I climb the steps slowly. Each one is louder than it should be in the quiet. Top row. My heart is in my throat now.
I reach the top and stop.
There’s someone sitting a few seats down. Hoodie up. Shoulders hunched. Elbows on knees. Head bowed like he’s bracing for impact. He lifts his head when he senses me. And my body goes still.
Because I know him. Not as a username. Not as a faceless voice in the dark. As a real person, my eyes have cataloged a hundred times without permission.
Grayson Bennett.
For one terrifying second, my brain refuses to accept it. It tries to rewrite reality because reality is too sharp. Too expensive. Too complicated.
Then his eyes meet mine, and the last thin thread of denial snaps. He looks…wrecked. Not dramatic wrecked. Just tight at the edges. Like he’s been carrying this, and it finally got too heavy to pretend it wasn’t there.
I don’t sit.
I don’t move.
I just stand there with my skin buzzing and my pulse pounding so hard I can hear it.
“Hi,” Grayson says quietly.
My throat closes. My first attempt at words dies before it makes it past my ribs. When it finally comes out, it’s rough. Ugly.
“No.”
He flinches like the word hits him in the chest, and he nods like he deserves it.
“I know,” he says, hand coming up to the back of his neck and rubbing it. He’s nervous. Anxious. I know this, because I know him.
That’s what breaks my freeze.
I step down one row. Closer but only close enough to hear him, yet far enough to run.
“You’re him,” I whisper, and it comes out like an accusation even though it’s a fact.
Grayson nods once. “Yeah.”
“But…you’re number nine.”
He looks at me, his eyes full of pain. “My brother always wore number eleven.”
My hands shake. I hate my body for doing this—reacting before I can decide whether I want to.
“You asked me to come here,” I say, voice sharper. “Why?”
His hands stay where they are—open on his knees, palms up like he’s not hiding anything.
“Because I can’t do it anymore,” he says, and his voice is steady in the way that makes my throat burn. “Not like that.”
“Like what?” My voice cracks into something uglier. “Like this is a game?”
His head shakes immediately. “No.”
The single syllable comes out firm. Not defensive. Not angry.
Just truth.
“No, Harlow. It isn’t a game. I didn’t know at first,” he says, and his eyes hold mine like he’s refusing to let me shrink. “I swear to you I didn’t.”
