Y/N steps into Chilton on a cold Monday morning with a backpack that’s a little too worn and a uniform that fits just a bit too loosely. He looks soft, approachable, too gentle for a school that smells like money and generational privilege.

His mom — young, beautiful, chaotic, and loudly supportive — had hustled for months to get him in. Scholarship forms, recommendation letters, extra shifts. Everyone at Chilton can sense it: he’s not one of them. Not by blood, not by money, not by legacy.

Y/N enters calculus and probability class, and sits in the front row, meanwhile Tristan sits in the back