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“Same as you,” he says finally. “But I’m not a student. I don’t have classes in the morning.” He lights a cigarette without looking at me. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet,” I say, reaching for the pack he left beside him. “Can I?”

“You shouldn’t pick up bad habits from your teacher.”

A smile appears on my lips as I reply softly, “If it helps you sleep better at night, know that I already had it before your class."

He huffs a laugh, smoke curling around his face. “Not sure if I want to cross that line.”

I lean closer, enough for him to focus on something else. “It’ll be our little secret,” I whisper. “Right, Mister Caldwell?”

He looks amused, maybe even a little curious as I reach for the cigarette, but then his hand catches my wrist midair. “You almost distracted me enough to steal it,” he says.

“Almost worked.”

“It did.” His gaze flicks to mine. It’s fixed, and I’m hyper aware of the blue ocean in front of me. “The blue in your eyes is beautiful, Miss Vitelli,” he whispers in a low voice.

“Thank you,” I reply softly.

When I look down again, the cigarette is already between my fingers. He leans in close enough for his breath to graze my cheek.“See,” he murmurs. “I know how to distract, too.”

A laugh escapes me—and I smile at the situation. “So we can share it then?”

He nods, his eyes still on me. “Sure,” he says quietly. “You’re not my student up here on this cliff.”

A minute passes. Then my eyes land on the ink running down his arm and the compass I drew from memory that sits on his wrist. “I always wanted a big piece.”

He glances down. “What?”

“Your tattoo,” I say, exhaling. “I only have small ones,” I lied.

I have a big one, but it’s hidden somewhere he will never see.

“I didn’t know you had any.”

“They’re not visible to random people.”

He nods, like he’s not sure if that’s supposed to mean something. “Did you draw them yourself?”

"Yeah, all of them." I stub the cigarette, lift my shorts to show the small, inked star high on my thigh. “This one’s the oldest. I don’t even remember who did it. Some guy in the back of a club. I ran away that night and drank until I forgot my name.”

"Doesn’t sound safe in my opinion."

I laugh unexpectedly, because nothing was safe when I was younger. "I got it when I was fifteen.”

He raises a brow. “Fifteen’s too young for a tattoo.”

“Fifteen’s young for a lot of things,” I say.

I stare at the sea, the filter burning against my fingers, but I don’t feel it. I only feel the warmth of Blue against me, covered by my sweatshirt.

Fifteen was indeed young for a lot of things. Too young to understand why men came and went from our house like ghosts. Too young to realize what fear does when it stays too long in your body. Too young to be anyone’s secret.

I blink, trying to focus on the horizon, but it’s too bright, too white. My hand trembles. The smell of him, the way he killed me slowly and I still don’t know the name of my own killer. It still hurts. It hurts a lot.

Then I feel a finger under my chin, gentle, almost hesitant.

“Hey,” Damien says softly. “What’s that?”