The Letters In His Desk - Pt. 2

Ethan stands at the bathroom mirror already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted gray pullover, the collar slightly uneven where he pulled it on too quickly and never fixed it. The fluorescent light above the sink hums softly, washing the small bathroom in a pale glare that makes everything look sharper and a little more tired than it really is. He tilts his chin up and drags the razor carefully along the uneven line of hair at the base of his neck, moving slowly and deliberately as if precision alone will keep him from messing it up. A thin streak of shaving cream clings just beneath his jaw, and he leans closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. He presses a little too hard and feels the faint sting of it, quickly adjusting his grip with a quiet breath through his nose. The scrape of the blade against his skin sounds louder in the morning stillness, and he focuses on that instead of the thoughts trying to crowd in.

The doorframe creaks softly when Adrian appears behind him, the subtle shift in presence noticeable in the mirror before Ethan fully processes it. Adrian's sleeves are rolled neatly to his forearms, his tie hanging loose around his collar as though he has paused midway through getting ready. He doesn't say anything at first. He simply watches for a moment, taking in the careful angle of Ethan's wrist and the slight tension held in his shoulders. His expression is thoughtful rather than critical, but there is something measured in the way he stands there, like he is choosing his words before speaking.

"You're going to cut yourself if you keep holding it like that," Adrian says finally, his tone calm but firm as he steps closer.

He reaches for a towel and gently turns Ethan by the shoulder so he can see better, the movement firm but careful, guiding rather than correcting. Ethan stiffens at first out of instinct, then relaxes with a small, reluctant exhale as he lets the razor slip from his fingers into his father's hand. A flicker of embarrassment crosses his face, quick and hard to read, the kind that comes from wanting to prove he can handle things on his own and knowing he is not quite there yet. Adrian adjusts Ethan's chin slightly with the edge of his knuckles, angling his face toward the light, studying the uneven strip of shaving cream with quiet concentration. He works in slow, deliberate strokes, drawing the blade downward with steady pressure before rinsing it under warm water, tapping it once against the sink to clear the excess. Each pass is careful and controlled, wiping away the remaining cream with the towel between strokes, the rhythm unhurried and practiced, as though this small act of grooming is something solid and manageable in a morning that feels less certain.

The mirror reflects them standing close in the narrow bathroom, their shoulders nearly touching beneath the harsh fluorescent light. Ethan watches their reflections rather than turning his head, noticing how similar the line of their jaws looks at that angle, how the crease between his father's brows deepens when he concentrates. The air feels warmer than it should in such a small space, thick with the faint scent of shaving cream and aftershave. Neither of them speaks, yet the silence is not empty. It stretches heavier than usual, threaded with the unfinished edges of last night's conversation and the things neither of them knows how to say without making them more real. The only sounds are the soft rush of water, the scrape of the blade, and the steady hum of the light overhead, all of it underscoring the tension that lingers just beneath the surface.

"About what you told me," Adrian begins, keeping his eyes on the task as he guides the razor in another slow pass, "sometimes your mind latches onto things when you're stressed. It takes a small detail and stretches it until it feels bigger than it actually is." His tone is steady, almost clinical, like he is explaining something procedural instead of personal. "You've been under pressure. School, college applications, everything else. Your brain fills in gaps when it's tired."

Ethan's gaze remains fixed on his own reflection, watching the movement of his father's hands rather than looking at him directly. His jaw tightens slightly, the muscle feathering beneath his skin as he swallows back the urge to argue harder. He studies the mirrored version of himself instead, focusing on the set of his shoulders and the way his expression has gone carefully blank. It is easier to look at glass and light than to turn his head and risk meeting his father's eyes.

"It didn't feel stretched," he says quietly after a moment. "It didn't feel like a gap being filled. It felt real."

Adrian's expression hardens just slightly, not in anger but in resistance, as if the word real complicates something he would rather simplify. He finishes the last careful stroke and wipes Ethan's neck clean with the towel, pressing a little firmer than necessary before stepping back half an inch.

"It doesn't mean it was," he replies, his voice measured but thinner now. "Sometimes things feel real because you believe them hard enough. That doesn't make them true." He clears his throat and turns to rinse the razor under the running water, watching the foam spiral down the drain. "You've got school. You've got friends. You've got a normal life. Focus on that. Let your head reset. Don't carry this around like it's something you have to solve."

