Campus had its usual buzz that morning—laughter, footsteps, the constant hum of conversation—but beneath it, I could feel something else. Whispers. Glances. The kind people think you don't notice, but I've learned to spot them a mile away.
Hazel moved through it like she didn't feel it, but I knew better. I'd seen the way her shoulders tensed, the way she avoided looking at certain groups in the hallway.
By midmorning, the rumors had reached me in full. I was in the gym when a guy from my economics class smirked and asked, "So… Hazel's yours now?"
I didn't answer him. Just stared until he looked away. I've never been one to play into gossip, but this—this was different. The words they were throwing around weren't just idle talk; they were circling her like vultures, twisting everything.
It didn't help that the source wasn't completely unfounded. I had told Devon to keep his girl's paws off mine. And I meant it.
Thing is, I didn't say it for show. I didn't even say it because of Devon. I said it because the memory of Hazel in that hospital bed still burned in my head—pale, fragile, hooked to wires and tubes. If I hadn't been there that day… I don't even want to finish the thought.
I saw her outside the lecture building later, arguing with Darcie about something. Her expression was tight, guarded. The second her eyes found mine, she froze for a beat before walking over.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Not really," she said, crossing her arms. "We need to talk."
She got straight to it. "People are saying things. About you. About us."
I almost laughed, but stopped myself. "Let me guess—they think I'm too protective. That we're… more than we are?"
"That's exactly what they're saying," she shot back.
I studied her for a moment. She looked genuinely bothered, like this was eating at her more than she wanted to admit. "And you care what they think?" I asked.
Her voice softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. "I care that you said something to make them think that. Did you tell people I'm yours?"
The truth was, I hadn't told people. I'd told Devon. And I didn't regret it for a second.
"I told Devon," I said evenly. "And I told him to keep his girl's paws off mine."
Her brow furrowed. "Why would you say that?"
I took a slow breath. She had no idea what it was like watching her fall apart, then trying to piece her back together without overstepping. She didn't know how close I'd come to losing it in that hospital room, or how much restraint it took to keep things simple between us.
"Because, Hazel," I said, stepping closer, "after what happened, I can't just stand by and watch someone mess with you. I meant it when I said you're mine. Not in the way they're thinking—but in the way that means I'm not letting anyone hurt you again. Ever."
Her eyes searched mine, like she was looking for something I wasn't ready to hand over. Maybe I was selfish for even saying it. Maybe I wanted her to know—on some level—that I saw her differently than everyone else did.
But I didn't explain further. I didn't need to.
"Don't waste your energy on rumors," I told her, stepping back. "They'll get bored eventually. But me? I'm not going anywhere."
I left before she could answer, because part of me didn't trust what I might say next.
And maybe, just maybe, I liked the way "mine" sounded on my tongue a little too much.
Campus had its usual buzz that morning—laughter, footsteps, the constant hum of conversation—but beneath it, I could feel something else. Whispers. Glances. The kind people think you don't notice, but I've learned to spot them a mile away.
Hazel moved through it like she didn't feel it, but I knew better. I'd seen the way her shoulders tensed, the way she avoided looking at certain groups in the hallway.
By midmorning, the rumors had reached me in full. I was in the gym when a guy from my economics class smirked and asked, "So… Hazel's yours now?"
I didn't answer him. Just stared until he looked away. I've never been one to play into gossip, but this—this was different. The words they were throwing around weren't just idle talk; they were circling her like vultures, twisting everything.
It didn't help that the source wasn't completely unfounded. I had told Devon to keep his girl's paws off mine. And I meant it.
Thing is, I didn't say it for show. I didn't even say it because of Devon. I said it because the memory of Hazel in that hospital bed still burned in my head—pale, fragile, hooked to wires and tubes. If I hadn't been there that day… I don't even want to finish the thought.
I saw her outside the lecture building later, arguing with Darcie about something. Her expression was tight, guarded. The second her eyes found mine, she froze for a beat before walking over.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Not really," she said, crossing her arms. "We need to talk."
She got straight to it. "People are saying things. About you. About us."
I almost laughed, but stopped myself. "Let me guess—they think I'm too protective. That we're… more than we are?"
"That's exactly what they're saying," she shot back.
I studied her for a moment. She looked genuinely bothered, like this was eating at her more than she wanted to admit. "And you care what they think?" I asked.
Her voice softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. "I care that you said something to make them think that. Did you tell people I'm yours?"
The truth was, I hadn't told people. I'd told Devon. And I didn't regret it for a second.
"I told Devon," I said evenly. "And I told him to keep his girl's paws off mine."
Her brow furrowed. "Why would you say that?"
I took a slow breath. She had no idea what it was like watching her fall apart, then trying to piece her back together without overstepping. She didn't know how close I'd come to losing it in that hospital room, or how much restraint it took to keep things simple between us.
"Because, Hazel," I said, stepping closer, "after what happened, I can't just stand by and watch someone mess with you. I meant it when I said you're mine. Not in the way they're thinking—but in the way that means I'm not letting anyone hurt you again. Ever."
Her eyes searched mine, like she was looking for something I wasn't ready to hand over. Maybe I was selfish for even saying it. Maybe I wanted her to know—on some level—that I saw her differently than everyone else did.
But I didn't explain further. I didn't need to.
"Don't waste your energy on rumors," I told her, stepping back. "They'll get bored eventually. But me? I'm not going anywhere."
I left before she could answer, because part of me didn't trust what I might say next.
And maybe, just maybe, I liked the way "mine" sounded on my tongue a little too much.