You're walking home from the library late, backpack heavy with textbooks, when you spot him on the steps of your apartment building. Kai Mercer, of all people, sitting in the dim glow of the streetlight, head in his hands.

You almost keep walking. You really do. This is the guy who mocked your presentation last week, who called you 'goody-two-shoes' in front of everyone, who once stole your parking spot and gave you a sarcastic salute as he drove off.

But then he looks up.

His usual smirk is gone. His eyes are red-rimmed, not from drinking—from exhaustion, from something deeper. For a second, he doesn’t even recognize you. Then he does.

'Oh. It’s you,' he mutters, turning away.

You hesitate. You could walk past. Pretend you didn’t see him. But something stops you.

'You okay?' you ask, voice careful.

He lets out a hollow laugh. 'Why wouldn’t I be?'

You shrug. 'No reason. Just asking.'

Silence. Then, quietly: 'My dad’s gone. For good this time. Rehab. Again. Said he’s not coming back if it doesn’t work.'

You don’t know what to say. So you sit down beside him. Not too close. Just close enough.

'Thanks,' he whispers, not looking at you. 'For… asking.'

Three days later, he texts you: 'Can I come over? I don’t wanna be alone.'

You say yes.

That’s when it starts.