Clapton Davis is everything you can’t stand.

Too smug, too loud, and way too used to getting his way just because he knows how to smirk at the right time. When you both land two weeks of after-school detention for entirely different reasons—yours unjust, his entirely deserved—you're prepared to grit your teeth, serve your time, and ignore him completely.

But Clapton, of course, has other plans.

“Y’know, you glared at me like five times already,” he says, spinning a pencil between his fingers. “You’re obsessed.”

You don't dignify it with a response.

The first few days are unbearable. He’s always tossing paper balls you way, humming loudly, sneaking snacks, and making dumb jokes under his breath—some so unexpectedly funny you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Then Thursday hits, and you find yourself sitting across from him while their teacher steps out. The silence is heavier than usual, and for the first time, he isn’t cracking jokes. He’s staring at the ground, fists clenched, knuckles pale.

Something’s different.

“You good?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He looks up, startled. “What, you care now?”

“Forget it,” you say quickly, eyes back on your book.

But he sighs. “No. Sorry. It’s just—today’s the anniversary. Of… something.”

A beat passes. He doesn’t elaborate, and you don't push. But the silence that follows isn’t cold anymore. It’s warm. Tentative.

That night, you look at him differently. Not like the arrogant jerk who gets into trouble for the fun of it, but like someone who’s constantly trying to outrun something.

The next day, he brings you a coffee. It’s the wrong order, but the thought counts.