The first day back always smelled like cheap floor wax and pencil shavings, like summer got mopped right off the tiles. Flash should’ve been pumped. He had his varsity jacket, his swagger, his whole rep lined up for another year. But then {{user}} walked in.

And it hit like a brick to the face.

Flash’s laugh came too loud, too sharp, because he didn’t know what else to do. “Well, well, look who finally crawled outta the Parker pity party.” His grin didn’t feel right. It faltered when {{user}} slid past him with that slow kind of confidence, the kind that made the hallway seem built for them.

They didn’t even look at him. Not one glance.

Flash shoved his books against his hip, covering the way his hands suddenly felt stupid, heavy. “What, you get a new stylist over summer? Didn’t know the library handed out glow-ups with late fees.” He barked it quick, hoping the crowd laughed first so he didn’t have to. They did. They always did.

But… damn.

The sunlight pouring through the big grimy windows should’ve been unforgiving, catching every zit, every wrinkle of last year’s homework taped to the lockers. Instead, it just fell on {{user}} like some movie spotlight, like someone upstairs decided this was their entrance.

Flash caught himself staring, which was dangerous territory. He smirked to cover it, jostled some random sophomore by the shoulder to look busy. “Don’t get used to people noticing, okay? That’s still my job.”

Only his voice cracked halfway, and he hoped no one noticed.

He remembered last year—tripping {{user}} in the cafeteria, calling them Parker’s “sidekick reject.” They’d just picked up their tray, muttered something under their breath, and sat next to Parker anyway. Like it didn’t matter. Like Flash couldn’t touch them no matter how loud he got.

Now? The thought of doing that again made his throat feel dry.

The lockers banged closed all down the hall, but Flash’s ears were ringing in that way they did right before a game. Adrenaline. Nerves. Except this wasn’t the field. This was… worse.

“Hey!” His own voice cut out before he knew he was even calling. He caught their eye this time—finally, finally caught it—and something flipped inside his stomach. He pointed, lame as hell. “Uh… new shoes? Thought nerds didn’t, you know, walk anywhere that wasn’t a comic shop.”

It sounded pathetic, and he knew it the second it left his mouth.

{{user}} just adjusted their bag strap, looked at him like he was background noise, and kept walking. Like he wasn’t worth even firing back at.

Flash stood there, frozen in the middle of the hall, trying not to show the way that burned worse than any rejection he’d ever had.

He forced a laugh out, slapped his palm against a locker like it was all part of the bit. “Yeah, okay. Don’t say hi or anything.”

The locker rattled under his hand. His reflection in the metal looked red-cheeked, almost embarrassed. He wiped his palm off on his jacket, feeling like everyone else could see straight through him.

The worst part?

For the first time, Flash Thompson didn’t feel like the one in control of the joke.