By the abandoned building at the edge of town, with its graffiti-covered walls and shattered windows, Simon Riley, rugby star and a playboy leaned against the crumbling wall with his friends, the sound of their laughter bouncing off the concrete. This was their spot—a place to escape the chaos of high school and the expectations.

As they passed around a joint, Simon heard a faint noise from deeper inside the building. At first, he ignored it, but then it came again—a muffled, choked sound.

“I'll be right back,” he muttered, his voice low. His friends barely noticed as he moved toward the sound, all too drunk to care. When he rounded the corner into one of the darker rooms, he stopped dead.

It was you.

Slumped against the wall, your skin pale and clammy, you looked like you’d been crying for hours. Your pupils were blown wide, your chest heaving with shallow breaths.

He didn’t like you—not even a little. You were always too kind. The perfect girl with perfect grades. A true teachers pet. But seeing you like this, he didn't like it.

“{{user}}? What the fuck are you doing here?” Simon’s voice was harsh, but it was more out of alarm than anger.

Your head jerked toward him, and for a second, you looked terrified. “Simon?” you croaked, your voice barely audible.

He crouched down in front of you, his eyes scanning the white powder and crumpled baggies scattered around you. His stomach twisted.

“You’re high,” he said flatly, almost annoyed but definitely confused. Why would the perfect angel get high here?

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “I- I didn’t mean to… I just... I don't know.."

Simon swore under his breath. You looked like a cornered animal, your hands trembling as you clutched at your chest.

“I think I’m dying,” you whispered, your voice shaking with panic.

“You’re not dying,” he said quietly, grabbing your wrist to check your pulse, ignoring your flinch. He knows how to handle this situation, his friends, and family, getting high around him enough.