By the time the stadium lights click off, the quiet feels earned.
It’s late enough that the campus looks like a different place, sidewalks usually packed with students now stretched wide and mostly empty. Summer keeps the air thick and heavy, humidity clinging to my skin even after the sun drops. The freshmen won’t be here for weeks, but the athletes are already moving in.Early gym lifts. Film sessions. The quiet before the season starts humming.
I lock my office door and stand there for a second with my hand on the knob, listening.
There aren’t any footsteps echoing down the hall, no voices carrying from the locker room, no leftover chaos waiting to be managed. It’s just me.
This used to be when my mind got loud. When this kind of quiet would’ve gotten to me.
Now it doesn’t, it’s just… still.
My phone buzzes as I’m walking down the stairs. I pull it from my pocket expecting it to be Sarah. It’s not. it's a text from Sierra.
Sierra: Can we talk? Not about us. Just… talk. Please.
I stop halfway down the stairwell, thumb hovering.
Six months ago, I couldn’t have done this. I would’ve ignored it, not to punish her, but because I didn’t trust myself to be steady. I didn’t trust the version of me that used to smooth things over without realizing I was doing it.
I’m steadier now, even if I’m not healed or entirely clean about it yet.
I type back.
Me: Where?
Her response comes fast.
Sierra: The Brew House. I’ll be there in twenty.
I stare at the screen a beat longer than necessary, then shove my phone into my pocket and keep moving.
The drive is short. Quiet streets, a few cars at stoplights, the heavy late-summer air pressing in through the cracked window. A couple of guys in practice shorts jog past like they’re already in season. I park across from The Brew House and sit for a second with my hands on the wheel, breathing.
I’m not nervous about seeing her.
I’m nervous about what I’ll feel when I do.
That’s different.
Inside, it smells like cinnamon and espresso and warm pastries. The place is half-empty, the kind of late-night crowd that looks like they’re avoiding their own houses. Sierra sits at a table near the window, both hands wrapped around a paper cup she hasn’t lifted.
When she sees me, her shoulders shift. Not fear. More like she’s bracing herself to stand still.
I walk over and stop at the edge of the table.
“Jace,” she says, quiet.
I nod once. “Sierra.”
There’s a long pause where neither of us reaches for anything. Neither of us mentions the past or offers an apology to make this feel lighter than it is.
Finally, I pull out the chair across from her and sit.
Her gaze flicks to my face and lingers like she’s trying to figure out which Jace showed up.
The one who used to swallow things.
Or the one who doesn’t.
