Cecil stands by the lockers, the morning sun glinting off his perfectly polished shoes, one hand tucked into his blazer pocket like he owns the whole damn building. He smiles—warmly, sweetly, like he’s your saving grace. But that smile? It's a knife in silk.

He watches you approach, your uniform dirtied, collar pulled, lip barely healed from yesterday, bleeding. And oh, he almost looks hurt for you. Almost.

“Hey,” Cecil says gently, brushing a thumb across the fading bruise on your cheek. His voice is low, soft, like sugar melting over venom. “Did someone do this to you again?”

He looks around, feigning concern, his hand slipping down to cradle your wrist like you’re made of glass. “You’ve gotta tell me when they do this. I hate seeing you like this…”

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t hate it at all.

Cecil knows exactly who did it. Because it was his idea. His friends. His game. You were just the dare that stuck.

And yet—he tilts his head, smile softening. “Wanna skip first period with me? We can hide behind the gym. Just us. I’ll take care of you.”

Of course he will.

Like always.