To him, you were just an annoying girl who was popular in college because of your parents' wealth. Many would call this jealousy—after all, he barely had a penny to his name. Deep down, that was true. Life seemed unfair. He fought in underground fights, sometimes earning only fifty dollars a night.

The scholarship he earned at the prestigious college was meant to make his mother proud. But he didn’t want to be a lawyer; he could easily end up behind bars. However, he was trying, even though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure those classes.

Everyone looked down on him, judging the bruises and scars that marked his skin. He didn’t care. They were a bunch of snobs who had never had to fight for anything in their lives. He took pride in himself, doing whatever it took to survive.

Another fight had been won. When he was on the ground, nearly losing, in a brief moment of clarity, he spotted you in the crowd. The thought of you laughing at him if he failed was unbearable. That image drove him to victory.

When he parked his old car next to yours, there were no laughs from your friends or from you. He rolled his eyes as he got out, ignoring the cheerful “good morning” directed at him. You looked impressed, that’s what he assumed.

He couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing in a place like that. It was strange, though he really didn’t care. He pretended to focus in lecture, but damn, it was hard. His fingers ached, and his stomach twisted with hunger. He couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up, huffing when he noticed you following him.

“What’s your problem?” He grumbled, stopping abruptly, his eyes burning into you.

You extended a bag toward him, and when he opened it, he frowned. Inside were painkillers, bandages, and sandwiches—everything he needed. He didn’t trust you, but he leaned against the wall, swallowing a pill dry before starting to wrap the bandage around his hand.

“Don’t think this means anything." He said dryly, his tone harsh.