He sets the razor down carefully, almost precisely, and straightens, reaching up to adjust the knot of his tie with a small, absent tug. The motion is slightly off, uneven, and he has to redo it. For a second, he just stands there, eyes flicking toward Ethan's reflection and then away again, as though there is something else he intends to say but cannot quite line up properly in his mouth. The silence stretches, awkward and exposed.

"I just—" Adrian starts, then stops. He presses his lips together briefly, glancing toward the doorway. "You're fine," he says instead, though it sounds more like something he is trying to convince himself of.

Another pause settles between them, lingering just long enough to feel intentional rather than accidental. He shifts his weight slightly, the floor creaking under his heel, and rubs the back of his neck in a rare tell of discomfort that he probably does not realize he is showing. His gaze drifts toward the doorway and then back again, as if measuring the distance between leaving and staying. When he finally speaks, the words come out in a tone that feels practiced rather than natural.

"I love you," he says, the phrase landing stiffly in the air, almost out of place. It lacks the easy warmth other fathers seem to manage; it sounds like a responsibility fulfilled rather than a feeling expressed. His eyes do not hold Ethan's for long after he says it. They drop, then slide toward the door.

He nods once, curt and abrupt, as if that settles something, and turns toward the hallway before the silence can demand more from him. He leaves without waiting for a reply, footsteps fading down the stairs, the faint click of dishes in the kitchen starting up as though the moment never happened at all.

Ethan remains at the sink for longer than necessary, fingers brushing absently along the smooth line of his neck where the razor passed, as if checking for proof that the moment actually happened. His father does not say those words often, not in passing and not without some visible effort, and the rarity of them leaves a faint imbalance in the air that does not settle easily. It is not warmth exactly that he feels, though there is some of that, buried beneath layers of confusion and suspicion. It is the sense that something prompted it, that affection was pulled forward for a reason rather than offered freely. He studies his reflection, pale blue eyes scanning his own face for clues he cannot articulate. He looks tall even slightly hunched over, shoulders rounded inward the way they tend to be in crowded spaces, as though shrinking an inch might make him less noticeable. He has never liked being looked at for too long. Attention clings to him in ways he does not understand, and it makes his chest tighten when it lingers. After a moment, he dries his hands, grabs his keys from the counter downstairs, and steps outside into the cold morning air, the quiet of the house sealing itself behind him like it is holding something in.

The drive to McAfee High is familiar enough that he barely registers the turns, his mind replaying the bathroom conversation in fragments. The low winter sky presses down in a dull gray sheet as he pulls into the student parking lot, the Mustang's engine rumbling steadily beneath him before he shuts it off. For a second, he stays in the driver's seat with both hands resting on the wheel, staring through the windshield at the entrance where clusters of students gather in loud, shifting pockets. School has always been complicated for him. He is good in a crisis, steady when something real demands action, but hallways full of eyes and half-heard conversations make his pulse jump for reasons he cannot logically justify. He overthinks what he says before he says it and replays it afterward anyway. He prefers the quiet predictability of swim practice, the clear lanes and measurable effort, to the unpredictable choreography of teenage social hierarchies. With a slow breath, he steps out of the car, locks it, and starts toward the building, a long stride slightly shortened by the unconscious curve of his posture.

He almost makes it to the steps without incident. Almost. The sound of his name cuts through the noise in a tone that carries more performance than greeting, and his stomach drops before he even turns his head. He keeps walking at first, pretending not to hear, hoping indifference will dissolve the moment before it forms. It never does. A hand grips the back of his jacket and yanks him sharply to a stop, fabric tightening against his throat for a split second before he regains his balance. Laughter flickers at the edges of the growing circle, not loud yet but anticipatory. Ethan feels the familiar spike of heat crawl up his spine, not anger exactly but the dread of being observed, of becoming the center of something he did not choose. He hates this part most, the way eyes gather and wait. The boy holding him steps closer, smirking, invading his space with deliberate ease. Ethan can feel his breath, hear the faint edge of mockery in it, and he forces his expression into something neutral, something that will not give them more than they already have.

