Delorah didn't ask right away. She just watched.
Watched the way Kit went quiet after Celeste walked off. The way his eyes stayed on the floor like they might give him something safer to look at. The way his shoulders locked up—not like he was hiding guilt, but like he was bracing for impact.
He hadn't done anything wrong.
Except maybe he had.
They drifted toward the courtyard in silence, sunlight slanting harsh and golden across the pavement. Neither of them said they weren't hungry anymore. They didn't have to. Kit walked like the weight of the day was finally catching up to him—hands buried deep in his pockets, jaw tight, head down like the wind might peel him open. Delorah followed a few steps behind, not because he asked for space, but because it had bloomed between them anyway.
She waited until they reached the edge of the schoolyard, near the hedges where the world felt quieter—hidden. Only then did she speak.
"Who was that?"
Kit froze mid-step. "Her name's Celeste."
"I caught that," Delorah said evenly. "What I didn't catch is why you looked like you'd seen a ghost."
He blinked like he'd forgotten she was still there. Rubbed the back of his neck, words half-trapped in his throat. "It's nothing."
She gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "You're an actual terrible liar."
"Wasn't trying very hard."
The wind rustled the hedge. Something brittle passed between them. Kit leaned back against the brick wall, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes like he could hold the world at bay with enough pressure.
"I didn't want to get into it," he said finally, voice low. "Not here."
"You're already into it," Delorah said gently. "Is she someone you used to—?"
"No." Kit cut in fast. "It's not that."
"Then what?"
He exhaled—shaky, hollow, like the breath had to claw its way out.
The high was gone. The chemical armor had dissolved. And now every nerve in his body was raw, buzzing with leftover panic and shame. His mouth tasted like ash. His thoughts felt like glass.
"She's the one," he said.
Delorah tilted her head, not getting it yet. "The one what?"
His eyes finally met hers—deep blue and too bright, like he was holding back something sharp. "The one I'm supposed to marry."
Her heart stopped for a beat.
"What?"
"I found out a few days ago," he murmured. "Same night I texted you. I just... I didn't know how to tell you."
Delorah stepped back. The distance was only a few inches, but he felt it like a chasm.
"You're telling me now?"
"I couldn't lie to you," Kit said. His voice cracked around the edges. "Not with the way everything's unraveling."
His fingers dug into the seams of his hoodie like he was trying to hold himself together physically. There was sweat at his temples and a tremor in his left hand that hadn't gone away since that morning.
Delorah's arms folded tight around herself like she was bracing for impact. "So... that's why she was acting like she knew something I didn't."
"Probably," he said, throat tight.
She let out a breath—bitter, quiet. "And you've just been sitting on this?"
"I didn't choose her, Del." The words came out too fast, too desperate. "I didn't choose any of this."
"But you knew."
"I did." He couldn't deny it. Didn't try.
She didn't yell. Didn't cry. Just looked at him like something inside her had shifted without warning—like the wind had changed and left her facing a stranger.
A silence bloomed, soft and dense.
"Oh," she said.
It wasn't anger that cut him open. It was that.
"I didn't mean for you to find out like this."
She nodded once. "Yeah. But you did."
He stepped forward, the pavement under his shoes suddenly unsteady. "Please don't pull away from me."
"I'm not pulling away." Her voice was gentle, but it landed like a bruise. "I'm just... recalibrating."
And then she smiled.
A strange, soft smile that didn't reach her eyes. That smile scared him more than any scream. It was the smile of someone closing a door inside themselves.
The silence that followed was too still.
Delorah didn't storm off. Didn't even look at him again. She just leaned back against the wall, eyes fixed on a crack in the pavement like she was trying to anchor herself in anything but him.
Kit's ribs felt too tight around his lungs.
"I didn't want it," he whispered. "I still don't."
"You think that makes it easier?"
He didn't answer.
Couldn't.
His throat had turned to sand and his body to static. The comedown had hollowed him out, and all that was left was the ache where connection used to live.
"I should probably get to my next class," she said softly, turning away.
"Del—"
But she was already walking. Not angry. Not cold.
Just... gone in the way that mattered most.
And Kit stayed rooted to the pavement, staring after her until the crowd swallowed her whole.
She hadn't left.
But something between them had.
---
Delorah didn't remember weaving through the halls.
She just moved—shoulders tight, hands in fists, head down like something might reach out and grab her if she slowed. The bell rang overhead, loud and shrill, but it felt far away. Like she was underwater. Like her body was moving forward because the current insisted.
The world had lost its sharpness.
Celeste.
Even the name echoed cruelly in her head. It sounded expensive. Smooth. Like silk wrapped around a dagger—refined on the outside, but meant to cut. Beautiful. Cold. Final.
She slipped into her next class without thinking and dropped into a seat near the back. The chair groaned, the desk cool beneath her skin. Her fingers curled around its edge until her knuckles went white, nails digging into the grain.
She couldn't hear what the teacher was saying. Roll call blurred into static. Everything was just static.
Kit had been honest—technically.
