*Major Tringer Warning* mentions of attempted suicide, deppression, grief and self harm. Detailed descriptions of mental illness.
She's been gone for six days.
Not that I'm counting or anything. That would be obsessive.
But people have started to talk.
I overheard it in first period—two girls by the window whispering like they'd stumbled across a state secret. One of them said Ardere was suspended. The other claimed she'd transferred schools. Something about fighting. Something about drugs. Something about a mental breakdown.
No one really knows, which of course means everyone thinks they do.
I just sit there, pretending I'm not listening. Pretending I'm not clenching my jaw every time someone says her name like it's a bad word. Pretending the empty seat next to mine doesn't look like something hollowed out of me.
Lysander's still here. Gliding through the halls like he's untouchable. Like nothing happened. But there's something different in his eyes now—sharper. Less controlled. He doesn't look at me anymore, which somehow feels worse than the glares.
And the weird thing is... the humming in the fridge? It's quieter. Not gone. But like whatever static used to crawl under my skin is fading, bit by bit.
Like she took it with her.
And I hate that I miss it. Miss her.
I shouldn't. She's a mystery wrapped in barbed wire. She literally brings people to their knees by touching them. But still—this week without her feels off-kilter. Like some unspoken thread holding everything together just snapped and no one noticed but me.
"She tried to kill herself," someone muttered behind me in the library. Just loud enough to hook itself in the soft tissue of my brain. "I heard she's in the hospital. Mental ward, maybe."
I froze, hand still hovering over the keyboard.
Ardere.
Her name came like a punch to the gut, and everything inside me slowed—heartbeat, breath, thoughts—until all that was left was this cold, hollow thrum. Like the fridge at home.
God, that fridge.
I didn't ask who they were talking about. I didn't need to.
By lunch, the whole school was whispering. A few people even acted surprised. Most weren't. "She always looked off," they said. "Didn't talk to anyone." "She was weird."
They didn't see the way she wiped tears off her face like she wasn't allowed to cry. Or how she'd lean ever-so-slightly into a moment, like just being near someone was the closest she'd let herself get to warmth. They didn't know the way despair leaked off her skin like it was trying to warn people away.
I didn't either. Not really.
But I knew enough to know none of them had a clue.
And neither did I. Not really. Not about the power. Or the pain that came with it. Or Lysander, and what he's doing to her. Or what they all really are.
So I stopped pretending I was fine and walked right up to him.
Lysander was outside, leaning against a rusted stair rail like he belonged on the cover of a magazine for "Dangerous Men Who Look Like They Bench Press Emotion." The sky was gray. Of course it was.
"You're going to tell me what happened," I said. No hello. No warm-up.
He didn't look surprised. Just exhaled, slow, annoyed. "What makes you think you have the right to ask?"
"Because she was here. And now she's not. And everyone's talking like they already buried her. So someone better start talking to me."
He looked at me, finally. And the look he gave wasn't angry—it was pity.
"You have no idea what you're dealing with," Lysander said, voice low. "She's not your responsibility."
"I know she's not," I snapped. "But someone should give a damn, and you sure as hell don't act like it."
That did it.
His eyes flared. Not metaphorically—actually. For a second, I swear I saw light behind them, like his pupils were swallowing something bright and violent. My skin prickled. The air between us shifted, charged, electric.
"I kept you alive because she asked me to," he said, stepping closer. "But don't mistake my restraint for weakness."
I swallowed, hard, but didn't back down.
"Then tell me the truth. I'm not going away."
Something in him cracked then. Not visibly. Not like a break. More like a breath he hadn't meant to let go of.
"She's not dead," Lysander muttered. "But she wanted to be. That's what happens when you're cursed to destroy every person you care about."
****
I didn't know her name. Not at first.
She was just the other one—the girl who hovered near Ardere in the cafeteria, always quiet, always half-turned like she wasn't sure she belonged.
But she was with them, and right now that was enough.
It took me all of second period and a forged bathroom pass to figure out where her locker was. When I finally caught her slipping a notebook into her bag, she startled like I'd come up behind her with a knife.
"Hey," I said, hands raised like I could calm the twitch in her shoulders.
She blinked at me. Her eyes were green—not like grass or emeralds or whatever lazy metaphor people used. They were duller. Smarter. More tired. "Do I know you?"
"Not really," I admitted. "But you know Ardere."