"Heard you've been seeing things for a few weeks," the bully mutters, voice edged with amusement. "You losing it or something?"

Heat crawls up Ethan's spine in a slow, unwelcome wave, settling between his shoulders and tightening the muscles along his jaw as he braces for the shove that seems inevitable. He knows the rhythm of this too well, the brief taunt followed by a physical push designed less to hurt and more to humiliate. His pulse pounds in his ears, and he can already imagine the stumble backward, the laughter that would follow, the way his height makes any loss of balance look exaggerated. He hates the audience most of all. He hates that even when he tries to keep his head down, something about him draws the spotlight anyway. His fingers flex at his sides, not quite fists, as he prepares to absorb it.

Before the shove can land, an arm snakes around the bully's neck from behind in one smooth, confident motion, locking into place with startling ease. The movement is controlled rather than violent, Marcus stepping in close enough that their bodies nearly touch, one broad arm hooked securely while his other hand settles against the boy's shoulder as if they are old friends greeting each other. The sudden shift in balance forces the bully back a half step, and the crowd murmurs in surprise as Marcus leans in, close enough that his voice brushes the other boy's ear.

"Wow," Marcus says loudly, his tone layered with exaggerated sweetness as he tightens his hold just enough to keep the boy still, "if you wanted Ethan's attention this badly, you could've just written him a note."

A few students snort with laughter, uncertain at first whether this is a fight or a performance. Marcus makes the decision for them. He adjusts his grip slightly, sliding his hand from the bully's shoulder to the front of his chest in a dramatic, almost affectionate pat, fingers splayed as if smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. The contact is deliberate, lingering just long enough to be uncomfortable without crossing into actual harm.

"It's actually kind of brave," Marcus continues, lowering his voice in pitch but not in volume, ensuring everyone can still hear every word. He tilts his head, studying the boy's face with theatrical admiration. "Public confessions are so vulnerable. You really just grabbed him in front of everyone. That's bold."

The laughter grows louder now, less hesitant. Marcus shifts again, this time resting his chin briefly near the bully's shoulder in a mockingly intimate pose, as though they are slow dancing instead of standing on the front steps of the school. His hand drifts up to lightly tap the boy's jaw.

"You've got strong hands too," he adds, grinning. "Very passionate energy. I respect it."

The bully stiffens visibly, color flooding up his neck and into his cheeks as the dynamic flips entirely against him. He tries to twist free, but Marcus only tightens his hold for a second longer, not enough to hurt, just enough to maintain control while maintaining the bit.

"Aw, don't be shy now," Marcus says with a faux pout. "You started this."

The circle around them is openly laughing now, the sharp, anticipatory tension that had crackled a moment ago dissolving into bright, delighted noise. A few students who had been filming lower their phones, grinning at one another because this has turned into something far more entertaining than a shove in the hallway. The bully shoves backward hard to break free, nearly tangling his own feet in his rush to create distance. His face is still flushed, blotchy with embarrassment, and he throws a quick, uncertain glance around as if searching for someone to anchor him. He mutters something sharp and defensive under his breath— too low to be convincing, too fast to be clever —before retreating toward the parking lot, shoulders rigid and spine locked straight beneath the weight of amused stares that follow him all the way to the doors.

Marcus straightens slowly, unhurried, like a performer savoring the last beat of applause. He smooths a hand over his sleeve and brushes his palms together as if he's just finished handling something mildly inconvenient, his expression settling into calm satisfaction with a faint, crooked edge of smugness. For a second, he scans the crowd, offering a lazy half-shrug that says show's over without needing words. The energy disperses almost immediately— students peeling away in clusters, laughter tapering into murmurs, the hallway reclaiming its usual noise. The performance is done, the fight that never happened already slipping into rumor, and Marcus stands at the center of it like he planned the whole thing.

Marcus brushes imaginary dust from his sleeve with theatrical precision, chin tipped upward as though he's just concluded something far more dignified than hallway chaos. Then he hooks an arm around Ethan's shoulders, solid and unyielding, steering him forward with an ease that makes it clear the gesture isn't optional. There's still a faint charge in his posture— adrenaline not fully burned off— but his grip is steady, grounding rather than forceful.

"You really need to screen your fan club," Marcus says lightly as they push through the double doors. "Maybe background checks. A short essay question. 'Why do you deserve Ethan's attention?' Minimum five hundred words."

