“See?” she says. “Recluse. We’re your court-mandated socialization.”
“Parole officers,” I correct, surprising myself. “Get the terminology right.”
Zoë grins, satisfied. “Our client is showing growth.”
I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my mouth. My hands are restless. I keep worrying the seam of my sleeve, rolling the soft cotton between my thumb and forefinger.
Stop it. Be normal. Be here.
I flatten my palm against my knee, fingers splayed, and focus on the slight scratch of denim through the cotton.
The conversation moves on, as it always does, to the Titans. Zoë is recounting a rumor about a freshman getting caught with a professor. Genny is fact-checking it on her phone, thumbs quick and precise. And Clara… Clara is just blissfully, annoyingly in love.
“Stop staring at your phone,” Zoë says, nudging Clara’s foot. “He’s not going to melt if you don’t text him back for five minutes.”
“I’m not,” Clara protests, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. “I am still his tutor, you know.”
“Tutor,” Zoë repeats, deadpan. “Tutor with benefits.”
“I’m helping him study,” Clara insists, sitting up straighter, but she’s laughing, her eyes bright. “He just needs a little organization. His brain… it moves faster than he can write.”
I watch the affection on her face, the soft, defensive way she protects Adrian. It’s a language I don’t speak, but it’s beautiful to listen to. Loud and unapologetic. And Adrian—Adrian, whoshares a history and a storm with Declan—has never made her flinch. She trusts him with her whole chest.
There are men wired like live wires who still learn how not to burn the person they hold.
Could someone like Declan ever learn that? Or does the current always win?
“That’s a very kind way of saying he’s a mess,” Maya adds, looking up with a sharp smile. “But he’s lucky to have you.”
Clara throws a piece of popcorn at her, laughing.
And, to my own surprise, I laugh too.
A real, actual laugh that starts in my chest and surprises me when it comes out. The sound feels rusty, almost foreign.
And it feels good.
The warmth of the room, the easy, uncomplicated joy, the way they bicker like sisters… I let my shoulders drop, just a fraction. I let myself sink into the cushions. My fingers loosen around the mug. For a few minutes, I’m not the girl who checks the exits. I’m not the girl with her keys in her hand.
I’m just… here.
The peace, of course, doesn’t last. It never does.
The topic shifts.
“Okay, but can we please talk about the actual storm cloud on the roster?” Zoë says, flopping dramatically back into the pillows. “Gio says Rylan is fine, but the way he said fine means alive but deserved it.”
My pulse spikes—a single, harsh beat. Declan’s name isn’t even spoken yet, but the air changes.
Clara lifts a brow. “Zoë, don’t start. You heard Maya. You know why it happened.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Zoë waves her off. “I know the why. I’m talking about the energy. The man dented a locker for someone he barely knows. That’s not nothing.”
The mug in my hands suddenly feels too warm, too heavy.
“He’s not a psycho,” Clara says firmly. “You heard Adrian. It wasn’t like that.”
“Exactly,” Maya adds without looking up from her phone. “It was targeted aggression. Controlled. Rylan provoked it.”