But honesty wasn't the same as trust. And trust wasn't supposed to arrive only after the floor gave out beneath you.
Why didn't he tell me yesterday?
When he texted me.
When he sat beside me in the woods with that storm behind his eyes.
When he looked at me like I was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
Why did he wait until now?
And why—why—was part of her still trying to make excuses for him?
She hated how fast her brain leapt to defend him. Hated how her heart twisted itself into knots trying to believe the best. It felt weak. It felt unfair.
But mostly—it just hurt.
I should've seen it, she thought bitterly.
The way he looked at Celeste. Not fond—not affectionate—but like a bomb he'd forgotten to defuse. Like a ghost standing where something living used to be.
Like he was bracing for something.
Her stomach flipped. Not jealousy. Not exactly. But not not jealousy either. It was more complicated than that. Something sharp and sour twisting in her chest.
Maybe it was dread.
She clenched her jaw and stared blankly ahead. The board had words on it, but they didn't stick. They blurred like watercolors. Her thoughts were louder than anything else.
She could still feel Kit like a smudge beneath her ribs. Like a memory trying to take shape under her skin.
And he hadn't chased her.
He'd just... let her go.
And the worst part?
She didn't know if that made it hurt more or less.
Because if he kept hiding things—even to protect her, even because he was scared—then it wouldn't just be the romance that burned.
It would be them.
---
"Alright everyone, we're doing partner work today. I'll be assigning pairs."
Delorah barely processed the names being read—just a drone of syllables over the low buzz in her skull. Chairs scraped. Paper rustled. Voices murmured.
"LaRoche and Windsor."
Of course.
Celeste.
She approached like she had a spotlight following her, every detail flawless—uniform crisp, braid unmussed, notebook tucked neatly under her arm.
"Mind if I sit here?"
"Be my guest," Delorah said coolly.
They sat in silence, a charged pause between them like neither was sure if this was détente or round two.
"I guess we're destined to keep running into each other," Celeste said lightly, like the thought amused her.
"Seems like."
"Sorry if it was awkward earlier," Celeste added, brushing imaginary lint from her skirt. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Delorah's gaze sharpened. "Intrude?"
"You two seemed close."
"We're friends."
"Right."
Celeste glanced down at the worksheet, her voice light. "He seems… complicated."
Delorah blinked. "You've talked to him?"
"Not really. You can just feel it." Celeste twirled her pen once between her fingers, then tapped it on the table. "Maybe that's why you two get along."
Delorah didn't answer. She didn't like how easily Celeste made her feel defensive—like they were having two conversations at once and only one of them was being spoken out loud.
Celeste smiled again—pleasant, never smug, which made it worse. "Don't worry. I'm not here to cause problems."
Delorah wasn't sure if it was reassurance or a warning. But she nodded anyway and flipped open her notebook.
Celeste followed suit, revealing color-coded notes and perfectly spaced handwriting.
"I was thinking," Delorah said carefully, "about focusing on how identity shapes perception—how expectations trap us."
Celeste's eyes lit with genuine interest. "Like the masks people wear? Pretending to be someone else to survive?"
Delorah glanced up. "Exactly."
And for just a breath, the tension ebbed. Something unspoken passed between them—shared understanding, maybe.
Celeste murmured, almost to herself, "Funny. I always thought I had a plan. But sometimes it feels like the plan has me."
The vulnerability in her tone caught Delorah off-guard. It wasn't an act. Not entirely.
The bell rang before she could respond.
Celeste stood gracefully, smoothing her skirt. "Looking forward to seeing where this goes."
Delorah gathered her things slowly, watching the other girl glide out the door.
What secrets are you hiding, Celeste?
---
Kit sat on the edge of the sink in the boys' bathroom, the porcelain cold enough to bite through denim.
The lights overhead flickered, humming with that dull, electric whine—the same pitch as the static behind his eyes.
He stared at the floor first. Not ready to look up.
His breathing was off-rhythm, like a scratched vinyl skipping under his ribs.
When he finally glanced at the mirror, it didn't greet him—it confronted him.
His reflection looked like a ghost someone forgot to bury.
Dilated pupils. Gray-tinged skin.
The faint tremble in his fingers where they gripped the edge of the basin.
His collarbone jutted too sharply above his shirt—like the rest of him was trying to disappear beneath it.
He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek until it hurt.
It wasn't just exhaustion.
It was rot.
From the inside out.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn't want to look. But he did.
Sebastian.
Father wants a word tonight. Don't be late, Adrian.
The boy in the mirror wasn't Kit.
He wasn't anything.
Just a borrowed shape, barely stitched together by nicotine, caffeine, and sleepless nights.
His mouth felt dry.
His stomach twisted into knots—not quite nausea, just the warning signs before the spiral swallowed him whole.
He leaned back against the tile and let gravity take over.
One knee bounced.
His nails picked at the frayed hem of his sleeve.
A flicker in the mirror caught his eye—but it was only himself.
Twitchy. Fragmented.
That name.
That fucking name.
Like fire in his mouth. Like ash soaked in gasoline.
