“Oh,” I say, like my brain just found solid ground again.
Grayson steps back, giving me my space back like it’s a thing he does on purpose. “There you go.”
I place the wrong edition back onto the shelf and clutch the correct one to my chest like it’s proof I’m capable of basic human tasks.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Grayson shrugs like it’s nothing. “No problem.”
A beat of silence stretches between us.
But I’ve realized I look forward to them.
Then Grayson’s gaze flicks briefly over my face, and I hate that he can read me without trying.
“Busy day?” he asks.
I huff. “Is that your polite way of asking if I’m functioning?”
His mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
I shift my grip on the workbook. “I’m fine.”
Grayson’s eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t call me out. Doesn’t make me explain. Instead, he nods toward the front. “You checking out?”
I glance at the line and instantly regret existing.
“Unfortunately,” I mumble.
We walk toward the registers. Grayson doesn’t take over my space. He doesn’t guide me with a hand on my back. He just keeps pace, slightly to the side, like he’s there if I need him and invisible if I don’t. It’s stupid how much that matters.
We get to the line. It moves slowly. And then?—
A voice behind us says, laughing, “Dude, Tyler’s gonna lose his mind when he sees the crowd tonight.”
My body reacts before my brain does. My stomach drops like an elevator cable snapped. The fluorescent light gets harsher. The air gets thinner. The sound of people talking turns sharp, like it’s being piped directly into my skull.
I don’t turn around. I don’t have to. The name is enough.
Tyler.
My fingers clamp down on the workbook so hard the corners bend.
Tyler.
Locker room.
Hands.
Hospital bracelet.
Kai’s face when he found out.
The line inches forward, and my vision tunnels. A laugh bursts behind us again, like it’s nothing. As if Tyler is just a name, like it isn’t a giant scar that takes up most of my mind. My throat feels like it’s closing. I swallow, but it doesn’t help. The guy behind us keeps talking. “Nah, he thinks he’s untouchable. Always has. He’s gonna run his mouth and then?—”
My chest squeezes with panic so hard it hurts.
My brain says to bolt while my body says to freeze. My skin goes too aware, like a siren turned on under it. My gaze flies to the counter, to the gum display, then to a rack of PCU lanyards, focusing on anything except my shaking hands.
