“Her,” Justin interrupts, eyes never leaving Angus, “and her time.”
The smile slides off Angus’s face. He steps back.
I don’t thank Justin. Instead, I grab my bag and move for the exit, fast enough that the strap bites into my shoulder. The moment shifts the second I do—like a switch has been thrown—and suddenly I’m aware of every head turned in my direction. Every whisper. Every pause that stretches just a fraction too long.
I hate it.
I hate the way attention clings. I hate the low murmur that rises as I pass, the way people lean toward one another as if I’m something worth dissecting. And I hate the looks from the other girls most of all. Because it’s not curiosity or interest. It’s derision.
I don’t have to guess what they’re thinking. I’ve seen that look before.
What’s so special about her?
I keep my head down and don’t slow until the doors swing open and cold air rushes in, sharp and clean. I step outside like I’m escaping a burning room.
Justin falls into step beside me without asking.
I don’t look at him. I just keep walking.
The quad stretches ahead of us, wet from the earlier rain, the stone paths dark and slick. Students cross in clusters, laughing, arguing, oblivious. It’s jarring how normal it all looks. Like nothing just happened. Like I wasn’t standing on a makeshift witness stand ten minutes ago arguing the difference between intent and murder.
“Rowan,” Justin says calmly.
I keep walking.
“Rowan.”
I stop so abruptly he almost walks into me.
I turn then, finally, and the words come out sharper than I intend. “Who are you and what do you want from me?”
His expression doesn’t change.
I exhale, slow and controlled, because snapping at him won’t undo anything. “Why are you here?”
“I was curious.”
I scoff. “About a mock trial?”
“About you.”
There it is. Clean. Unembellished.
My core tightens. “That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” he agrees. “I don’t imagine it is.”
I start walking again, angling toward the far side of the quad where the trees press closer together and the stream of students thins to a trickle. The air shifts there—quieter, heavier, like the space itself is paying attention.
Justin matches my stride without trying. He keeps his hands in his pockets, posture loose, almost careless. The kind of ease that would have felt unremarkable on anyone else.
On him, it doesn’t.
On him, it’s intimidating. It makes him feel larger than the space he occupies, like he’s carrying his own gravity.
His closeness unsettles me. Not just because he’s there—but because I’m aware of him in a way that’s sharp and immediate, every sense tuned in his direction.
We pass beneath the first line of trees, the noise of the central quad dulling behind us. Fewer students cut through here. Fewer witnesses. I don’t like how aware I am of that.
