One Week Later
I'm still getting used to being a Celestian.
The powers are the strangest part—this constant hum of energy under my skin that I'm learning to control. Small things mostly. Making objects float. Sensing emotions from people nearby. Accidentally causing flowers to bloom when I'm particularly happy.
That last one happened twice in the apartment and Keith thought it was hilarious.
The hair I'm still adjusting to. It's tied back today in a simple ponytail—Dylan showed me how—because I have class and I didn't want it getting in the way.
I catch myself in the reflection of a store window as I walk toward campus and pause.
Long hair. Same face. But mine now. I'm starting to believe that.
Constitutional Law is my first class of the day—the makeup lecture for the one I missed during the transformation.
Professor Morrison was surprisingly understanding when I emailed him explaining I'd had a "medical emergency." He didn't ask for details, just told me to feel better and come to the makeup session.
I slip into the lecture hall a few minutes early and find a seat near the middle.
Other students trickle in, most looking tired and stressed. Law school never really lets up.
"Cecil?"
I look up and see Sarah standing beside my row, looking hesitant.
"Sarah. Hi. How are you?"
"Good. Better." She gestures to the empty seat beside me. "Can I sit here?"
"Of course."
She settles in, setting her bag down and pulling out her laptop.
"I wanted to thank you again," she says quietly. "For what you did during the exam. I would have completely fallen apart if you hadn't helped me."
"I'm glad I could help. How did the exam go?"
"I actually finished it. Got a B-plus." She smiles—small but genuine. "Not perfect, but considering I had a panic attack in the middle of it, I'll take it."
"That's great."
She's quiet for a moment, then speaks again, her voice even softer. "I don't really have many friends here. Law school is... competitive. People don't really look out for each other, you know?"
I nod. I do know. I've mostly kept to myself since starting here.
"I was wondering if—" She stops, gathering courage. "Would you want to be friends? Like actual friends? Not just people who happen to sit next to each other sometimes?"
The vulnerability in her question makes my chest tight.
She's asking for connection. For someone to trust.
And I remember what that felt like. To be alone and desperate for someone to see you.
"I'd like that," I say honestly. "I could use more friends too."
Her smile widens, relief clear on her face. "Really?"
"Really."
Professor Morrison arrives and the lecture begins, but I notice Sarah relaxing beside me in a way she wasn't before.
Like having one friend makes the weight of everything else slightly more bearable.
I understand that feeling completely.
---
Over the next few days, Sarah and I fall into an easy friendship.
We study together in the library. Get coffee between classes. Text each other memes about the absurdity of law school.
It's nice. Normal. A piece of my mortal life that remains unchanged despite everything else that's transformed.
But I start noticing things.
The way Sarah flinches when someone raises their voice.
The way she constantly checks her phone with an expression of dread.
The bruises.
She tries to hide them—long sleeves even when it's warm, carefully applied makeup on her wrists.
But I see them anyway.
And I recognize the signs because I've lived them myself.
Not physical abuse—my father's cruelty was verbal, emotional, financial.
But abuse nonetheless.
It takes three days before I work up the courage to ask.
We're in the library, supposedly studying for our Evidence exam, when I notice a new bruise on her forearm that her sleeve didn't quite cover.
"Sarah," I say quietly. "Can I ask you something?"
She looks up from her textbook, immediately tense. "What?"
"Are you safe at home?"
Her face goes pale. "What do you mean?"
"The bruises. The way you flinch. The way you check your phone like you're expecting bad news." I keep my voice gentle. "I'm not judging. I just want to know if you're okay."
For a long moment, she doesn't answer.
Then her eyes fill with tears.
"No," she whispers. "I'm not okay."
---
The story comes out in pieces over the next hour.
Her mother left when Sarah was fifteen—just disappeared one day, couldn't take it anymore.
Her father has been taking out his anger on Sarah ever since.
Not every day. Not even every week. But enough that she's constantly on edge, constantly waiting for the next explosion.
She's tried to leave. But she's paying for law school with loans and a part-time job and can't afford an apartment on her own.
She's looked into shelters but they're always full.
