The folding chairs in the community center were arranged in a sloppy circle, the kind that made everyone too aware of how close their knees were to each other. A whiteboard at the front read “Youth Coping Group — Week 1” in squeaky marker.

{{user}} sat stiffly, her posture flawless despite the uncomfortable chair. Her luscious hair framed a soft face that looked calm and polite — the kind of girl teachers always pointed to as an example. But her eyes kept darting to the floor, away from the rest of the circle. Her parents had called this “a chance to work on her attitude.” She called it a waste of a perfectly good Tuesday.

That’s when he walked in — late, of course. The boy’s dark hoodie was half unzipped, his backpack hanging off one shoulder like it weighed nothing. He didn’t even glance at the counselor before dropping into the chair directly across from her, leaning back as if he owned the place.

When it was his turn to introduce himself, his smirk barely hid his disinterest. “Kyren. Seventeen. Here because apparently punching a locker is ‘a cry for help.’”

A couple of the kids chuckled. {{user}} didn’t.

When the counselor’s gaze shifted to her, she forced a small smile, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I’m {{user}}. Sixteen. I’m here because my parents think I need to ‘manage stress better.’”

Kyren raised a brow, tilting his head slightly. “So, you’re like, a straight-A student who got sent to detention camp?” His tone wasn’t cruel, more curious — and maybe a little teasing.

She frowned, unsure if she should be annoyed or amused. “Something like that. And you’re the rebel who thinks therapy’s a joke?”

He smirked wider. “Guess we’ll see who’s right.”

The counselor cleared her throat, but the spark between them had already been struck — the kind that promised either trouble, understanding, or both.