It was the end of the second semester of my first college year, and everyone was exhausted from all the brutal exams. Sasha and I finished our last exam and were waiting for the bell to ring.

Sasha and I have been best friends from the start of college and have never left each other's side. We're like fire and ice. Sasha would always freeze conversations with Slate who would always try to rile me up, and I would always encourage and help her to stand up to her boyfriend's huge ego.

Slate Tristan, a third-year college student who was tall, had dark brown hair, fit, with razor-sharp eyes. Or as Sasha would say "effortlessly perfect." His demeanor was nonchalant and obnoxious; he navigated life at ease with a calm sarcasm that shadowed his inner turmoil. While Slate never engaged in physical altercations, as he says, his sharp wit and biting sarcasm often left emotional bruises on those around him.

After the exam, we drove back to our apartment, singing our favorite song with our windows down, groovin' to the rhythm of the beat so glad we survived the first year of college.

When we got home, there was a package on our doorstep. We grabbed the box and rushed inside. Inside were the dresses we ordered for the Gala. One of the good things at this school is there are sort of small graduation parties at the end of each year. With our eyes on our foreheads, we started running around getting ready as fast as teenage girls possibly can.

When Sasha and I arrived, we entered in aw. Everything was so pretty. The tables had elegant white sheets and were set with lovely white plates and shiny silver utensils. The entire room was filled with sparkly white and light blue balloons. It was simple yet extravagant, it sort of felt like being a Great Gatsby's house.

Sasha and I were wearing stylish blue and red cocktail dresses, Sasha in royal blue and me in red, of course; we walked into the room, shocked but ready to party!

"Well, well, look who we have here? The firecracker and her loyal sidekick," Slate said, mocking the two of us.

"Really!... You!" I scoffed, throwing my hands in the air.

Slate chuckled at my response, unfazed by my irritation. "Always a pleasure, Blaze. And Sasha, how are you managing to tolerate her these days?"

Sasha rolled her eyes at Slate's remark, her response sharp. "Somehow, I survived. Unlike your victims, who are left scarred for life."

I laughed at Sasha's response giving her a high five.

"I see?" Slate smirked, "One question, aren't you a little too young to drink, Blaze?"

Sasha interjected before I could respond, diffusing the tension with her characteristic humor. "Alright, you two, save the drama for your afternoon soap opera. We've got some dancing to do. Ciao!"

As Sasha and I made our way to the living room, Slate sauntered off to the bar, his trademark smirk firmly in place.

The two of us were caught up in the rhythm of the music, our worries from college fading away as we lost ourselves in the dance; we danced for what seemed like forever. When the last song was over, I went back to our table while Sasha went to get dessert. Meanwhile, Alex approached me with a charming smile.

Alex Walker, was a senior in college. I don't know much about him but from what I heard, he was definitely a lady's man. He's been with so many girls that would fill up a football field but with the goal posts always empty. Alex was rich and acted like money was everything.

"My? A lovely girl and no bodyguards. How cliche," Alex said, kissing my hand.

"Hey Alex!" I said, removing my hand, holding up my guard.

"May I have a dance?" Alex asked, with a smooth voice, stepping towards me.

"No sorry. I don't feel like dancing right now" I replied, my tone wary.

"Aw, come on, one more dance can't hurt?" Alex grinned, grabbing me.

"Alex, I said NO!" I snapped, my anger palpable.

Alex's grin widened at my reaction, his arrogance unyielding. "Just one dance, try to have some fun."

My eyes flashed with fury as I pushed Alex away, my resolve unwavering. "Not interested!"

Alex wasn't about to back down as his grip tightened on my hand. "Let go, you Golly!" I I growled, my voice low and menacing.

A tall guy in a white collared shirt, stormed in with a controlled fury that left no room for argument. In one swift motion, knocked Alex to the ground and carried him out like a football, leaving me in total shock.

As I rushed after them outside, a group of people formed around the two. I tried to push my way through to see who helped me but couldn't get a clear picture because everyone was watching and filming the two fighting. Well? I'm not sure it counts as fighting, if Alex throws swings, while the other guy dodges every swing as if he's just stretching.

"What's with you, Slate?!" Alex yelled, throwing another swing.

Slate?? I said to myself.

Slate chuckled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Oh, you know, Alex, just thought I'd give you a taste of gravity! Seemed like you needed a reality check!"

Alex, fueled by anger and humiliation, lunges at Slate again, but Slate effortlessly sidesteps the attack once more. As the crowd watches, murmurs of disbelief ripple through the onlookers.

But as quickly as the confrontation had escalated, Slate's smooth maneuvering diffused the situation, leaving a palpable sense of calmness.

Finally, as the initial shock subsided and the scene settled, I found myself drawn towards Slate, compelled with curiosity and frustration. His actions left me with a whirlwind of emotions that needed answers.

I approached Slate, my mind buzzing with questions as my fist connected with his shoulder in a gesture of both frustration and confusion.

Slate winced at the impact, his smirk widening into a knowing grin. "Ow! What was that for?" he teased his tone light despite the ache in his shoulder.

"What's your game, Slate?" I demanded, my annoyance evident in my voice.

Slate's response was typical, delivered with a hint of amusement. "What game? Is this how you say thank you?"

I shook my head, refusing to be swayed by his charm. "I know you didn't just help me for no reason."

"Of course not," Slate replied, his sarcasm dripping like honey.

I pressed on, my frustration mounting. "Quit it! You wouldn't help me because you hate me,"

Slate's denial was swift. "That's not true!"

I scoffed, growing increasingly exasperated. "Yes, you do! You're delighted in needling me with sarcastic remarks and see my fiery personality as a weakness to exploit because you're dead inside!"

Slate's rebuttal was unexpected, catching me off guard. "No! Because I care about you! Alright!"

I flatted, stunned by his admission. "What?..."

Slate's tone softened his words carrying a weight I hadn't anticipated. "I like you, okay? ? That's why I helped. Sure I annoy you and make sarcastic comments about everything you do because it's wrong, but? I care about you. More than anything. And I will do everything to protect you."

Slate's confession left me speechless. "Slate-"

"But if I knew this was what you thought of me I wouldn't bother so much. Take care."

Before I could respond, Slate stormed away, frustration evident in every step.

As I stood there, processing his words, I couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty that lingered in the air. Slate's unexpected intervention had left me reeling, my perceptions of him irrevocably altered as I watched him disappear into the crowd.