She's trapped.
And she's terrified.
"I'm going to help you," I say when she finishes, my voice firm.
"You can't—"
"I can. And I will." My mind is already working through possibilities. "I have a friend—Naomi. Her roommate just moved out to live with her boyfriend. She's looking for someone to take over the room."
Sarah's eyes widen. "I can't afford—"
"We'll figure out the money. Maybe Naomi can lower the rent, or we can find you more work-study hours, or—something. We'll figure it out." I take her hand across the table. "You don't have to stay there, Sarah. You don't have to keep living like this."
"My dad won't just let me leave. He'll—" Her voice breaks. "He'll come after me. Demand I come back. Make a scene."
An idea forms.
Not a great idea. Possibly a terrible idea.
But an idea nonetheless.
"What if you had a reason he couldn't argue with? A boyfriend who insisted you move in with him or his friend? Someone he couldn't intimidate?"
Sarah looks at me, understanding dawning. "You want to pretend we're together."
"Just until you're safely out. Just so he has a reason that isn't 'I hate you and I'm leaving.' Something he can tell people that doesn't make him look like the villain."
"That's... actually smart." She wipes at her eyes. "Are you sure? It's a lot to ask."
"You didn't ask. I offered." I squeeze her hand. "Let me help you, Sarah. Please."
She takes a shaky breath. "Okay. Okay, yes. Thank you."
I pull out my phone and text Naomi.
*Hey, are you still looking for a roommate?*
Her response comes almost immediately.
*YES! Laura officially moved out yesterday and I'm drowning in rent. Why?*
*I have a friend who needs a place. Can we come by today to talk about it?*
*Absolutely! Come whenever! I'm home all day!*
I show Sarah the texts. "Can you leave today? Like right now?"
"I don't have much stuff. Most of my clothes, my laptop, some books." She swallows hard. "But my dad picks me up after class today. He always does on Thursdays."
"Then we'll deal with that. We'll make it convincing."
"You're really okay with this?"
"I'm really okay with this."
She nods, gathering her courage. "Okay. Let's do it."
---
We spend the rest of the day preparing.
Sarah packs the essentials from her dorm room—she lives on campus but goes home on weekends and some weeknights when her father demands it.
I text Naomi the full situation, and she responds with a string of heart emojis and a message saying she'll make sure the room is ready.
And then it's time.
Sarah's father picks her up at 5 PM every Thursday from the main campus entrance.
We arrive at 4:55 PM.
"Are you sure about this?" Sarah asks, her hand trembling in mine.
We're holding hands. Selling the story.
"I'm sure. Just follow my lead."
At exactly 5 PM, a dark SUV pulls up to the curb.
A man gets out—tall, heavy-set, with a hard expression and cold eyes.
Sarah tenses immediately.
"There he is," she whispers.
"I've got you," I murmur back.
Her father approaches, his gaze immediately landing on our joined hands.
"Sarah. Who's this?"
"Dad, this is Cecil. My boyfriend." Her voice only shakes a little. "Cecil, this is my father."
I extend my free hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."
He doesn't shake it. Just stares at me with barely concealed hostility.
"Boyfriend. Since when?"
"A few weeks," Sarah says. "We met in class."
"And you didn't think to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now." She lifts her chin slightly—a small act of defiance. "Cecil's friend has a room available and I'm going to move in. Closer to campus. Better for studying."
Her father's expression darkens. "You're not moving anywhere."
"Actually, I am." Sarah's voice is stronger now. "I'm an adult. I can make my own decisions."
"Not while I'm paying for your education—"
"You're not paying for my education," Sarah interrupts. "I am. With loans and work-study. You've never contributed a cent."
His jaw clenches. "Get in the car, Sarah."
"No."
"Get. In. The. Car."
I step slightly in front of Sarah, still holding her hand. "She said no."
Her father's attention shifts fully to me, and I see rage flickering in his eyes.
"You think you can take my daughter from me?"
"I think Sarah is an adult who can make her own choices. And she's choosing to leave."
He takes a step toward me, and I feel that new Celestian energy surge under my skin—protective, powerful.
