His brows lifted. “Silverwood doesn’t offer—”
“I know,” I whispered, a little shy. “They… made one for me.”
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Something like pride, sharp and assessing, crossed his face. But it wasn’t the greedy kind. Itwas the kind that realise that: ah. You’re not here because you want a piece of us.
“Good,” he murmured.
My cheeks warmed.
He then asked what I studied at Silverwood.
“Psychology,” I said, “and math. And neurobiology. Triple under computational neuroscience. They—um—they let me pick.”
His brow lifted, impressed. “All three?”
I nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “They overlap more than you’d think. I like learning about how people work—the brain, emotions, habits, and why people do what they do. How something that small inside our head controls everything.”
He leaned back a little. “No wonder you earned that scholarship,” he said. “Those aren’t light subjects.”
I smiled, small. “I want to use math to understand thought. Research why people are the way they are and maybe help them see it too.”
He watched me closely, as if he were seeing another piece of his son’s world for the first time. “That’s quite a reason to study the mind. Has that always been your first choice?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Since I was a kid.” Then I bit my lip. “Not to sound sentimental or dramatic, but… I was bullied a lot growing up.”
His face changed, subtle, but protective.
“I had selective mutism when I was younger,” I went on quietly. “I barely spoke. I stuttered a lot, too. Still do sometimes.” I gave a tiny laugh. “It’s silly, I know.”
“It’s not silly,” he said. His tone was so calm that it made my chest loosen a little.
“I always wanted to understand why people could be cruel for no reason,” I said. “What makes the brain decide that hurting someone is… funny. Or powerful.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “And Joshua helped you out of that?”
The way he said it—soft, careful—made me smile despite myself. “Yeah. Your son broke it out of me, somehow.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Broke it out of you?”
“I speak now,” I said. “Not perfectly, but… I do.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just watched me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, quieter, “Does my son ever do that to you?”
I blinked. “Do what?”
“Hurt you,” he said. “The way you said people did.”
I hesitated. My fingers twisted in my napkin. Heat crept up my neck.
He exhaled slowly. “He was one of them, wasn’t he?”
I swallowed. “He—he’s different now,” I said quickly. “He’s trying. Really trying. It sounds ridiculous, I know, to fall for someone who’s hurt you, but—”
“My son hurt you?” he interrupted, disbelief flattening his voice.
I looked down. “Just a little.”
“A little,” he repeated. “Emotionally?”
