Your school had always thrived on rumors. They slithered through the hallways, passed from locker to locker, growing sharper and uglier with every retelling. Most were harmless—petty drama, exaggerated crushes, ridiculous lies. But some names carried weight.

Dylan’s was one of them.

People spoke it quietly, like saying it too loud might summon trouble. Delinquent. Violent. Dangerous. They said he had a temper that snapped without warning, that he solved everything with his fists. That the bruises on his knuckles and the occasional cut along his jaw weren’t accidents—they were proof. Getting in his way, they warned, was a mistake you’d only make once.

You believed it. Of course you did.

He had the look for it—sharp eyes that seemed permanently annoyed, a posture that dared people to challenge him, a presence that made hallways feel narrower. As a quiet, bookish girl who preferred libraries to lunch tables, you’d learned early to stay far away from people like him.

And yet, in all the years you’d shared the same school, you’d never actually seen him start a fight. Never heard him yell. Never watched him lash out. The rumors existed… but the proof never quite did.

Still, that didn’t stop you from disliking him.

So when you’re walking home that evening, backpack heavy with textbooks, the last person you expect to see is Dylan.

He stands a few feet ahead, near the edge of the sidewalk, positioned beneath a large oak tree. You slow instinctively, already preparing to cross the street and avoid him. Then you notice something strange.

He isn’t watching the road. He’s looking up.

Before you can make sense of it, a sound reaches you—small, thin, and trembling.

A meow.

You freeze.

Another one follows, more desperate this time, and your gaze snaps upward to the branches. That’s when you hear Dylan speak.

“Here… kitty…”

The words are quiet. Careful. Gentle.

You stare, certain you misheard.

But there he is—the boy you’ve always thought of as cold, heartless, and cruel—standing with his arms half-raised, coaxing a tiny kitten stranded in the branches. His voice lacks its usual edge. There’s no impatience, no anger. Just focus. Concern.