I don't do anything visible. Don't show my powers.
But something in my stance must change because he stops.
"You'll regret this," he says, his voice low and threatening.
"The only thing I'd regret is not helping her," I say calmly.
We stand there for a long moment—him radiating fury, me standing my ground, Sarah trembling but not backing down.
Finally, he gets back in his SUV.
"This isn't over," he says through the window.
Then he drives away.
Sarah collapses against me the moment he's out of sight, shaking with adrenaline and relief.
"You did it," I murmur. "You're free."
"Oh my god," she gasps. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just did that."
"You were so brave."
She pulls back, wiping at her eyes. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Come on. Let's get you to Naomi's place."
What I don't notice—what I'm completely oblivious to—is the car parked across the street.
The car with Keith in the driver's seat and Dylan in the passenger seat.
The car they drove here to surprise me by picking me up after class.
The car they've been sitting in for the past ten minutes.
Watching me hold hands with a girl.
Watching me act like her boyfriend.
Watching me stand protectively in front of her while facing down her aggressive father.
I don't notice them at all.
I'm too focused on Sarah, on getting her safely to Naomi's, on making sure she's okay.
---
Naomi's apartment is exactly as I remember—bright, cheerful, covered in photos and plants.
Naomi herself opens the door before we even knock, bouncing with excitement.
"Sarah! Cecil! Come in, come in!"
We step inside and Naomi immediately pulls Sarah into a hug.
"I'm so glad you're here. Cecil told me what's been happening and I just want you to know—you're safe now. Completely safe."
Sarah looks overwhelmed. "Thank you. I don't know how to—"
"No thanks needed. We look out for each other." Naomi pulls back and then pauses, really looking at Sarah.
"Oh my god," she says. "You're one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen."
Sarah's face goes bright red. "I—what?"
"Seriously. You're gorgeous. How did I not notice immediately? I was too busy hugging you." Naomi is completely unselfconscious about the compliment. "Okay, come on, let me show you your room!"
She grabs Sarah's hand and pulls her deeper into the apartment, chattering about rent splitting and house rules and where the best takeout places are nearby.
I follow behind, smiling at Sarah's flustered expression and Naomi's enthusiastic welcome.
This is going to work.
Sarah is going to be safe.
And Naomi clearly already adores her.
We spend the next hour getting Sarah settled—helping her unpack the few things she brought, explaining how everything in the apartment works, ordering pizza for dinner.
By the time I'm ready to leave, Sarah looks more relaxed than I've ever seen her.
"Thank you," she says again, hugging me at the door. "For everything. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."
"You don't have to repay me. Just be safe. Be happy. That's enough."
Naomi appears behind Sarah. "I'll take good care of her, I promise."
"I know you will."
I head home feeling good about the day. Accomplished. Like I've made a real difference in someone's life.
Like maybe Tenebrae was right.
Like maybe I can help people carry their pain.
The feeling lasts all the way until I unlock the apartment door and step inside.
Keith and Dylan are sitting on the couch.
Waiting.
Not watching TV. Not reading. Not doing anything except sitting there, staring at the door.
At me.
"Hey," I say, suddenly nervous at their expressions. "I didn't know you'd be home. I was helping a friend—"
"We know," Keith says, his voice carefully neutral. "We saw."
My stomach drops.
"Saw what?"
"You," Dylan says. "With that girl. Holding her hand. Acting like her boyfriend. Staring down her father."
Oh.
*Oh no.*
"That's not—it's not what it looked like—"
"Then what was it?" Keith asks, and there's something raw in his voice that makes my chest tight.
I close the door behind me, my mind racing.
How do I explain this?
How do I make them understand that what they saw wasn't what they think?
"Can I explain?" I ask quietly. "Please?"
They exchange a glance—one of those silent conversations.
Then Dylan gestures to the armchair across from the couch. "Explain."
I sit down, gathering my thoughts, preparing to tell them everything.
About Sarah. About the abuse. About the plan to get her somewhere safe.
About why I did what I did.
And hoping—desperately hoping—that they'll understand.