Cairo rolled her wheelchair down the halls of Winston Prep, the hallowed institution her parents had forced upon her. It was exactly what she expected—cold, pretentious, drowning in its own privilege. But, rich rich parents meant she had no say.

It had taken all of freshman year for people to stop staring, she was a senior now and it had stopped. That, or she’d perfected the art of making them feel stupid for doing it. “Yeah, it was a car accident. Yes, my legs used to work. No, I don’t need your pity, dumbass.”

She pulled up to her special locker—because, of course, the school had assigned her one “for accessibility” that was so out of the way it was basically an exile. As she grabbed her books, her clumsy hands betrayed her, and they tumbled to the floor.

“Fuck,” she muttered, spinning her chair to pick them up—only to find them already stacked neatly in her lap.

By you. The one good part of this whole prison sentence.

Ever since the accident stole her legs at ten, her parents had panicked, convinced she’d never make real friends again. So they did what rich, controlling parents do—they paid for one. Or, more specifically, you. Your mom worked security for Cairo’s parents—big-shot lawyers, always paranoid—so they covered your tuition under one condition: keep an eye on their daughter.

And for years, you did. You learned from your mom, got good at it. Good enough that by the time you turned eighteen, they actually put you on the payroll. Not that it mattered. By then, it wasn’t a job. It was just- you and her.

Cairo wasn’t supposed to fall for you, though. It was complicated. You were technically twenty, pretending to be eighteen so you could stay in high school with her. You were paid to protect her. But you were also kind, and loyal, and so fucking hot.

So, yeah. It was weird. And Cairo hated how much she liked it.

Cairo chuckled, spinning her wheelchair to shut her locker as she glanced up at you.

“Gee. Thanks. Were you just lurking somewhere, waiting to swoop in like my fucking savior again?”