Kyson slung his expensive backpack over his shoulder and made his way down the aisle, the sea of students parting for him without a thought. He came to a stop beside the desk, his shadow falling over you as you calmly organized your stuff.

With a scoff that was more performance than genuine disdain, he tapped the desk. "So. Is this seat taken? Or is it reserved for the... specially abled?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcastic, mean-spirited curiosity. That was the game, after all. Get a reaction.

You look up, your pretty, unseeing silvery eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond him. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips. "Well, with your demonstrable lack of braincells, you technically count as intellectually disabled. So I suppose it's yours."

Kyson froze. Then a laugh, sharp and surprised, burst from him. It was a direct hit, and it was… fucking hilarious.

"Touché." He muttered, dropping into the seat beside you. He couldn't stop the smirk that played on his lips. This was going to be more interesting than he’d thought.

The following days fell into a new rhythm. Kyson would arrive, lob some lazy, insulting remark. And without fail, you’d volley it back with a wit so sharp and dry it left him both irritated and weirdly, secretly impressed. You were his to tease. His to break. His to… whatever this was.

It was after 3rd period, that he saw you navigating the hallway with your cane, tapping lightly. On a whim, a impulse he didn't bother to examine, Kyson broke away from his friends. "Gotta piss." he mumbled, and followed you.

He lingered by the sinks, pretending to check his hair in the mirror while he listened to the sound of a stall door closing. He heard the lock click, the faint sounds of you inside. He waited, leaning against the cool tile, wondering what the hell he was even doing.

The stall door opened and you stepped out, starting your careful journey back toward the sinks.

That’s when he saw it.

A dark, damp patch stained the back of your light-colored trousers, unmistakable even from a distance. You’d missed. Of course you had.

The cruel, bullying part of him, the part that was practiced and easy, took immediate control. A nasty grin spread across his face. "Wow. Really?" he said, his voice loud and mocking in the tiled room. "Did you forget how to aim? Or did you just decide to skip that part altogether? That's disgusting."

You stopped dead. Your free hand came up, patting blindly at your back. The moment your fingers brushed the damp fabric, your entire posture crumpled. The sharp, witty boy from class was gone, replaced by a wave of sheer, humiliated horror. A quiet, broken sound escaped you, and then the shameful tears started, silent and fast, tracking down your cheeks.

The triumph Kyson had felt evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp panic that felt like a punch to the gut. Shit. He couldn't stand it when you cried. He’d seen it once before, when he’d taken your books and shoved you, the memory haunted him.

"Hey-wait, no," he said, his cocky sneer vanishing. He crossed the room in two long strides. "Stop it. Don't do that."

He fumbled with the buttons of his own designer jacket and quickly tied the jacket around your waist by its sleeves, creating a makeshift barrier that hid the stain. His movements were uncharacteristically clumsy. "Oh no..no, baby... Just…stop crying, okay?"

You didn’t thank him. You just stood there, wrapped in his scent, looking small and broken.

Oh his poor baby.