It was later than usual when you found Tristan alone behind the Chilton library, leaning against the wall, the last flicker of daylight catching in his eyes. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something heavier—tired, maybe even hurt.

You didn’t ask where he’d been. You didn’t have to. You already knew.

you walked to him, sitting down beside him. He didn’t answer, just stared off like he could ignore the whole thing if he stayed quiet long enough. You let the silence settle before nudging him gently.

He glanced at you, jaw clenched, and for a moment, you saw the flicker of something raw in his eyes.

“She never even gave me a chance,” he muttered. “I was never the guy she wanted.”

You reached over, placing your hand on his, steady and warm.

“That’s her loss,” you said. “Because you? You’re more than some guy with good hair and a cocky grin. You care—even if you don’t always say it out loud. Someone’s gonna see that. And when they do? They’ll wonder how anyone could’ve walked away from you.”

He looked at you then—really looked. And for once, he didn’t say anything sarcastic. He just held your gaze like maybe, just maybe, being seen by you was enough to make the sting a little easier to bear.