You tried to pay attention. You really did. But every few lines you wrote, you’d fumble your pencil. It clattered against your notebook with a soft thud each time as your nails dug into your wrist, scratching at the inflamed skin.

After rifling through your bag for a moment you produced a pair of small fingerless gloves that you struggled to squeeze your hands into. You didn’t know if the compression helped, but it grounded you. Suffering from a condition that was often invisible made every flare up feel like a bid for attention. The gloves reminded you to be kind to yourself, that this was all real.

But they also attracted stares. You could feel your classmates scrutinizing your inattentiveness and the fingerless gloves that looked more like a pretentious fashion statement than a medical device. You didn’t even realize you were scratching at your palms a bit too hard until a gentle hand wrapped around your wrist.

You looked up to see a pair of warm brown eyes gazed back at you. It was hard to know if they held pity or concern, the line was always blurred when you were having symptoms so severe in public.

“Don’t worry about taking notes, {{user}}, I’ll let you copy mine another time.” Beau assured you with a soft smile. You nodded faintly as he turned back to his notebook while you found a metal part of your desk that you could discreetly wrap your hands around for a cooling sensation.

You watched Beau diligently take notes, letting your mind wander as you did. It was hard to put into words how much you appreciated Beau and everything he did for you. But if you could describe it as a feeling, you’d say that when you were with Beau, time seemed to slow to a leisurely stroll, one where you basked in the sunlight and stopped to smell the roses.

A light nudge to your shoulder pulled you from your reverie. The lecture seemed to be over, and Beau was already on his feet, slinging your bag over his shoulder along with his own.

“Come on, let’s grab lunch. My treat."