“What happened here?” he asks softly. His voice is calm, almost too calm. It makes my skin crawl. It’s then that I realize that he’s not looking at me anymore, not really. His focus stays on the scar, and I feel like I’m shrinking under his gaze, becoming smaller, more transparent.
“What was it then?” he asks, voice low. “An accident? Or just someone having a bad day?”
I go still.
There’s no mocking in his tone, but something about the way he says it makes my skin crawl.
A long pause stretches between us. My heart’s still thudding in my ears.
I force a breath past the tightness in my chest. “Does it matter?”
Will shrugs, like it might. Like it might not. “Depends on who gave it to you.”
A flicker of something—fury, maybe—slices through my stomach, too quick to hold onto.
I wrap my arms around myself instead.
He glances down the hallway, as if checking for anyone listening, then speaks again. “Let me guess. Family.”
I don’t respond, but my silence answers for me.
He lets out a small exhale, almost like a laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Another beat, and I finally find my voice, though it comes out quieter than I want. “You don’t know anything about my family.”
“Don’t need to.” His eyes meet mine. “I know what damage looks like.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Will leans against the wall beside me, arms crossed, eyes distant now, like he’s somewhere else entirely. “They’ll want you to cut them slack just because they’re family.”
He taps a knuckle once against the side of his skull, like he’s knocking on something hollow. “Like biology cancels out damage.” He glances at me then, his mouth curling—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “As if blood can’t bruise.”
I let out a slow breath and meet his eyes. “Doesn’t stop it from hurting any less,” I say quietly, my voice steadier than I feel.
He tilts his head slightly, considering my words. For a second, I think I see something shift in his eyes. It’s not shock, not sympathy, but something else.
Understanding.
“Every now and then,” he murmurs, his voice low. It’s not a question. He’s agreeing with me.
Neither of us speaks. None of us moves.
The sound of students spilling out of classrooms pulls us out of whatever momentary silence we created. His eyes move toward the noise for a moment, then back to me. Slowly, he takes a step forward.
“Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?” His voice is casual, and I know he’s not talking about bruises or scars.
I nod once, not trusting myself to speak. My throat is dry, and my pulse is still racing.
He watches me for a few more seconds, then turns and walks away.What song are you hiding, Will?
That question doesn’t feel so simple anymore.
***
I scan the hallway, my eyes darting from one end to the other, hoping—stupidly, hopelessly—to catch sight of Lilia or Bea. Of course, I don’t see them. That would be too easy. Luck’s never been on my side, and it sure as hell isn’t changing its mind today.
My stomach tightens when I see Sam walking toward me.
