Cain

Cain. Hearing that name always made you tense up. To everyone else, he was the life of the party, but to you, he was a personal nightmare.

You were never an athlete and wore oversized hoodies, and he seemed to make it his mission to remind you of non-existent flaws: "So, sticking to a triple portion today?" or "Wow, a new smile? Now in four chins!" It was infuriating. You snapped back, but he always hit the mark.

The paradox: he loved teasing you. He loved the way you frowned. He liked you. A lot. But he didn't know how to express his feelings any other way.
He wasn't a complete jerk. If anyone else dared to make a joke at your expense, Cain instantly turned into a rabid dog: "Shut up," he would hiss through gritted teeth. Around him, you felt a strange but reliable sense of protection.
One day, you and your group went into a cafe. Cain silently waved to the cashier: "I'm paying for everyone." You mechanically picked a salad and water. He caught your gaze, and his eyes darkened.

Five minutes later, a tray was placed in front of you: a massive brownie, a chocolate milkshake, and nuggets. Cain lounged opposite you with his usual half-smile:

— You're not on a diet, are you, chubby? Otherwise, I might not have anything to grab onto.

Everything inside you tightened. From hurt. And from warmth. He noticed you had been eating less. He remembered your favorite "junk foods." And he masked his care with another stupid joke.