Fezco O’Neill sits in the back of the classroom.

Always the same seat. Hoodie pulled up. Notebook open, but barely written in. Teachers mark him as “quiet,” students mark him as “background,” and nobody really expects much from him at all.

Except you.

You sit two rows ahead, close enough to notice the things others don’t. How Fez answers questions only when he’s sure. How he helps people without drawing attention to it—passing notes, sharing answers, fixing a broken chair leg without being asked.

One afternoon, your teacher pairs you together for a project.

Fez looks surprised when you sit next to him.

“You cool with this?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you say. “You?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You work in comfortable silence at first. Then slowly, conversation starts to slip in—about music, classes you both hate, how loud the school feels sometimes. Fez listens more than he talks, but when he does speak, it’s thoughtful. Careful.

“You’re not what people think,” you say casually.

He glances at you. “That so?”

“They underestimate you,” you shrug.

Fez huffs a quiet laugh. “Happens a lot.”