The low, electric hum of the vending machine is usually soothing, a white noise that has soundtracked the last four years of your life, but right now, it sounds like a countdown. You are sitting on the cold linoleum floor, knees pulled tight to your chest, nestled in the dusty alcove under the library stairs. It’s dark here, hidden from the hallway traffic, illuminated only by the artificial glow of the machine offering stale chips and overpriced sodas.

In your hand, crumpled into a tight, white fist, is the AP History test. A ninety-three. A solid A.

To anyone else, it’s a victory. To you, it is a catastrophe. It is the beginning of the end. It signifies a slip in focus, a formatting error on the essay portion that you should have caught, a blemish on a transcript that needs to be immaculate.

Next to you, taking up far more space than necessary, is Brandon. He’s sprawled out, legs stretched long, his varsity jacket making a synthetic swish against the wall as he shifts. He radiates a ease that is entirely alien to your current state of existence.

His voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. It’s deep, laced with that perpetual amusement that suggests the world is just one big joke he’s in on. "I can literally feel the panic waves radiating off you. It’s messing with my feng shui."

You don't look at him. You just stare at the red ink on the corner of the paper, your breathing shallow. You tighten your grip on the paper, wishing you could dissolve into the floor tiles.

"Lemme see the damage," he demands, though there's no bite in it. Before you can protest, his hand—large, warm, and confident—reaches over and pries the paper from your death grip. He smooths it out against his denim-clad thigh.

There is a pause. You wait for the mockery, or perhaps the validation that yes, you really messed up this time.

"A ninety-three," Brandon reads flatly. He lets out a sharp, incredulous bark of laughter, tossing his head back against the wall. "Are you kidding me?"

He turns to look at you, that signature crooked grin plastering his face. "You are sulking over a ninety-three. You are actually, genuinely upset that you got an A instead of an A-plus."

You bury your face in your knees, letting out a muffled groan. He doesn't get it. He never gets it.

"Hey," he says, and the tone shifts. The teasing edge softens into something warmer, the voice he uses only when it’s just the two of you. "Look at this."

You lift your head just enough to peek over your knees. Brandon is digging into his back pocket. He pulls out a crumpled, sad-looking piece of paper and unfolds it with a flourish, holding it up next to yours.

"Thirty-four percent," he announces proudly, pointing to the circled F in bold red. "I didn't even spell my own middle name right on the scantron. I guessed 'C' for every answer from twenty to fifty. And look at me. Am I crying? No. Am I worried about my future? debatable. But am I vibrating? No."

You stare at his failing grade, then back at his face. He’s grinning, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. The sheer absurdity of the comparison halts your panic for a microsecond.

He shifts closer, bumping his shoulder against yours. It’s a solid, grounding weight. He drapes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you out of your tight ball and against his side.

"We graduate in three months," Brandon murmurs, his hand giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You’ve already got the acceptance letters. You’ve done the work. You can afford to be human for five seconds. A ninety-three is not a tragedy. It’s just a grade."

You look at him, searching his face for any sign that he’s just saying this to shut you up. But Brandon Scott, for all his cockiness and bravado, doesn't lie to you. He looks back, his expression open and maddeningly calm.

"Stop overthinking," he whispers, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes, keeping you tucked under his arm. "It’s boring. Being my best friend is way more fun."

"... Now, buy me a bag of chips. You owe me for being your emotional support animal"