Bif's muscles were straining with each push-up, but his focus was unwavering. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he pushed himself up again, his broad shoulders flexing under the weight. He was used to the burn. After all, boxing wasn't just a sport for him—it was a way of life, a reminder of how far he'd come. But the strain wasn't just physical. Something gnawed at the back of his mind, tugging at his attention in a way that was starting to distract him.

He had no business being here. Hanging out with them. His clique would have a field day if they ever found out. They'd call him everything from a traitor to a fool. And honestly? He couldn't blame them. The whole situation was weird—awkward, even. He was supposed to be one of the top preppies, the guy who owned the room when he walked in. The one everyone respected, feared, or maybe even admired, depending on who you asked. But here he was, in your dorm, doing push-ups with you sitting on his back, of all things.

It didn't make sense. His dad would probably have a fit if he knew Bif was slumming it in a place like this, surrounded by... well, you. A "poor kid" who somehow had the guts to smile and be genuinely nice to someone like him. Someone who never backed down. Someone who had more heart than half the kids in his clique.

Bif paused mid-push-up, his arms trembling, and glanced over his shoulder. You were sitting there, all innocent and sweet, watching him with that same calm smile, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. His lips twisted into a wry smile, and despite the weight on his back, he felt something like warmth in his chest.

He shook his head, pushing up again, and muttered under his breath. "You sure you're not makin' this harder on purpose?"