That hit something. Her face didn't move much, but her mouth pulled tighter at the corners.
I didn't push. Not yet.
"I just… I heard what happened," I said. "No one's telling me anything. Not Lysander. Not anyone. And I think—" I faltered. "I think I might've been the last person she talked to."
The girl stared. And then, softly: "Why?"
I blinked. "Why what?"
"Why are you still asking? People get close to Ardere and bad things happen. That's the pattern. That's the rule."
"Maybe I'm bad at following rules," I said.
She didn't smile. "You're going to get yourself hurt."
"Then help me avoid that."
"She's not supposed to tell anyone anything. Not after what happened last time."
"Please."
A pause.
Then she sighed, like she'd already lost something and figured it might as well be her peace of mind too. "If you do find her," she said, backing away, "don't touch her without permission. Not even a little. She's not like us. She never was."
That "us" rang in my ears long after she was gone.
Later that night I closed the front door behind me and stood in the silence of my house like it was something sacred. Or maybe dangerous. Hard to tell, lately.
The air felt too still. No weird flickering lights. No gusts of wind from nowhere. Just… nothing.
Then I heard it.
The fridge.
Back to its usual low, aggravating hum. No more wailing like a distant storm. No pulses of sound that made the walls feel alive. Just that old mechanical drone—steady, dull, a little too loud for a kitchen appliance in 2025.
I stood in front of it for a long time, arms crossed, head tilted.
"Figures," I muttered.
It felt like a joke. Like the universe was patting my head and going, There, there. All better now. Only it wasn't better. It was worse. Because now I'd seen what silence could turn into. What normal could cover up.
I opened the fridge. Nothing inside was glowing, no black voids to suck me in. Just old yogurt cups and something furry that might've been bread two weeks ago. I shut the door and leaned my forehead against it, eyes closed.
The next day, school felt like a building made of cardboard. Thin, fragile. Something that might collapse if you leaned on it too hard. Or maybe that was just me.
I wasn't expecting to see her. I wasn't looking for her. Not really.
Okay, maybe I was.
And that's when I saw her.
Down the hall, right where the morning light filtered through the dirty skylights and washed everything in that awful, overexposed gray. Students moved around her like she wasn't there. Maybe they didn't see her. Maybe they just didn't want to.
Ardere.
She stood at her locker, hood up, copper hair hidden beneath it. Skin pale enough that it looked translucent at the wrists—what little showed between the cuffs of her sleeves and the white gauze bandages wrapped around her arms. Thick ones. Clean. New.
She hadn't looked up yet.
She didn't need to.
The second I saw her, the bottom dropped out of my stomach. I didn't feel the crash of despair like I usually did—not full force. It was just… muted. Distant. Like her touch had gone silent too.
She turned slightly, adjusting something in her bag with hands that moved slow. Careful. Like she was afraid they might break.
There was a bruised kind of stillness to her. Hollow cheeks. Something empty behind the brown of her eyes. She didn't see me watching.
I don't remember making the decision to walk over. My body just moved, like it didn't trust my brain to do it. Maybe it was right.
The hallway buzzed with the static hum of a hundred conversations, slamming lockers, someone's ringtone echoing too loud. All of it faded the closer I got.
She didn't notice me until I was right there beside her.
Or maybe she did, and she just didn't have the energy to care.
"Hey," I said quietly.
Ardere didn't look at me at first. Her fingers were trembling slightly, hovering over the zipper of her backpack. Then—slowly—she turned her head. Her brown eyes met mine. Dull. Exhausted. But aware.
Like she'd been waiting for this and dreading it all at once.
"…Dorian." Her voice sounded like it'd been scraped across gravel. Hoarse. Barely there.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "You weren't here last week."
Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something smaller. Sadder. "I noticed."
I stared at her arms. The bandages. The way her sleeves had been tugged down in a failed attempt to hide them. And suddenly I felt stupid, like I'd walked into someone else's grief without knocking.
"I heard…" I hesitated. My voice dropped lower. "Is it true?"
Ardere looked back at her locker. "Depends what rumor you're asking about."
"That you were in the hospital."
A beat.
Then she nodded. Once. Sharp. Like it hurt.
And I hated how helpless I felt. Like words were the wrong currency in a moment like this. I fumbled anyway.
"I—" I rubbed the back of my neck. "I didn't know if I should say something. I mean, I figured Lysander would—"
"Lysander doesn't speak for me," she cut in, soft but firm.
