The walls had ears.
Or maybe it was just paranoia creeping in.
Either way, Simon could feel it—the pressure of glances that lingered a second too long, the silence that stretched after he entered a room. It wasn't concrete. No one had said anything. But something had changed. Or maybe he had.
He felt it most when he saw Elena with Eddie.
Like that afternoon in the cafeteria.
She was sitting beside her boyfriend, their heads close over his phone, laughing at something on the screen. From a distance, they looked perfect. Beautiful. Normal.
But Simon knew the truth.
He knew the way her breath hitched when he brushed past her. The way her hand lingered too long when she passed him something at home. The way she whispered his name like a secret she wasn't supposed to enjoy.
He hated seeing her like that—with Eddie.
But worse than the jealousy was the ache.
Because Elena could smile for the world, but when she looked at Simon, he saw the guilt behind her eyes.
And it was eating her alive.
After school, Simon skipped practice.
He didn't even have an excuse—just told Coach he had a headache and walked out before he could be pulled into drills and team banter. He couldn't focus. Not when every thought was tangled up in her.
Instead, he found himself wandering.
Not aimlessly. Not really.
He ended up in the old part of town—the narrow streets near the riverfront, where the city felt slower, quieter. There was a tiny used bookstore there, tucked between a laundromat and a tattoo parlor. Hard to find unless you knew where to look.
Elena had brought him there once, two summers ago.
They'd spent hours sitting in the back, flipping through dusty romance novels and laughing at the corny titles. He'd watched her lips move as she read lines aloud in fake dramatic accents, her laughter echoing off the bookshelves.
That had been before the secret.
Before the shift.
But even then, Simon remembered thinking she looked too good in soft light.
He stepped inside now, welcomed by the scent of old paper and wood polish. The bell above the door jingled faintly. No one else was inside.
He drifted toward the back.
Almost instinctively, his fingers found the same book they'd joked about before—Flames of Midnight. The cover still made him snort. A shirtless man holding a woman dramatically over a mountain cliff.
But he didn't open it.
Because now, he understood.
When you want something you're not allowed to have, everything feels like fire.
Back home, the apartment was quiet.
Until her door creaked open.
She stood in the hallway in sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts. Hair messy. Eyes tired.
"Didn't go to practice?" she asked.
"Didn't feel like it."
"You okay?"
Simon hesitated. "No. But not for the reason you think."
She stepped closer. "Then what is it?"
He swallowed. "I saw you today. With him. Laughing."
"Simon…"
"I'm not blaming you. I'm just… I'm tired of watching you pretend."
Her shoulders slumped. "I'm tired of pretending too."
"Then stop."
"People will talk."
"Let them."
"I'm not as fearless as you," she whispered.
Simon stepped forward, cupping her face gently. "You're braver than you know."
And then he kissed her.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't hungry.
It was desperate in its gentleness. Like both of them were afraid this was the last time they'd get to feel safe in each other's arms.
Later that night, as they lay side by side on the living room couch, Elena said something that stayed with Simon.
"I think people already suspect something."
He turned his head toward her. "Why?"
"Eddie asked me yesterday if I was hiding something."
Simon tensed. "What did you say?"
"I lied. Said it was school stress."
He stared at the ceiling. "We can't keep this up forever."
"I know."
"But I'm not ready to stop."
She took his hand in the dark.
"Neither am I."