You hated being the new girl. Everyone already had their little circles, jokes, assigned lunch tables, routines that didn’t have space for someone like you.

Your first day started off the way you expected: wrong classroom, wrong hallway, wrong kind of smile from a teacher who didn’t bother hiding her impatience.

Then came your student guide.

“Hey,” he said softly when he found you by the lockers, looking more lost than you wanted to admit. “You’re, uh… Morgan, right?”

You nodded, clutching your schedule like a shield.

“Sam Winchester,” he introduced himself, offering a small, kind smile. His hair was a bit too long for the school’s dress code, but it suited him — and his voice had that calm, steady sound, like someone who didn’t rush anything.

He showed you around — the cafeteria, the library, the courtyard where the seniors smoked when the teachers weren’t looking. He didn’t fill the silence with small talk; he just walked beside you, pointing out where things were, occasionally glancing over to make sure you were keeping up.

He started waiting for you after class without ever saying he would. Some days, he’d walk you back to your dorm, keeping a careful distance, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

Sometimes you’d talk. Sometimes you didn’t.

One afternoon, when the wind picked up and the air smelled like rain, you said, “You don’t have to walk me every day, you know.”

Sam smiled a little, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“I know,” he said, looking down at the pavement. “But I want to.”