“Youdestroyedmy notes.”
“Aye,” he says, quiet and honest. I wait for an excuse or an apology, but none comes.
I look away, embarrassed by my own trauma. My fingers start their traitorous rhythm—tap, tap, tap, tap.
This time, I hide the twitch behind my back.
I don’t want to go back inside where I don’t belong. I never belong—not here, not in my family, not at St. Albert’s. But especially not here.
“Let’s go back inside,” he says. “They’ll ring the bell soon.”
“I don’t want to,” I snap. It comes out too fast. Too loud. “I want to stay out here.”
When he looks at me in surprise, my face flames.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“No.” He cuts me off. “Never apologize for honesty. Jesus, lass. The least you can give me is honesty.” The intensity in his voice makes mystomach flip. “Why don’t you want to go inside?” he asks, quieter now.
Why does he care?
“It’s—” My throat closes. “It’s too much. Too loud. Too many people. Too many…” I wave my hand, frustrated. “Everything.”
Why am I telling him this?
He’s watching me like he’s seeing something for the first time.
“I used to find you in the library,” he says slowly. “Hiding during lunch or assemblies.”
I nod.
He gives me that look, curious, maybe a little confused. We step through the heavy door. The hall lights hum and crackle above us. Somewhere far off, voices, low and blurred, like we’re underwater.
My senses are already on fire.
The dress scratches at my skin. The air smells like old wood and wax. The house is so cavernous I barely know where I am, and Ihatenot knowing where I am.
Cavin slows his pace, but doesn’t say why. Doesn’t mention the way I’m tapping at my pocket.
“Before we go inside… there’s a space I want to show you.” He leads me through a narrow hall to a balcony. When he opens the door, I can breathe again. It opens over the dark lawn and stone steps.
I breathe the cool, clean air in deep.
“See?” he says. “I get it.” A pause. “It’s not always nice inside, is it?”
I don’t answer, but my shoulders relax.
“When I was…” His voice drops, rough and jagged. “When I was in prison, I used to dream about this balcony. Every night. I’d try to open the doors, but they were always locked.” He shrugs. “I spend a lot of time outside.”
I glance at him. Something sharp twists under my ribs. “I know what it’s like,” he says quietly, “to not want to be indoors.”
The wind picks up, whipping my hair across my face.
Before I can move, his hand is there, his fingers brushing my temple and tucking the strand behind my ear. The touch is surprisingly gentle for a man whose family is known for violence.
Our eyes meet.
Neither of us moves.