The hallway swallows them in noise. Lockers slam in uneven percussion, laughter ricochets off tile, and someone down the corridor drops a metal water bottle that skitters loudly across the floor. Ethan keeps his eyes forward, shoulders angled inward just slightly, instinctively minimizing himself even in motion. The earlier heat in his spine has cooled into something tighter and quieter— an internal replay already beginning, each second of the encounter dissected for missed cues, missteps, alternate outcomes.

They reach his locker, and before he can even turn the dial, Julian "Jules" Rivera barrels into the space with kinetic energy that feels almost rehearsed. His bracelets clink as he gestures, then pause mid-motion while he subtly straightens them into symmetrical lines along his wrist. His shirt is bright, layered, unapologetically loud against the sterile hallway backdrop.

"I go to refill my water bottle," Julian says rapidly, hands moving as fast as his words, "and I come back to a live-action romance subplot? Without me? That's betrayal." He bumps Ethan lightly with his hip, grin wide and theatrical, but his eyes are scanning in quick, quiet checks— hands steady? Breathing normal? No tremor in the jaw? He adjusts one bracelet again, then the hem of his sleeve, then clears his throat as if the world has finally settled into the correct alignment.

Sienna Cross approaches with none of Julian's noise but a presence that settles just as quickly. She doesn't rush; she glides the last few steps, exchanging a passing comment with someone near the lockers before pivoting smoothly into their circle like she's been invited there all along. Her auburn hair falls over one shoulder in an easy wave, catching the fluorescent light as she adjusts the strap of her bag and lets it slide to the floor at her feet. Silver rings flash when she lifts a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then folds her arms loosely— not guarded, just comfortable.

She leans one shoulder against the lockers beside Ethan's, angling herself so she can see both him and the thinning crowd without looking like she's trying. There's nothing clinical about her attention; it's social, instinctive. She tracks the way a cluster of juniors glance over and immediately start whispering. She notices who laughs too loud, who avoids eye contact entirely. The story is already moving, and Sienna can almost hear the shape of it forming.

"That wasn't impulsive," she says after a moment, voice calm but edged with quiet certainty. "Devon's been working up to that for weeks. He just finally decided he had a big enough audience." She tilts her head slightly, lips pressing into a faint, knowing smile. "Which means he thought he'd win."

Her gaze flicks to Marcus, not accusatory— more amused —then back to Ethan. Marcus exhales through his nose, leaning back against the lockers opposite them, boots planted wide and arms folding over his chest. There's still heat in him, a protective tension that hasn't completely drained away, but it's settling into something steadier now. "Yeah, well," he mutters, jaw flexing once before it relaxes, "he miscalculated."

Ethan works the locker combination slowly, fingers steady on the dial as each metallic click cuts cleanly through the hallway noise. The numbers come automatically, familiar enough that he doesn't have to think about them, and he lets the small, predictable sequence anchor him. When the lock releases, he pulls the door open and uses the brief barrier of metal to collect himself, expression settling back into something neutral.

He slides his books inside without rush, stacking them in a way that makes sense to him— math with science, history tucked beside English —adjusting a binder slightly when it threatens to tip. It's not about perfection; it's about steadiness. The simple act of putting things where they belong gives his thoughts a place to land. The hallway still hums with leftover energy, but here, in this narrow slice of space, everything feels contained.

He listens more than he speaks, letting Julian's rapid commentary and Sienna's easy confidence fill the air. He tracks tone and timing automatically— who laughed first, how loud Devon's voice had been, how quickly Marcus stepped in. His mind turns it over not compulsively, just thoroughly. He likes understanding the shape of things. It makes them less unpredictable.

Avery Lin steps into the space beside him without hesitation, and the group subtly shifts to accommodate her. No one announces it; they just adjust, like they always do. She carries herself with sharp, deliberate posture, a braid neat down her back, sweater sleeves uncreased despite the traffic of the hallway. There's something composed about her presence that cuts through the lingering chaos.

Her notebook is already open before she speaks, thumb marking her place as she flips to a fresh page. The pen rests poised between her fingers, not impatient, just ready. She looks at Ethan directly, assessing without dramatizing, her attention focused and unwavering as if the hallway noise has simply ceased to matter.

