Third Person's POV.
The graduation ceremony was a grand, meticulously organized affair, a testament to the Moore and Sinclair families' standing. The air in the university auditorium was thick with applause, pride, and the scent of expensive perfume. Genevieve and Robert Moore, along with the Sinclairs, were obviously overjoyed, positioning themselves at the front of their reserved section, radiating approval for this new, successful stage of their children's lives.
Percy was a pillar of quiet support, dressed impeccably but with a visible intensity. He kept Gemini anchored firmly by his side the entire time, their shoulders brushing frequently, a subtle but persistent display of unity. Gemini, looking elegant and composed, was his rock, offering a steadying presence that Percy sorely needed.
Penelope, ever the strategic twin, had placed Ohio to sit directly next to Percy, creating a protective buffer on the other side. She'd explained her logic earlier: "Ohio, if Mother tries to launch an attack on Gemini, I need you to be able to talk Percy down before he burns the entire faculty building to the ground." Ohio had promised to do just that.
The atmosphere crackled slightly as the last of the family arrived. Daphne and Cole entered with their respective parents. A palpable wave of awkwardness rippled through the Moore section. It was the elephant in the room: Daphne and Cole should have been walking across that stage today, too. Their decision to abruptly leave the city and interrupt their academic paths a year prior was a silent, painful commentary on the family's internal strife. No one dared to mention it.
Penelope felt a familiar, sharp pang—not of guilt, but of loss—as her eyes met Daphne and Cole's across the aisle. Cole's expression was unreadable, perhaps a shade guarded, but there was a flicker of the old familiarity there too.
After the ceremony, the celebration moved to a beautifully decorated private ballroom in a high-end hotel in the city. This was the smaller, close, intimate party for family and friends—the critical arena for the night's inevitable collision.
Penelope was glowing, moving through the room in a swirl of celebration, with Mark nearby, equally ecstatic, carefree and much louder.
It took nearly an hour, navigating the tides of congratulations, before the four friends finally converged near a large floral arrangement.
Penelope was speaking with Mark and Gemini when Daphne walked towards them, just then, Cole and Percy joined them.
Daphne's smile was thin, professionally courteous, a shell of the easy warmth Penelope remembered. Cole, however, met Percy's eyes directly.
"Congratulations, Pen," Daphne said formally, before turning to Mark.
Cole immediately stepped forward, his hand out. "Congratulations, Penelope. And Mark. You guys killed it."
Penelope hugged him tightly. "Thanks, Cole. It means a lot you came."
Then the inevitable happened. Cole turned to Percy. This was not the easy camaraderie of their youth; this was two men standing on opposite sides of a painful schism.
"Percy," Cole said, his voice measured.
"Cole," Percy replied, the name a weight in his mouth.
They shook hands—a firm, brief grip that spoke volumes of missed conversations and unresolved history.
"Congratulations on Aethel Designs, I've seen the coverage," Cole offered, his eyes flicking briefly to Gemini before returning to Percy.
"Thanks," Percy responded simply. He couldn't speak the easy flood of feelings he felt, the impulse to apologize, to demand answers. The moment was too formal, too exposed.
Daphne, meanwhile, gave Gemini a slow, scrutinizing look. "Gemini," she acknowledged, a coolness in her tone that was a painful reminder of the reason she'd left.
Gemini maintained his composure, offering a polite, genuine smile. "Daphne, Cole. It's good to see you both."
"It's a start," Penelope murmured to Percy under her breath, watching the stiff exchange. "This is a start."
It wasn't the clearing of the air they needed. There were no apologies, no lengthy explanations, and certainly no happy hugs. But it was a hello after a year of complete silence. The ice hadn't broken, but they had acknowledged its presence. The big, difficult conversation was still waiting for them, looming somewhere in the hours between the party's end and the dawn of their summer departure.