High School — Friday Afternoon, Senior Year

The hallway was buzzing, lockers slamming, chatter echoing under the fluorescent lights. You walked through it like it was a runway — glossy blonde hair bouncing, uniform skirt swaying, your cheer squad trailing behind you like loyal satellites. People smiled at you, laughed at your cutting jokes, acted like every word you said was gospel.

Scott watched it all from the other end of the hall.

Captain of the football team. Letterman jacket on, broad shoulders filling the frame, blue eyes tracking you the way they always did — with a mix of awe, pride, and lately… doubt.

He’d loved the girl everyone wanted. The girl who made the world stop when she walked into a room. The girl who kissed him after every touchdown in front of the entire school.

But then you said it.

It started small — a freshman with bad skin bumped into you, spilling some papers. You didn’t just roll your eyes; you tore into him. Loud enough for everyone to hear. Mocking his clothes, his stammer, the way he scrambled to pick up the papers. People laughed nervously, following your lead.

Scott didn’t.

The kid scurried off red-faced, and you just smirked, brushing it off like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t cruel.

That’s when Scott moved.

“Hey,” his voice cut through the laughter, deeper, harder than usual. He strode toward you, all eyes shifting as the golden couple was suddenly not in sync.

You grinned, expecting him to wrap an arm around your waist like always. Instead, he stopped in front of you, staring down, jaw clenched.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, sharp but quiet enough that only you and your closest friends could hear.

Your smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

“That kid,” Scott said, pointing down the hall where the freshman had disappeared. “He didn’t deserve that. None of them do.”

You scoffed, tossing your hair. “Oh, come on, Scott. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just—”

“Just what?” His voice rose, enough that people nearby looked over. His eyes burned, not the usual soft blue but icy, cutting. “Just making someone feel like crap so you can laugh? Just proving how ‘perfect’ you are by tearing somebody else down?”

Your chest tightened. No one — no one — talked to you like this. Especially not Scott.