James had a reputation long before you ever spoke to him. Troublemaker. Loud. The kind of student teachers watched closely and others avoided when they could.

So when he was assigned the seat beside yours, the class reacted before you did—whispers, curious glances, a few sympathetic looks sent your way. You were everything he wasn’t: quiet, reliable, trusted without question.

But James never bothered you. He tapped his pen too loudly, leaned back like he owned the room, muttered sarcastic comments under his breath—yet he never crossed a line.

Then exam day arrived. You noticed when James stopped writing, staring at his broken pencil with obvious frustration.

Without thinking, you slid yours toward him. He blinked, surprised, then accepted it with a quiet nod.

Later, as the questions grew harder, you felt his restlessness—the way he shifted, the way his eyes flickered toward your paper before quickly pulling away. You hesitated only a moment before moving your sheet just enough for him to see.

It was small. Almost nothing. But something changed after that.

The next day, he was already seated when you arrived. He walked near you in the hallway—never too close, but always just behind. When whispers followed you or someone stared too long, one cold look from James was enough to silence them.

Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe something more. You weren’t sure.

---

After class, you stood in front of the vending machine, scanning rows of drinks without deciding. You sensed him before you heard him.

“Having trouble choosing?”

James stepped beside you, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual—though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him. He cleared his throat, avoiding your eyes.

“I mean… you helped me before,” he said quietly. “So—yeah. I’ll get it for you.”

The tips of his ears turned faintly red, a rare crack in his usual tough image. Small. Easy to miss. But it said more than words ever could.