My heart stuttered at that.
We stood there in the stale hallway air, locker slamming down the row. Someone laughed too loud in the distance. My mouth was dry.
"I'm glad you're here," I said finally, quietly.
She blinked like she didn't expect that. Then gave a tiny nod. "Me too. I think."
We stood like that for a second longer, everything aching with what wasn't said.
Then the warning bell rang.
She reached up slowly, pulled her hood tighter over her head, and without another word, walked away.
But not before her shoulder brushed mine.
And just for a second—the humming in my head roared.
—
I didn't overthink it.
Which, for me, was impressive. No analyzing, no second-guessing, no pacing in front of the vending machines like a man about to propose. I just bought the damn sandwich, the overpriced bottle of tea, and stood there staring at the tray like it might slap me for trying to be decent.
She was sitting alone again. Hood up. Eyes down. Picking at the hem of her sleeve like she wanted to unravel herself stitch by stitch.
Lysander wasn't around. Not today. Not yet. Maybe he was giving her space. Or maybe she'd finally stopped asking for permission.
I took a breath that didn't help and walked over.
"Peace offering," I said.
She didn't look up.
I cleared my throat and held out the tray. "It's turkey. Or… what passes for turkey in this place. I checked. No mayo."
Ardere glanced up, one brow raised, then down at the tray. Her fingers hesitated before taking it. The smallest frown tugged at her mouth, like she was trying to decode some hidden meaning.
"There's no drugs in it," I added, half-joking.
She finally met my eyes, and something about the way she looked at me made me want to squirm. Not in fear—just… exposure. Like she saw right through the sarcasm and the awkward posture and the you-don't-have-to-eat-it shrug I gave her.
"Thanks," she said softly.
I nodded, shoved my hands in my hoodie pocket, and sat across from her like I hadn't just gone completely off script.
She unwrapped the sandwich, took one slow bite, then gave a look that might've been approval or surprise. Hard to tell.
"I didn't think you'd talk to me again," she said after a moment.
I shrugged. "I didn't think I'd care if someone didn't show up to school for a week. Guess we're both full of surprises."
A corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Comfortable, almost. As comfortable as two broken radios humming static at each other can be.
I didn't plan to say it.
It just slipped out between the quiet and the way she was still eating—like no one had fed her in days. Like this crappy cafeteria sandwich might actually be saving her.
"I was thinking," I said, then immediately hated how that sounded. "About… getting out of here. Just for a little."
She looked up mid-chew, her brown eyes dark and unreadable under the shadow of her hood.
I cleared my throat. "Not like—God, that sounded weird. Not like that. I meant, just—away from fluorescent lights and weird stares and Lysander constantly breathing down your neck like a haunted gargoyle."
Her expression didn't change. If anything, it got harder to read.
I ran a hand through my hair, already regretting every syllable. "We don't have to call it hanging out. Or… whatever. We could just go somewhere. Sit. Exist slightly less miserably for an hour."
She set the sandwich down, hands pausing like she wasn't sure if she was about to laugh or punch me. Then:
"You want to exist with me."
"Look, when you say it like that, it sounds culty."
The corner of her mouth twitched again. That almost-smile, back for a blink.
"I don't think it's safe," she said. Not for her. That's what she meant. Not for me, maybe. But not because of me.
"Neither's this school," I replied. "And I keep showing up."
Ardere stared at me like she was trying to pull apart my reasoning and unravel something beneath it. Then, quietly, she said:
"I'll think about it."
It wasn't a yes.
But it also wasn't a no.
Which, from her, felt dangerously close to hope.
Ardere didn't say where we were going. She just said "meet outside in ten. Wear boots."
Now, the silence stretches as wide as the valley below us.
She stands on the edge of the ridge like it doesn't even occur to her she could fall. Her hair's braided back. That stupid leather jacket, torn at the cuffs, hugs her frame like armor.
"So," I say, trying to ease the tension gnawing through my chest, "is this the part where you push me off the cliff?"
She glances sideways at me, expression unreadable.
"That would violate at least three of the terms."
Right. The terms. She recited them in the car like a lawyer reading me my last rites.
"No jokes about the leather jacket. It's sentimental."
"No weird romantic declarations."
"If Lysander calls, I answer."
"No touching."
"No direct questions about what I am."
"If I say I have to leave, you don't follow."
