One, two, three, four.
Something flickers across his expression that I can’t read, before he turns and walks away as if he didn’t just watch me fall apart in real time.
And I can still hear it—the echoes from childhood.
Why does she count like that?
Why does her nose twitch?
Why does she have to watch everything?
“Down here,” he says, like we didn’t just start in this hallway, and I’m not standing here raw and stimming in front of him.
WhyCavin? Why did his mother sendhimto give me the tour?
It could’ve been Bronwyn, or Seamus, or literally anyone else.
But it’s Cavin. Always fuckingCavin.
He tries to make small talk.
“How’s your sister?”
“Alright,” I say, too quickly. I’m surprised he remembered I had one.
He blows out a slow exhale.
“You still talk to anybody from St. Albert’s?”
“No,” I answer, too fast, too sharp, like I’ve rehearsed it. Like the idea of those people still clinging to me burns.
It does though. It really, really does.
He glances over his shoulder. Casual. Calculating.
“You?” I ask, trying to keep the tone light. Trying to match him beat for beat.
But truthfully? I want to know.
Does he still have the hassle of boys trailing behind him? Still worshipped like some twisted Peter Pan, leading them straight into a Neverland full of crime and consequences?
“I…” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Of course, I have to.”
Right. He’s mafia, isn’t he?
St. Albert’s wasn’t just a school but a training ground. And I guess while I carved out some space for myself and stayed in the shadows, he never had that luxury.
Why does that make me feel sorry for him?
I hate that it does.
He walks faster, like he needs to outpace the conversation. Doesn’t even look back to see if I’ll follow.
Maybe he’s just as unsettled as I am, but if he is… he hides it well.
How do people do that?
That stoic expression. That blank, untouchable calm. It feels like a goddamn superpower, like flying or walking through fire without flinching. And I wishIhad it.
