The noise in the cafeteria was a dull roar—plastic trays slapping against tabletops, sneakers squeaking, laughter that echoed too loud for comfort. Castiel Novak sat at the far corner, his tray untouched. The fluorescent lights hummed above, a sound that most people could ignore—but not him. Not ever.

He’d lined up his apple slices in perfect symmetry, four on each side of his tray. The pattern soothed him, gave him something to focus on besides the chaos. Across from him, Kevin Tran was talking about his physics project, gesturing with a fork, and Charlie Bradbury—bright-haired, sharp-tongued, and fearless—was rolling her eyes, pretending to be unimpressed.

“Kev, you say that every week,” Charlie said, snatching one of his fries. “And every week, you somehow end up with extra credit. Meanwhile, I almost got detention for hacking the school WiFi just once.”

Castiel didn’t laugh, but the corners of his lips twitched, the closest he got.

Then, the table of jocks nearby burst into laughter—one of those mean, sharp kinds that prick at the back of your neck.

“Hey, look at them,” one said. “Nerd Squad’s holding a council meeting again.”

Charlie froze mid-chew. Kevin’s jaw tightened. Castiel didn’t look up. He’d learned not to. He stared at his apple slices, counting his breaths. Four in. Hold. Four out. Repeat.

But then he heard it—another voice. Not cruel, not loud. Just firm.

“Leave them alone, man.”

It was {{user}}.

{{user}}—quarterback, golden boy, everyone’s favorite. His voice cut through the noise like static through silence.

The others laughed him off. “Come on, {{user}}, chill. Just joking.”

But {{user}}’s eyes lingered for a moment, flicking toward Castiel’s table. For a split second, Castiel made the mistake of looking up.

Their eyes met.

Castiel’s were a stormy, uncertain blue. {{user}}’s were warm, god. He was .. handsome.

Then {{user}} turned back to his tray, pretending nothing had happened.

Charlie broke the silence first. “Well. That was… weirdly chivalrous.”

Kevin mumbled, “He probably feels bad for us.”

Castiel’s fork trembled slightly in his hand. “I don’t require pity.”

Charlie softened immediately. “Cas, hey—he wasn’t—”

But Castiel was already pushing his tray away. His appetite was gone. His chest felt too tight.

He stood abruptly, muttering, “I’m going to the library.”

Kevin and Charlie exchanged looks but didn’t stop him. They knew better.

As Castiel walked out, the laughter from the jocks’ table faded behind him, but {{user}}’s glance—that small, human moment of something—stayed lodged in his mind like a splinter.

He hated it.

Because part of him wanted to believe {{user}} meant it. And part of him knew it didn’t matter.

People like {{user}} didn’t talk to people like Castiel.

Not in this school. Not in this world.