I was allowed to sit on the same side of the car. I wasn't allowed to ask why she kept one hand hovering an inch above the door handle the entire ride.
Now, standing here in the wind, I realize she looks… lighter. Still guarded, sure. But she's not shrinking into herself the way she does in the halls.
She turns and flops down into the grass with a sigh, her boots crossed, arms looped around her knees. "You can sit. I don't bite."
I do.
I sit.
For a few minutes, neither of us says anything. The wind combs through the trees. A hawk cries overhead.
Finally, I ask, "So, why here?"
She doesn't answer right away. Just picks at the frayed edge of her sleeve. Then:
"Because when I stand here… I don't feel like I'm ruining anything."
Her voice is small. Honest. And god, it makes something in me ache.
We sit for a long time.
The sun has dropped low enough that the quarry water glows gold, the kind of light that makes everything look more fragile. Like if you breathed too hard, it'd all crack.
Ardere's silent beside me, elbows resting on her knees. Her hair's blown a little loose from the braid, and I catch a flicker of movement as she reaches up to tuck it back. That's when I see it.
Just under the sleeve of her jacket, as the cuff slips back with the motion—
A thin, ragged scar, still red at the edges.
Not an old scar.
Not the kind that fades into your skin over time like a quiet memory.
No, this one still remembers.
And now I do too.
The rumor. The hospital. The fact that she disappeared for a week and came back with her hood up and her eyes empty.
I swallow the question that rises up in my throat like bile.
Her terms. No direct questions about what I am.
She never said anything about what she's done.
Still, I don't ask.
I just shift slightly, just enough to draw my gaze away from her arm so she doesn't catch me looking. But the dread? The dread has its hooks in me now. Quiet. Relentless.
Then Ardere speaks, her voice barely louder than the breeze.
"Why doesn't it bother you?"
I glance over. She's not looking at me—still fixed on the horizon—but her shoulders are pulled in like she's bracing for impact.
"Being around me," she clarifies, softer. "I know what it feels like. That weight. That pit in your stomach. Like something is pulling the color out of everything."
Her fingers tighten around the sleeves of her jacket. "Most people flinch. Some even cry. They walk away without knowing why they're running. But you—" she finally turns to look at me, and her eyes are hollow, too tired to be angry—"you just stay."
I don't answer right away. Because yeah, I've felt it. That slow ache that creeps in when she's too close. The way my lungs feel heavier when she speaks. The way the fridge at home starts humming louder after she looks at me for too long.
But I don't run.
"Because it's not you that bothers me," I say. "It's whatever's trying to bury you."
She blinks, stunned for a second. Like she hadn't considered that there might be a difference.
"I don't think that despair is yours, Ardere. Not all of it, anyway."
Her eyes shift down to her boots. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves around us. She doesn't speak, but I catch the way her throat tightens like she's trying not to cry.
"I've lived in silence before," I add. "And I know what it feels like to wish someone would just sit next to you and not ask you to explain it."
Still nothing from her. But after a long moment, her hand edges just slightly closer to mine on the ground between us. Not touching. Just... there.
"Still not allowed to touch," she whispers. But there's no edge to it this time. Just something cracked and real.
"I know," I whisper back.
We're still sitting there, the silence between us just starting to settle into something bearable, when my phone buzzes.
I pull it out, expecting some junk notification or maybe something from the group chat I always ignore. But it's not that.
Mom
I can't do this again. I can't be here.
Don't be mad. Just come home.
My stomach drops.
Another text flashes in before I can move.
Mom: The humming won't stop. It's too loud today. I think I broke the mirror.
I'm already standing. My breath comes shallow. "Shit."
Ardere straightens next to me. "What's wrong?"
I hesitate—but only for a second. "My mom. She's not okay."
Her eyes narrow like she's bracing herself, but she doesn't move.
"I need to go. Now." I look at her. "You can come with me or I can drop you back—"
"I'll come," she says quickly, already standing. "You're shaking."
I don't argue. I just drive.
—
The ride is tense. I'm gripping the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles ache. The silence between us isn't like earlier—it's heavier now. Nervous. Charged with a thousand unspoken thoughts.
When I pull into the driveway, I already see the porch light flickering erratically. The screen door's cracked open. That's not a good sign.
"Wait here if you want," I mutter, but Ardere's already unbuckling.
The second I push the door open, I hear it—the broken sobs coming from down the hall. And something else. Glass. Shattering.
"Mom?"
