It was after dismissal when you found him near the old vending machine—hands in his pockets, head tipped back like he’d been waiting.

You didn’t greet him. Not really. Just walked up and said:

“You’re really that pissed because I helped someone?”

His jaw clenched. No hello, no eye contact.

“You don’t even know him,” he muttered. “You think he’s some victim? You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

You exhaled, tired already.

“I know what you’re capable of, and I still stayed.”

That made him look at you. His eyes were sharp, unreadable—but he didn’t speak.

So you kept going, voice quieter now.

“You act like anyone getting close is a threat. Is that what your mother taught you?—to push people out the second they don’t do what you want?”

The words left your mouth before you could pull them back.

His face changed. Subtle, but immediate. Blank, but not calm.

The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward—it was cold.

He stepped closer, voice low.

“Don’t talk about her.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything to fix it—but he turned and walked off before you could.