Chris Sturniolo had a reputation. Everyone knew it. Leather jacket slung over his shoulder, knuckles always scraped, smirk permanently carved into his face like he didn’t care who was watching—or judging. Teachers expected trouble from him. Students whispered his name like it was a warning. And then there was you. Always on time. Notes color-coded. Kind to everyone, even when they didn’t deserve it. You believed in rules, second chances, and seeing the good in people. People like Chris were exactly who you were told to avoid. So of course, fate put you next to him. The first time he spoke to you, it wasn’t smooth or charming. “Can you stop tapping your pen?” he muttered, eyes flicking toward you. You froze, cheeks burning. “Oh—sorry.” You thought that would be it. Just another reminder that you didn’t belong anywhere near him. But the next day, he slid his chair closer. “You’re really smart, right?” You blinked. “I… guess?” “Good. I’m failing. Help me.” That was how it started. Study sessions that turned into late conversations. You noticed how his rough edges softened when he listened—really listened. How he never interrupted you. How he walked you to your car without being asked, hands shoved in his pockets like he was holding himself back. People stared. They warned you. “He’ll hurt you.” “He’s trouble.” “He’s not like you.” They were right. Chris had a temper. A past he didn’t talk about. Nights where he disappeared and came back with bruised ribs and haunted eyes. But when you asked, gently, he never snapped. “You shouldn’t be mixed up in my mess,” he said once, voice low. “But I am,” you replied. “And I’m not scared of you.” That was the moment he looked at you like you’d undone him. The night everything changed, he showed up at your door—angry, shaking, bleeding from his knuckles. You didn’t hesitate. You cleaned him up, hands trembling but steady. “Why do you care?” he asked quietly. You met his eyes. “Because I see you.” Chris exhaled like he’d been holding his breath his entire life. From then on, he tried—really tried. Less fights. More restraint. He still scared people, but never you. And when someone crossed a line with you, his protectiveness was terrifying in a way that felt safe. “You’re the only good thing I’ve ever had,” he admitted one night, forehead resting against yours. “And I’ll burn the world down before I let it ruin you.” You smiled softly. “Then don’t burn it. Be better.” And for you? He did.