So, I've spent the last week basically listening to my weird music and thinking (bad sign!). I heard this song the other day and I was actually crying listening to it because it meant so much to me. How sad am I? Anyway, I think there's more to Nicki's past than we're seeing, so I thought I'd write my view on it. Song I was listening to is "4st 7lbs" by Manic Street Preachers. My God, I babble on too much in my intros – sorry! Thank you to HedgieX for looking at this before it was posted.

She couldn't stand watching him suffer and not being able to help him. She'd been in this position before; and she'd been so helpless, so damn useless, she hadn't been able to stop it happening.

At least Josh had a good father, she thought to herself. Tom cared; he would do anything to help his son. Unlike the man she had known, Tom wouldn't dream of hurting his child in a million years. If only she'd had a man like him. She still could – they were closer than most colleagues, they spent evenings together eating takeaways in classrooms, marking, talking, flirting. But it was too late. She couldn't help now.

She'd never told Tom about her past. He'd never asked – he probably knew that if she wanted to tell him, she would. She did want to tell him, but she couldn't bring herself to talk about it. She knew she'd cry, and he'd comfort her like the kind, caring man that he was, but she couldn't cope with someone caring about her – she hadn't felt that for so long, she didn't understand it.

She opened her handbag, and took out an envelope. It had been in her pigeon hole this morning, addressed to her at school in feminine handwriting, blots of ink scattering the slightly ripped, crumpled envelope. She hadn't got round to opening it yet; she'd been psyching herself up all day, and getting interrupted seemingly every time she even went near it.

She turned the letter over with shaking hands, sliding a finger under it and ripping it open quickly.

Several pieces of dog-eared, crumpled paper fell out onto her neat desk – Polaroid pictures and lined paper with the same handwriting on them, folded up to fit into the envelope, now lying on a Year Eleven's English book, abandoned. One got the impression that the letter and photos had been prepared, then thrown carelessly into a handbag and left there for several days or weeks, becoming crumpled and torn over the course of its' life.

She cursed under her breath as she tried to stem the bleeding from the paper cut she had just acquired on her index finger from opening the envelope.

"You alright?" came Tom's voice from the door, making her jump and knock the photos off her desk. They fluttered down to the carpeted floor, and one turned face up – it had to be the one closest to him, of course. Tom cautiously picked it up off the floor and squinted at it, frowning, his blue eyes darting from the photo to her.

The girl in the picture was an extremely skinny, leggy teenager with dark blonde, wavy hair which came down to her waist. She had piercing blue eyes – familiar eyes, he thought. He imagined that she was eighteen at most – she had a young face, but she was tall – at a guess, five foot eight. She wasn't smiling – her eyes were dull and sad, her lips painted warm red in contrast to her porcelain skin.

"Nikki..." he paused, glancing from the picture to her and making eye contact. Her orbs were swimming with unshed tears, threatening to spill over and trail down her perfect face. She bit her bottom lip, now looking at the floor rather than him, in a failing attempt at keeping her calm.

He suddenly took her hand, handing her back the pictures which she took gladly, grasping them between her shaking fingers, a sob wracking through her body.

Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her, and she stood up, high heels abandoned under her desk, letting him hold her, letting herself cry into his shoulder, knowing they were alone with no risk of anybody discovering them, and he stroked her hair gently, whispering to her, soothing her as if she was a little girl. She felt tiny, vulnerable to him like this – and he was sure, in that moment, that he was the closest person to her – not just geographically speaking.

"Sorry." She said hoarsely, looking away from him and back to the pile of hurriedly marked books lying on her desk, her hair seemed near-black in this lighting as she internally debated what to do.

She could run – which, bearing in mind the height of her shoes, was not a practical idea. She could shout at him, tell him to get lost and never speak to her again – which was a ridiculous notion; as they saw each other every day, and were far, far closer than colleagues usually were – especially having only known each other a matter of months.

Her third option – the one which seemed most open, sensible and realistic – was to lay herself bare to him – not necessarily literally; but, she hoped privately, one day, it may happen.

Shut up, you idiot.

"What does the letter say?" he asked, interrupting her internal debate, aware that he was very much invading her closely-guarded privacy, and running the very real risk of her shutting him out altogether.

Surprisingly, as he released her from his strong embrace, she bent down to pick up the letter from the dark carpet, unfolding it and gesturing for him to lean on her desk as she sat down on the chair.

He watched her carefully as she began to read; but after just a few seconds, she placed it on the desk and pushed it away, covering her eyes with her right hand and gazing out of the window; clearly fighting back tears which she didn't want him to see.

He knew she believed that he thought that she was weak. Crying twice in front of him in the space of five minutes was, to her, a sign that she couldn't handle her own emotions; that she needed someone to look after her – that she was incapable of doing so herself.

On the contrary; she was the bravest woman he'd ever met. She'd tackled a knife-carrying drug dealer on the day of her assessment; been punched in the face by Kyle Stack and been called a stuck up cow by just about anyone who didn't know her. Indeed; he had held the very same opinion of her at first; but after just a few minutes speaking to her; he knew that she was kind, funny and, surprisingly, mischievous. She'd faced everything without as much as a single tear; but a letter and a couple of pictures completely broke her.

"Can I read it?" he asked, his hand hovering over the paper, testing his willpower to not look without her permission. She nodded silently; still faced away from him, although he could tell exactly how her facial expression would look, "Shall I read it to you?"

He felt like a father reading to his daughter – the vulnerable woman sat in the chair did not resemble Nicki Boston in character. In body, yes – tall, lean, and absolutely beautiful – but shaking, crying and looking away was not something he'd ever thought that Nicki was capable of.

"Yeah." She replied in more of an exhalation than a voice, hushed as if she didn't want anyone else to hear; although Grantly was probably asleep with his beloved Racing Post, Michael was telling Janeece off for painting her toenails whilst supposedly organising files, and Jez was chasing unenthusiastic sixth formers around the field.

He unfolded the paper, frowning at the first few words. He inhaled deeply, the smell of her filling his nostrils – spicy, fruity and feminine – and began to read.

Ha! Cliffhanger.

Thankyou to everyone reading. Please review, and I will try to get back to