No makeup.
Oversized Stanford hoodie swallowing that navy dress version of her from last night.
Armor back on.
People part when she walks.
Not out of respect.
Out of curiosity.
I move before I think.
“Stella.”
She doesn’t stop.
I catch up in three strides.
“Stella, wait.”
She turns finally.
Her face is composed.
Too composed.
“Don’t,” she says quietly.
“Just ignore it,” I tell her. “All the bullshit. The posts. The tags. It fades.”
Her laugh is hollow.
“You don’t get it.”
I step closer.
I don’t care who’s watching.
I take her hand.
She stiffens.
I place her palm flat against my chest.
Right over my heart.
It’s still pounding from practice.
“This,” I say. “This is real. That’s what matters.”
Her eyes flick down to where her hand rests.
Then back up at me.
“You know you felt it. The fire. It still burns hot between us. Maybe more than it did before. Please. Just give us a chance.”
Her pupil dilate. She knows it’s true. But then her eyes change.