He shoved the phone deeper into his pocket, heart pounding too hard.
Not from fear.
From fury.
Of course Sebastian reminded him.
Of course he got to be the favorite.
The heir.
The one with the key to the goddamn kingdom.
All Kit had was smoke and scars and a last name that felt more like a collar.
And now Delorah was tied to him too.
Kit's jaw locked. His throat burned.
She had no right to look at him like that.
Like he was the one who'd done something wrong.
"You've just been sitting on this?"
Yeah. And so had she.
Wasn't she the one pretending everything was fine?
Wasn't she the one who stood there—stone-faced and cold—while he was unraveling?
He hadn't asked for this.
Not the engagement.
Not the guilt.
Not the thousand invisible strings pulling at his skin every time she looked at him like he was something sharp.
He wanted to tell her.
He wanted to scream.
But she didn't scream.
She stepped back.
Folded in on herself like he wasn't worth the heat.
And that smile—that empty, fucking smile—
It haunted him more than any slap could've.
She was allowed to be angry. He knew that.
He knew it wasn't fair to feel bitter.
But God, he wished she'd yelled.
At least then he'd know she still burned for him.
Instead, she just walked away.
And Sebastian's name was still in his phone.
Kit slid down the tiled wall until he was barely upright.
One knee jittered.
His breathing caught.
His heart punched through his ribs like it wanted out.
> "I didn't want it," he muttered. "I didn't fucking want any of this."
But that didn't matter.
Because it was already his.
And she was already his—Sebastian's.
He let his head thump lightly against the wall. Once. Twice.
Just enough to feel it.
He was unraveling.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
And no one could see it from the outside.
Not yet.
But if he sat here long enough…
He was afraid even he might not be able to put the pieces back.
---
When the last bell rang, Kit still hadn't moved.
He walked home with his hood up, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk. The sky above him bruised into a darker gray, as if the sun had given up trying to shine through.
Every step felt heavier.
Every breath more borrowed than real.
By the time the Honey estate came into view, he could already feel its grip tightening around his ribs.
That place didn't need locks to be a prison.
It was the lock.
And he was the key they kept twisting.
The front door creaked open.
"Adrian's home," Sebastian called lazily from the sitting room.
Kit froze on the threshold.
"Good. Bring him in," came their father's voice—sharp and distant, like the crack of a gavel.
Sebastian appeared in the hall, slow and smug, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he'd just finished handling something delicate.
Like Delorah.
"Didn't get much sleep?" he asked with mock concern. "I wonder why."
Kit shoved past him hard enough to catch his shoulder.
He didn't care if it left a bruise.
Their father sat near the fireplace, bourbon in hand, tie loosened but presence taut as ever. His eyes tracked Kit with cool precision—scalpel-sharp and full of expectation.
"Sit."
Kit didn't.
Just stood there, dripping with silent defiance.
"I heard about your outing. With Delorah."
Kit's fists curled. "And?"
"You've once again disrespected boundaries," his father said, tone eerily calm. "Sebastian is engaged. Stay away from the girl."
"You signed something too, didn't you?" Kit snapped. "With the Windsor family."
For once, the silence from his father was confirmation.
A slow sip of bourbon. No denial. Just the taste of control.
"I didn't get a choice."
"Neither did I," his father shot back. "That's legacy."
"It's a prison."
That landed like a strike—but the old man barely blinked.
"You're still wearing the name. So act like it."
Dismissed.
Just like that.
Kit turned, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
The hallway stretched long and cold behind him.
His shoes didn't echo, but his name did.
Adrian.
Like a curse.
Like a summons.
Like the ghost he never asked to be.
He walked faster.
His nails dug into his palms until half-moons bled white.
The taste in his mouth was bitter—metallic, electric.
By the time he reached the second floor, he wasn't sure if he wanted to scream…
or set something on fire.
And in the hallway echoing behind him, that voice still rang: Adrian.
He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He just found his notebook, and wrote.
Kit's Private Journal — scrawled messily, ink blotched, page frayed at the edges
There's a moment—right before the crash—where everything feels like it might hold.
And then it doesn't.
I keep thinking if I stay quiet enough, still enough, I won't splinter. That maybe silence is the price for survival. But tonight, all I hear is the echo of her leaving.
I had her in my grip.
But I felt it.
She slipped.
And the worst part? I think I let her.
Maybe she saw something I didn't want to admit was still there. The rot. The smoke. The part of me that still answers to his name when it's barked down the hallway.
Adrian.
God, I hate that name. I hate the boy it belongs to. The one who didn't fight hard enough. The one who's always kneeling in some fucking way.
And she… Delorah… she looked at me like I was the villain in someone else's fairytale. I can't even blame her.
I just wanted to keep her close. And now I've set every demon in me loose.
I don't want to feel this anymore.
I don't want to be this anymore.
Maybe it's not love I need.
Maybe I just need relief.
Or maybe I just need to disappear for a while.
Until I can't hear myself thinking anymore.
Until the worst in me goes quiet.