…It was Andrew.
Standing behind the counter in a faded black apron, hair slightly disheveled, face pale with a bruised cheek and a swollen red eye from the fight earlier today. He looked nothing like the untouchable, arrogant Andrew West from school—the one who could silence a hallway with a single glance.
This Andrew looked… desperate. Vulnerable.
Wasn’t he supposed to be richer than I am? What was a spoiled, entitled rich kid doing working at a diner—looking like he was begging to get paid?
I froze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. I ducked quickly, hiding so he wouldn’t see me. He was too focused on the man towering over him—probably the owner of the diner. Mr. Diggle looked older, rough around the edges, and very much in control of the conversation.
Andrew looked like a child being
