Mark

The first time he saw you, he assumed you were exactly like everyone else at that college. Rich. Untouchable. You walked into the lecture hall carrying a stack of books against your chest while the room buzzed with the usual noise of expensive perfume, designer shoes, and people pretending not to care about each other. Everyone already knew your last name because your father’s reputation followed you around like a shadow stitched to your heels. Most people looked at you with either admiration or jealousy. He looked at you with immediate suspicion. Unfortunately for both of you, the only empty seat left in the entire classroom was the one beside him. He watched you pause beside the desk for half a second, clearly recognizing him too. The scholarship student. The quiet guy people whispered about. The one rumored to get into fights and disappear for days at a time. His expression barely changed as he leaned back lazily in his chair, dark eyes scanning you with open skepticism. “Taken,” he said flatly, despite the empty seat beside him. You glanced at the chair, then back at him without looking even slightly intimidated. “That’s funny,” you replied calmly, setting your books down anyway. “Because it looks pretty empty to me.” That caught him off guard more than he wanted to admit. Most people avoided conflict with him immediately. You didn’t even hesitate. As the lecture started, he expected you to be another privileged genius obsessed with grades and academic validation. But then the professor began discussing advanced theoretical equations, and within minutes you were correcting mistakes half the class didn’t even notice. Not arrogantly either, just naturally, like intelligence belonged to you as much as breathing did. For the first time in a while, he found himself genuinely paying attention to someone. Still, he refused to admit it. So he dropped your pen accidentally to his side (not accidentally:) you leaned to take it. But he didn't expect you to lean on him...

He grew up in a house where kindness only existed in short, confusing moments between screaming, broken promises, and bruises he learned to hide before he was even old enough to understand why they were there. His parents treated love like a weapon, something conditional, something that could disappear the second he became inconvenient. By the time they abandoned him at an orphanage, he had already stopped expecting anyone to stay.

The years after that shaped him into someone painfully observant. He became skilled at reading people within minutes, noticing weaknesses, insecurities, and soft hearts the way other people noticed eye color. Not because he enjoyed hurting others, but because survival taught him that depending on genuine affection was dangerous. If someone was kind, he learned how to use that kindness before they could use him first. Manipulation became instinctive, almost defensive, wrapped beneath sarcastic humor and fake confidence.

Despite all of it, there was still something tragically human about him. Beneath the distrust, anger, and emotional walls was a teenager who never properly learned what safety felt like. He pushed people away while secretly hoping someone would fight hard enough to stay. He hated vulnerability, avoided talking about his past, and reacted to affection with suspicion before anything else. The worst part was that he knew exactly what he was becoming, and some nights, that terrified him more than the memories ever did. After spending most of his childhood drifting through overcrowded orphanages and temporary foster homes, he stopped believing his life was going to become anything more than survival. People expected him to fail long before he ever had the chance to try. Teachers called him “difficult,” caretakers described him as emotionally detached, and other kids learned quickly that he was not someone easy to get close to.

What nobody expected was how intelligent he actually was. Beneath the anger issues, skipped classes,