And then the notebook. The line that refused to stop echoing in my head.
I tightened my grip on my bag’s strap as I crossed the courtyard, eyes sweeping the perimeter out of habit. Nothinglooked wrong. That almost made it worse. The weekend had been a reprieve. A chance to breathe.
Elise had been quiet for days.
At Blackwood, quiet never meant peace. It meant someone was deciding where to strike next.
Avery was waiting near the steps, her blond hair twisted into a low braid that made her look more put together than she had any right to be this early in the morning.
She squinted at me. “Where’s the coffee?”
“I thought you had it.”
“I thought you had it.” Her frown was impressive.
I glanced toward the doors. “So this is how we die.”
“Tragic,” she muttered. “And caffeine-deprived.”
She glanced at her phone and grimaced. “We do not have time to run for coffee.”
I checked mine and felt the same disappointment settle in. “This is a design flaw in the universe.”
“Break starts Wednesday,” she reminded me.
“That’s still two days away.”
“I’m counting in hours.” Then her gaze flicked past my shoulder.
Luke. I felt him before I saw him, the shift in the air that always seemed to happen when he moved into my space. Calm followed him across the parking lot, the kind that never looked forced, even when I knew his thoughts ran faster than the rest of us could keep up with. The hoodie he wore sat dark against the pale morning light, hair still slightly damp from practice.
His hands were empty. No coffee peace offering. Just him.
He stopped close enough that my body reacted before my thoughts caught up. No dramatic pull. No public display. Instead, his fingers found mine, threading through with quiet certainty. He tucked our joined hands between us and held there, steady and deliberate.
A hidden claim. Not for the school. For me.
“You good?” he asked, voice low.
I looked up at him and felt the tension I had been carrying shift. Like weight redistributed into a place I could manage.
“I’m here,” I answered.
His thumb stroked the side of my finger once. A single motion, steady and controlled, as if he could communicate what he could not say out loud in public.
Avery pretended she didn’t notice, which meant she noticed everything.
“We should get inside,” she said, and the tone carried a protective edge she hadn’t used before.
We moved together toward the double doors. Blackwood’s entryway smelled like polished stone and expensive cologne, as if money had its own scent. Students drifted past in waves—carefully styled without looking styled, designer pieces disguised as casual, watches catching the light when someone gestured too broadly, laughter too bright to be real this early.
And then the recalibration hit. It was subtle, almost impressive in its cruelty. Conversation didn’t stop. It shifted. Bodies turned slightly. Laughter dimmed half a notch. We weren’t excluded. We were measured.
I felt eyes slide toward our hands and how Luke’s shoulder angled slightly in front of me. Then to Avery walking tight on my other side like she was forming a barrier.
People at Blackwood had always paid attention, but this morning, it felt deliberate, not just curiosity.
Luke didn’t react. Of course he didn’t. He was used to rooms adjusting around him. My stomach dropped anyway.