There's a pause. Then, "Dorian?" Her voice is hoarse. Thin. "Don't come in. I'm not—I didn't mean to—"
She's on the bathroom floor when I find her. Surrounded by the remnants of a shattered mirror. Her hands are shaking. Blood on one palm. Her eyes dart wildly between the ceiling and the wall like something's watching her.
I drop to my knees beside her. "It's okay. It's okay, I'm here. I'll clean it up. You didn't do anything wrong."
Behind me, Ardere steps into the doorway.
I barely get the towel wrapped around Mom's hand when her whole body stiffens. She gasps like she's choking on air that just turned to ash in her lungs.
Then the sobbing starts again—but it's worse this time. Deeper. Like it's not coming from her voice but from somewhere under her skin.
"I don't want to be here anymore," she whispers. "I don't want to be anywhere."
"Mom," I say sharply, squeezing her hand. "Hey, look at me. You're just overwhelmed right now. You're okay. We're okay—"
"No, you don't feel it, do you?" Her eyes snap to mine, wide and wet and terrified. "The weight. The sinking."
I turn, and Ardere is standing in the hallway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, hood up again like it's a shield. She's not even looking at us—she's staring at the wall like she's willing herself to disappear.
The air shifts around her like static before a storm.
"Get her out," my mom hisses, yanking her hand away from me. "Get her out of my house!"
I rise, heart pounding. "She's not—she didn't do anything—"
But my mom's already crawling backward across the tile, a raw kind of terror on her face like she's being swallowed whole. Her nails scratch against the wall. Her shoulders shake violently.
"I see it in her. That thing behind her eyes. It's like drowning, Dorian. Like I've already died and no one told me."
I turn to Ardere. "You should wait outside."
She doesn't argue. She's already gone.
****
By the time Mom's breathing levels out and her eyes start to glaze the way they do when the worst of it passes, the sun's dipped low enough to stretch the shadows across the kitchen floor.
I sit there for another minute, just listening to the fridge hum—steady again. Boring. Unbothered. Like it hadn't practically been howling yesterday.
I rinse the blood off my hands in the sink, dry them on a dishtowel, and head for the door.
The porch is empty.
The car's still there, keys in my pocket, but Ardere's nowhere.
I check the sidewalk. The edge of the yard. The street.
Nothing.
"Ardere?" I call out quietly, like maybe she's just around the corner. Like maybe she needed air.
But the silence is too still, too certain. She didn't go for a walk. She vanished.
I sit down on the front step and stare at the empty driveway.
There's a faint imprint of her boots in the dirt by the curb—half a heel, maybe—but it could belong to anyone.
She left without a sound. Without a word. Like she never existed at all.
I pace the streets near my house, replaying every word I wanted to say to Ardere. Something to explain, to fix what happened back at my place. Because I knew — she didn't mean for my mom to spiral like that. It wasn't her fault. How could it be?
But the city feels empty, like the air's been sucked out. No sign of her anywhere.
Then, out of the dark, I see him. Lysander.
He's standing under a flickering streetlamp, the shadows carving sharp angles across his face. His eyes lock onto me with that cold, dangerous edge I've been trying to avoid.
"Looking for her?" he asks, voice low and rough like gravel.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my voice. "Yeah. She... she didn't leave any clue. I just want to make sure she's okay."
He steps closer, and I can smell the faint tang of something metallic — maybe the scent of threat.
"You think you can just follow her, drag her back when she's trying to disappear?" His voice cracks, not quite with anger, but something darker. Like he's scared. Or furious. Or both.
Lysander's eyes don't waver. He steps closer, close enough that I can see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—like a predator savoring the moment.
His voice drops even lower, steady and deliberate, each word dragging itself out like slow poison.
"Do you understand what you're doing, Dorian? Following her, pushing her—forcing her to confront what she's barely survived?"
I stiffen. His words don't shout, but they crawl down my spine like cold fingers. It's not just a warning. It's an accusation. A threat.
"You think she's fragile now?" Lysander's voice is quiet, but sharp enough to slice through the night air. "Do you know what it took for her to walk away last time? To pull herself out of that darkness?"
He glances over his shoulder, and for a heartbeat I imagine the scene he's describing: Ardere, broken and bleeding, trapped in some cold, lonely place. The raw edges of despair pressing in like a vise.
"I brought her back from that edge," he says, voice hollow. "But it doesn't mean she's healed. Not really."
