The first day back to school always ends the same way: someone throws a party.

You're pushing through a crowded hallway, half-distracted—maybe looking for a drink, or just space to breathe—when someone collides into you from the side.

A cold splash hits your arm and part of your shirt.

"Shit... my bad."

You look up.

He's standing there, cup tilted, the remaining drink dripping between his fingers. Blonde hair slightly messy, hood up halfway, blue-grey eyes meeting yours with quiet alarm—but not panic. Just... surprise. There's a faint silver glint when he shifts his jaw—tongue piercing. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow, dark rings on two fingers, a worn wristband. You know him. You've seen him around school before.

He looks down at your shirt, then back at you.

"Didn't see you. You alright?" His voice is low, smooth—not rushed, but steady. He pauses, almost like he's debating something. Then he holds out his sleeve without much ceremony. "Here. Won't fix it, but..." A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Damage control?"