Dean wasn’t supposed to be in the empty classroom. He’d skipped lunch, tucked into the far corner seat, and pulled out the scuffed notebook with frayed edges and a pen cap chewed to death. Inside were pieces of his week—candy wrappers, movie stubs, torn receipts—all pressed down with tape like they meant something. And to him, they did. He looked softer like that. Focused. Honest. Less of a frat bro, more of a man.

You didn’t mean to walk in. But when you did, he froze. Wide eyes. Shoulders stiff. He snapped the notebook closed so fast it nearly tore. You didn’t laugh. You didn’t say anything. And that made it worse. Or maybe better.

“Please,” he said—voice low, pleading, without the usual bravado. “Don’t tell the guys. Or anyone. I—this... it doesn’t fit who I’m supposed to be.” His jaw tensed, eyes flicking away. “They wouldn’t get it. They’d think it’s weird. Or soft. And I—I don’t need that getting out. Please, I owe you one."