I can't tell if he's talking about himself or her.
Lysander stops just short of me, his gaze drilling into mine like a razor's edge. The streetlight casts shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable—except for that chilling calm, like he's already three steps ahead, waiting for me to make a mistake.
"I'm going to say this once," he says, voice low but ice-cold. "Stay away from Ardere. Don't chase her, don't push her, don't pretend you understand what she's going through."
He leans in, close enough that I catch the faint scent of leather and something metallic beneath it. His breath is steady, but the threat in his eyes is unmistakable.
"Because if you don't…" He lets the threat hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. "If you cross the line—if you force her to break—then she won't be the one you have to worry about."
His hand twitches at his side, just a subtle movement, but enough to suggest he's ready. Not to talk. To act.
"And trust me," Lysander adds, voice dropping almost to a whisper, "whatever it is you think you're protecting her from… I'm far worse."
He straightens up, the predatory calm replaced with cold finality. Without another word, Lysander turns on his heel and melts back into the shadows of the street.
I'm left standing there, heart pounding, caught somewhere between fear and defiance.
—
The hallway feels colder than usual—maybe it's just me. Or maybe it's the way Ardere's shoulders are drawn tight beneath her hoodie, her head down, the bruised look in her eyes still fresh from yesterday. I catch sight of her just as she's closing her locker, and I don't even hesitate.
"Ardere," I say softly, approaching. "Hey—can I talk to you?"
She turns, almost reluctantly, her hair falling in front of her face. Her eyes flick up to mine, cautious, guarded—but not empty. Not yet. She's holding a book too tight against her chest, and as she shifts it under her arm, I see the edge of a bandage tug loose beneath her sleeve. A clean line of red just beginning to scab over.
Fresh.
Something in my chest twists violently.
"I just—I need you to know it wasn't your fault," I say, my voice low, cracking slightly before I can catch it. "What happened with my mom… she's sick. She's always been sick. You didn't cause that. You couldn't have."
She freezes, lips parting like she wants to speak. She looks like someone who's heard this before but never believed it. Her shoulders curl inward.
"She would've spiraled with or without you," I say, softer now. "That happens all the time. It wasn't you."
Her eyes glisten for a split second. I almost reach for her. Almost.
Then—
"I said enough."
Lysander.
He's suddenly there, cutting the space like a blade. One step between us, his eyes locked onto mine with something that hums beneath his skin—cold, volatile. Protective in a way that feels territorial.
I don't move. Not yet.
"I'm not blaming her," I say carefully, hands half-raised, like I'm calming down a cornered animal. "I'm trying to help—"
"She doesn't need your help," Lysander says, voice sharp as glass now. "She needs boundaries. Space. Not some boy trying to crawl inside her head to make himself feel better."
Ardere flinches. Just barely. But I catch it.
"I'm not—"
"You brought her into a house dripping with someone else's despair. You let her stand there—surrounded by it. What exactly did you think would happen?"
There it is. That low, articulate venom in his tone that makes my spine want to shrink. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. There's something wrong with him when he speaks like that—like he sees a dozen ways to tear someone apart without ever touching them.
Ardere moves then, like she wants to say something, but her voice dies before it even rises.
She turns. Silent.
And Lysander watches me the whole time, daring me to follow.
I don't leave right away.
I linger just long enough to see Lysander turn toward her—his whole demeanor shifting like he's removed a mask I wasn't supposed to see beneath. His voice is too low for me to catch, but I see the way his head dips slightly, how his body language softens in a way that doesn't match the venom he just spit at me.
It's almost gentle.
Like this was never about me. Like it was always about her.
His hand lifts slowly toward her shoulder, tentative. Careful. And for a second, I think she'll let him. For a second, her stance wavers—like maybe she needs it.
But then she recoils. Sharp. Immediate.
She shoves him away with both palms, not hard, but with enough force that the message is clear. Not right now. Not from you.
He freezes. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't try again. Just stands there, taking it.
And I see something flicker across his face—not anger. Not even disappointment.
Pain.
It's subtle. Barely there. But real.
Ardere doesn't look at either of us as she turns and walks off down the hall. Lysander doesn't follow. Just stands in place like her absence has gutted him.
I should feel satisfied. Vindicated, even.
But instead, I feel like I've just witnessed something private. Something I wasn't supposed to see. A crack in the armor of whatever twisted thing they are to each other.