The day began like any other, but I could feel it the moment I stepped onto campus—the eyes. Dozens of them. They slid over me in quick, assessing glances, then darted away just as fast, as though I wouldn't notice.
But I did.
The air was thick with whispers. Small clusters of students leaned close, their heads bent together, their lips curved with smirks that made my skin crawl. I couldn't hear the exact words, but I didn't need to. I already knew.
The rumors.
I tugged my bag higher onto my shoulder and forced myself to walk, one foot in front of the other, pretending their stares didn't sting. Pretending I didn't feel like I was walking naked through the hallways.
The worst part? It wasn't just gossip anymore. It was certainty. The kind where a lie is repeated so many times, it becomes fact.
I caught a phrase as I passed two girls near the vending machine.
"…she's with him, I swear. No one gets that protective for nothing."
My stomach knotted. They were talking about Warren.
The memory of his words from yesterday hit me hard. "You're mine." The way his voice had dropped, steady and unflinching. I had told myself not to think about it, but how could I not, when the entire campus seemed determined to throw it back in my face?
"Hazel!"
I jumped. Darcie was hurrying toward me, her dark curls bouncing, her expression tight.
"You've seen it, right? The way people are looking at you?" she asked, falling into step beside me.
I sighed. "Kind of hard not to."
She lowered her voice. "It's bad. Like… really bad. People are saying you and Warren—" She cut herself off, her eyes darting around. "Look, I know it's not true, but you need to talk to him. Make him shut this down."
"I already tried," I muttered.
Darcie blinked. "And?"
I hesitated, then shook my head. "It doesn't matter. He's… stubborn."
She frowned. "Hazel, this is serious. You don't want to be the next campus scandal. People thrive on tearing others apart here."
I wanted to tell her I knew. That I already felt torn apart. But instead, I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "I'll handle it."
The truth was, I wasn't sure I could.
By midafternoon, it got worse. In the cafeteria, conversations stopped when I walked in. A table of guys laughed under their breath as I passed, one of them whispering loud enough for me to catch, "Crown prince finally claimed his queen."
My chest tightened. Crown prince? What did that even mean?
I dropped my tray onto a table in the corner, my appetite gone. I tried to eat anyway, stabbing at my food just to keep my hands busy.
And then, like fate had a cruel sense of humor, Warren walked in.
The room shifted instantly. I felt it, like static crawling across my skin. Heads turned, whispers rose, and I sat frozen, praying he wouldn't notice me.
But he did. Of course he did.
His gaze swept the room, landed on me, and held. My heart stumbled. His jaw tightened, and for a second, the room felt too small, the air too heavy. He started toward me, unhurried, confident, as though the world bent around his steps.
I panicked. Before he could reach me, I shoved back my chair and bolted.
I didn't stop until I was outside, the crisp air hitting my lungs like ice. My hands shook as I pressed them to my temples.
This wasn't just gossip anymore. It was a storm, and Warren—whether he meant to or not—was feeding it.
"Hazel."
I flinched at the sound of his voice. He'd followed me out.
I spun around. "Do you have any idea what people are saying?" My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I couldn't stop. The words tumbled out, fueled by frustration and something dangerously close to fear. "They think I belong to you. That I'm yours. You did this!"
His expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened, unreadable. "And if I did?"
My breath caught.
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, pulling me into his orbit whether I wanted it or not. "Let them talk," he said quietly. "Their words can't touch you. Not while I'm here."
"That's not the point!" My voice cracked. "You don't get to decide that for me, Warren. You don't get to—" I broke off, my throat tight.
For a moment, we just stood there, the silence between us sharp and jagged. His gaze searched mine, intense and unrelenting, like he was daring me to look away first.
Finally, he said, "I meant what I told you. You're mine."
The world tilted, my pulse roaring in my ears. And for a second—just a second—I wondered if maybe he wasn't talking about rumors at all.
I tore my gaze away, my chest heaving. "I can't do this," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
And before he could answer, I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there in the shadow of the cafeteria.
But no matter how far I went, I couldn't outrun the whispers.
Even when I tried to convince myself they didn't matter, they pressed into my ears like thorns. Every glance lingered too long, every laugh felt like it was meant for me. The whispers were everywhere—in the hallways, in the cafeteria, even in the quiet corners where I thought I was safe.
It was suffocating.
By the time I reached the back of the library, my chest ached from holding everything in. I crouched down between the tall shelves, clutching my knees and trying to catch my breath.
Why me?
I wasn't special. I wasn't trying to stand out. But Warren had ruined that—his stares, his intensity, the way his presence made people connect dots that didn't exist. Or maybe they did. Maybe that's what scared me most.
Tears stung my eyes, and I pressed my palms hard against them, as though I could force the weakness away.
A faint sound broke through the silence—the steady rhythm of footsteps.
I stiffened.
"Running doesn't suit you," a voice said.
I looked up sharply. Devon stood there, leaning against the shelf, his arms folded across his chest. His basketball jacket caught the pale glow of the library light, crimson against the shadows.
My throat tightened. "What do you want?"
He arched an eyebrow, as if the question amused him. "To see if you're holding up."
A bitter laugh slipped out of me. "Do I look like I am?"
His expression softened, almost imperceptibly, but enough to make my heart stumble. He crouched down until we were eye level. "You shouldn't let their voices tear you apart."
I frowned. "Easy for you to say. They're not following you around like ghosts."
Devon's gaze was sharp, unrelenting, as though he could peel every secret from me if he stared long enough. "Hazel, you need to be careful."
The words hung between us, heavy and deliberate.
"Careful of what?" I whispered.
He hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Of my brother."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath me. "Warren?"
Something flickered in Devon's eyes—pain, maybe, or something darker. "He's not who you think he is."
My pulse thundered. "And who is he?"
Devon's lips parted, as if he wanted to tell me everything, but then he stood abruptly, retreating as though he'd crossed an invisible line. "Just… don't let the whispers get to you. They don't know the truth."
I stared at him, searching his face for answers. "What truth?"
His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, heavy with something I couldn't name. Then he shook his head. "Not yet."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me with nothing but the echo of his warning.
Not yet.
The words pulsed in my chest long after he was gone, louder than the rumors, sharper than the stares.
By the time I stepped outside, night had settled over campus. The lamps glowed like tiny suns, throwing long shadows across the paths. The air was cool, but it carried the weight of something unseen, something waiting.
The whispers hadn't stopped. If anything, they grew louder in the silence of the dark. But now, I wasn't sure if the whispers belonged to the students around me—or if they came from somewhere deeper, somewhere meant only for me.
And for the first time, I wondered if Devon was right.
Maybe I didn't know Warren at all.
Maybe I didn't even know myself.