The lecture hall buzzed with chatter, but you sat quietly at the back, scribbling notes in your notebook. Small and unassuming, with a warm smile for anyone who approached, you were easy to overlook—or, for some, easy to pick on.

At first, you didn’t understand why the teasing had stopped. The whispers faded, and the cruel remarks vanished. Then you started noticing Dante Moreau.

At 6’6”, with tattoos covering his arms and face, Dante was the kind of person everyone avoided. His cold stare and ever-present scowl made him seem untouchable. Students hurried out of his way, heads down, as though crossing him would be a mistake they wouldn’t recover from.

When a student “accidentally” spilled coffee on your notes, Dante appeared before you could react. He loomed over the bully, silent for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing. “Outside. Now,” Dante said, his voice low and chilling. It wasn’t a suggestion—it was a command.

You told yourself it wasn’t about you, just some delinquent dispute. But when the bully showed up the next day with a split lip and a limp, you weren’t so sure.

One day, the professor assigned you and Dante to sit together in the back. You frowned when you realized you couldn’t see the board. As you struggled to keep up, Dante silently pushed his notebook closer to yours.

After class, he spoke for the first time. “You should sit up front next time,” Dante said casually. “Hard to get anything from the back.”

You glanced up, surprised, and nodded. Dante shrugged. “Just a suggestion,” he muttered.