Lisa was… a force. A constant, effervescent presence. She was the opposite of everything I was: loud where I was quiet, overtly expressive where I was r eserved, a whirlwind of motion where I preferred stillness. She bounced, she gestured, she laughed – a bright, unceasing sound that cut through the usual hum of the campus.
I watched her now, across the common room, animatedly explaining something to Elisa, her hands moving as quickly as her words. She was pure, unfiltered energy, a direct current of enthusiasm that few could match. She never seemed to dim, never seemed to falter in her relentless optimism.
It wasn't a quality I understood inherently, certainly not one I possessed. My own interactions were measured, my thoughts kept internal. But with Lisa, there was no filter. What you saw was what you got: unwavering loyalty, fierce protectiveness for her friends, and an almost childlike joy in simple things. She didn't complicate. She didn't hide.
Sometimes, her sheer volume was almost overwhelming, a physical presence that demanded attention. But I rarely found it irritating. She was… necessary. Necessary for Elisa, certainly. Lisa was the direct, unwavering anchor Elisa needed, pulling her out of her own head, cheering her on, reminding her to laugh. She was a constant. Like a bright, unwavering light. Sometimes blinding, perhaps, but always there, pushing away the shadows.
She was good. She was simple, in the best possible way. And in a world filled with intricate games and hidden motives, Lisa's straightforward brightness was a rare, unambiguous thing. I didn't need to engage with it directly, but I acknowledged its value.
Elisa's POV
Felix's hand on my arm was a jolt, a sudden anchor in the overwhelming discomfort Jake had created. When he cut in, his voice like cold steel, and spoke to Jake, I felt a wave of relief so profound it almost buckled my knees. Jake's charm, his persistence, had finally reached a point where my polite deflections simply weren't enough. I'd been trying to manage it myself, but he'd just kept pushing, his hand on my back a suffocating weight.
As Felix led me away, his grip firm but not hurting, the relief mingled with a flush of embarrassment. The unicorn, ridiculous and pink, was still clutched in my other hand, a symbol of the entire awkward encounter. I glanced back, seeing Jake's bewildered face before he melted into the crowd. Felix didn't say anything immediately, just steered me to a quieter part of the festival.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softer now, once we were out of the immediate crush. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a flicker of genuine concern.
I nodded, feeling a strange warmth spread through me despite the lingering awkwardness. "Yeah. Thanks, Felix. He just… he wouldn't take a hint."
Felix let out a low sigh, a rare display of frustration. "He's persistent. And entirely too oblivious." His gaze drifted over the crowd, almost as if searching for Jake again, a subtle tightening around his jaw. It wasn't about a social nicety for him; it was about protecting a boundary. My boundary. He didn't do grand gestures or comforting words often, but his actions were always unequivocally clear. He was there. He was watching. And he wouldn't tolerate anyone making me uncomfortable. It was a different kind of care than I was used to, but it was potent.
Later that evening, while recounting the festival chaos to Lisa and Caleb over a late-night video call, Lisa leaned into her webcam, eyes wide. "Wait, you won't believe what I heard! Leo was apparently seen having a 'very serious' conversation with Jake at the gym last night. Someone on the basketball team was whispering about it. Said Leo basically told him to back off you, in so many words!"
My jaw dropped. Leo? Quiet, mysterious, rarely-gets-involved Leo? My mind immediately went back to his intensity, his almost unsettling calm. For him to step in... that was an entirely different level. My immediate gratitude for Felix was now joined by a profound sense of shock and appreciation for Leo. He didn't speak much, but when he acted, it was definitive. It confirmed just how visible Jake's persistence had been, how much discomfort he'd caused, and how my friends, in their own unique ways, were looking out for me. It left me feeling incredibly protected, and perhaps, more cherished than I'd realized.
Felix's POV
The cold precision of my intervention had been satisfying. Seeing Jake Evans's smug confidence falter, watching him backtrack under my stare, felt like a clean, well-executed maneuver. He was an irritant, a persistent gnaw on the periphery, and I had effectively removed him, at least for the moment. My hand lingered on Elisa's arm, a subtle connection that was both a reassurance to her and a quiet, definitive statement to the retreating jock.
Once we were clear of the immediate crowd, the initial rush of decisive action began to recede, replaced by a more complex internal hum. My typical response to such a situation would be calculated. A discreet word with a coach, a quiet manipulation of schedules, perhaps even a subtle financial pressure applied where it would be felt. But I hadn't done any of that. I'd simply acted. Impulsively. Directly.
It was entirely uncharacteristic. The "Thorne Way" was about controlled power, indirect influence, never a public display of raw territoriality. Yet, seeing Jake's hand on Elisa's back, witnessing her subtle stiffness, her polite smile straining, had ignited something sharp and immediate within me. It wasn't just about Jake being a nuisance anymore. It was about Elisa's discomfort. Her autonomy. And the infuriating fact that he couldn't take a hint.
The relief in her eyes when I stepped in, the slight tremor in her hand when I touched her arm – that was the real currency. It solidified something I'd been trying to ignore. She wasn't just a challenge, an interesting anomaly. She was becoming... important. More important than the usual strategic alliances or calculated friendships.
The pink unicorn, clutched in her other hand, looked utterly ridiculous, a gaudy emblem of his futile attempt. I felt a scoff rise in my throat, but quelled it. It was a testament to how far he'd pushed.
My mind, usually so clear and logical, felt a rare moment of disarray. This intense protectiveness, this almost visceral reaction to someone else crossing a line with her, was new. It wasn't part of the plan. It wasn't something I could delegate or strategize away. It was a raw, unbidden impulse. And as much as I prided myself on control, I found I didn't regret it. Not even a little. The quiet satisfaction outweighed the brief moment of uncharacteristic public display.