someone who belonged in the light.

"I'm gonna come back tomorrow," Jake promised, his eyes locked onto hers with a fierce intensity. "I'm gonna keep coming back, okay? You don't have to say anything. Just... know that I see you."

Isabella didn't respond. She couldn't process the kindness. It felt like a trap. But as Jake turned to head back upstairs, he caught a glimpse of her hand reaching out, just an inch, as if she wanted to catch the trail of his warmth before it disappeared.

***

Weeks passed. Jake became a fixture at the house. Marcus thought Jake was his new best friend, but Jake spent every moment observing Isabella.

He started bringing her things. Small things. A chocolate bar tucked behind a vase she had to dust. A pair of warm socks left on the basement stairs. A portable charger, since he’d realized she didn't even have a phone.

At school, he started sitting near her corner. He didn't force her to talk. He would just sit a few feet away, leaning against the wall, eating his lunch and talking about his day in Australia.

"The waves back home are massive, Izzy," he’d say, his voice a low rumble that only she could hear. "I think you’d like the ocean. It’s big and quiet. Just like you."

Isabella started to look forward to those moments. She still didn't speak, but she would occasionally tilt her head toward him, listening. She didn't think he was talking to her at first—she assumed he was practicing a speech or talking to himself—but then he started using her name.

*Isabella.*

The way he said it made her feel like she existed.

The turning point came on a rainy Tuesday. Jake had been invited over for a "study session" with Marcus, but Marcus had ditched him to go see a girl. Jake didn't mind. It gave him the chance to find her.

He wandered into the kitchen, but she wasn't there. He heard a muffled, rhythmic sound coming from the floorboards. A sob.

He followed the sound to the basement door. He’d never been down there. When he opened the door, he was met with a draft of cold, damp air. He descended the stairs and found a small wooden door under the main staircase.

He opened it, and his blood ran cold.

It wasn't a room. It was a closet. There was no bed, just a thin, tattered mat on the floor. There were no windows. And there, curled into a ball in the corner, was Isabella. She was shaking, her face buried in her knees, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.

The storm outside had caused the power to flicker, and the basement was pitch black.

"Isabella?" Jake’s voice cracked.

She shrieked—a small, broken sound—and tried to push herself further into the wall.

"It’s me. It’s Jake. It’s okay, darling, it’s just me," he said, his Aussie accent thick with emotion. He didn't care about being slow anymore. He crawled into the tiny space, the walls pressing in on him. He could feel how suffocating it was.

"Go away," she whispered. It was the first time he’d heard her voice. It was raspy, unused, and beautiful. "Please, don't look at me."

"I'm not going anywhere," Jake said firmly.

He reached out, his heart leaping when she didn't pull away this time. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tall, lanky frame against his warm chest. Isabella froze. She had never been hugged. Not by her parents, not by her siblings.

The contact was seismic. She felt the steady beat of his heart against her ear, the strength in his arms, the softness of his hoodie.

"You're okay," he whispered into her hair, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. "I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re not alone anymore."

Isabella’s resolve crumbled. She let out a jagged sob and gripped his shirt, burying her face in his neck. She cried for the years of silence, for the hunger, for the cold, and for the sheer shock of being held.

Jake held her tighter, his jaw set. He looked around the dismal closet, his eyes burning with a protective fire. He realized then that he wasn't just "down bad" for her. He was hers. Completely. He would get her out of here. He would buy her the world. He would make sure she never had to eat scraps or sleep on a floor again.

They stayed like that for hours, two shadows in a dark closet, the only light being the warmth they shared. Eventually, the frantic rhythm of Isabella’s breathing slowed. The exhaustion of her life caught up to her, and she fell asleep in his arms.

Jake didn't move. He leaned his back against the cramped wall, tucked her head under his chin, and closed his eyes. He cherished the weight of her. He cherished the trust she had placed in him.

As he drifted off, he made a silent vow to the girl in his arms.

*I’m gonna spoil you so rotten you’ll forget what it feels like to be sad, Izzy. Just you wait.*