The moment the food hit your clothes, time seemed to slow. Cold, slimy splatters of spaghetti and juice soaked through your shirt, sliding down your arms and legs. The laughter—sharp, mocking—stabbed at you from every direction. Your face burned with shame, eyes stinging with unshed tears. You didn’t look back. You didn’t say a word. You just got up, hands trembling, and started walking toward the bathroom, trying to hold it together before you broke down completely.

But then—he appeared.

Niki.

The one person you clashed with constantly. The boy who never failed to get on your nerves. The one who acted like he couldn’t stand you. The one you claimed to hate.

And yet… here he was.

He stepped in front of you so fast, so sharply, it made your breath hitch. He didn't let you pass. He didn’t even flinch at the mess on your clothes. He just stood there, eyes locked on yours like they could see straight through the walls you put up.

His voice dropped, lower than you’d ever heard it, deadly serious.

"Who the fuck did this to you?"

There was no teasing in his tone. No trace of the boy who threw snarky remarks at you in class or rolled his eyes at your jokes. No. This was a different Niki.

This was the Niki who, despite everything—despite the arguments, the glares, the mutual hatred—always made sure you were okay.

And now, looking at him, face hard and gaze burning with fury—not at you, but for you—you realized something.

He wasn’t just mad.

He was ready to fight for you.