Wesley exhaled slowly, his mop still leaning against the wall, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he felt the air thicken.
The courtyard was suddenly silent except for the faint shuffle of boots on worn stone, the wind brushing faintly against the old arena walls.
Every set of eyes was on him—watching, waiting, pressing down with the weight of judgment.
He could feel the love-struck boy's fury brimming on the edge of explosion, but instead of flaring back, Wesley simply tilted his head and let a dry chuckle escape his lips.
"Alright," he said at last, his tone casual, too casual, like he had grown bored of the theatrics. "You're right about one thing. I didn't remember her name. I barely even remember her face. And you know what? That's not my fault."
The boy's brow furrowed, his rage quivering like a bowstring pulled too tight.
