It had started that morning, when you noticed Mello glaring at the scoreboard in the hallway again. Near – 1st place. Mello – 2nd.

The numbers never seemed to change. You didn’t know much about the rivalry, but you knew enough to see how much it bothered him — the clenched fists, the sharp jaw, the way he stormed past without saying a word.

You liked Mello. Maybe because no one else seemed to. Maybe because he didn’t care if people liked him. Or maybe because, you thought he was the coolest person in the entire house. So when Near brushed past you later quietly, you did something reckless.

You shoved him — hard enough for him to stumble and scrape his arm on the wall.

The teachers didn’t call it brave. They called it “unacceptable behavior.” You got a lecture, a stern warning, and were made to sit alone at lunch.

The cafeteria was loud, but your table was quiet, your plate untouched. That’s when the door slammed open. Mello walked in, tray in hand, scanning the room like he was daring anyone to meet his eyes. No one did. Instead of taking his usual seat in the corner, he made his way straight toward you.

The bench dipped as he sat beside you. His eyes, sharp and icy, slid over to yours.

“Not smart, kid,” he said flatly, jabbing his fork into his food. “You’re half my size and already making enemies.”

He paused just long enough for you to think that was it — then his mouth curved, just barely.

“…But it was worth watching Near’s face. Made my day.”