"Start from the beginning," Avery says evenly, her eyes fixed on Ethan's face rather than the blank page waiting beneath her pen. "Exact phrasing. Volume level. Approximate distance between you. And whether there were witnesses within immediate earshot."

Her tone isn't cold, but it isn't gentle either. It's structured and intentional. She stands angled slightly toward him, blocking out some of the hallway traffic without seeming to, creating a smaller pocket of space for the conversation. There's no visible sympathy in her expression— no widened eyes, no dramatic concern —but there's focus. The kind that sharpens rather than soothes. It's care filtered through logic, through problem-solving. If there's a threat, she wants it mapped.

Julian groans under his breath, dragging a hand down his face before immediately readjusting the bracelets on his wrist so they sit evenly again. "We're taking witness statements now?" he mutters. "Do I need to raise my right hand? Is there a jury? Because I did not dress for court today."

Avery doesn't so much as glance at him. "Yes," she replies calmly. "Because patterns matter. Escalation follows structure. If Devon's proximity or aggression increases over time, that's measurable." She flips her pen once between her fingers, then stills it. "We can't respond effectively to something vague."

Marcus shifts where he's leaning against the lockers, arms folding tighter. "He's a jerk," he says flatly. "There's your pattern."

"That's not a pattern," Avery counters, adjusting her glasses with a precise touch. "That's a personality assessment. I'm asking about behavioral trajectory." Her gaze never leaves Ethan. "Did he initiate physical contact before Marcus intervened? Even minor— shoulder check, grab, blocking your path?"

Sienna's mouth curves faintly, one brow lifting as she tilts her head. "You realize most people would start with 'are you okay,'" she says lightly, though there's curiosity threaded through it rather than criticism.

Avery's expression doesn't shift. "He is," she says simply. "His breathing is steady. No visible tremor. No avoidance of eye contact." A small pause. "What I need to determine is whether this was opportunistic or strategic." Her pen hovers just above the page. "Random hostility is one thing. Targeted escalation is another."

Ethan finally closes the locker door gently, the metallic click sealing the small orbit they've formed in the middle of the hallway. The sound is soft but definitive, a clean punctuation mark in the noise. He draws in a slow breath through his nose, letting it out slower, steadying the tightness that's still sitting just beneath his ribs. His gaze stays forward, not quite meeting anyone's eyes, like he's replaying it frame by frame to make sure he gets it right. There's no dramatics in his posture, no visible shake— just a deliberate calm that takes effort to maintain.

"He didn't start with my dad for once," Ethan says finally, voice controlled but quieter than before. "He asked if I was losing my mind." He swallows once, jaw tightening faintly before he continues. "Said I've been 'seeing things.'" His fingers curl slightly against the strap of his bag. "Then he got up in my face. Didn't touch me— only when he grabbed me to stop me from walking away."

Avery's pen moves in small, precise strokes across the page, the quiet scratch of ink unnervingly steady against the distant clamor of lockers and voices. She doesn't gasp. She doesn't curse. She doesn't even blink faster. But there's a shift in her posture— minute, almost imperceptible —as her shoulders square and her focus sharpens into something razor-thin. The question she asks next is calm and controlled.

"Volume?" she says without looking down.

"Little loud," Ethan replies after a second, the word chosen carefully. "Loud enough to gain student attention. Not loud enough to get flagged by a teacher." His gaze drifts briefly past Avery's shoulder toward the bend in the hallway where Devon disappeared earlier, like he can still see the shape of him there. "He wanted them to listen."

Marcus's jaw tightens again, the muscle along his cheek jumping once before he forces it still. His hands curl briefly against his biceps where his arms are crossed, boots planted firm against the lockers as if anchoring himself in place. He wants to say something —wants to tear this apart, to go find Devon and end it in the most direct way possible —but he doesn't. He keeps his mouth shut. His eyes stay on Ethan instead, watchful and protective, the kind of quiet that means he's choosing restraint on purpose.

"And prior to today?" Avery continues, her tone level, almost conversational despite the sharpness underneath it. "Any contact? Any explicit threats? Has he said anything similar before—about you losing your mind, seeing things, acting unstable?" The questions come measured and sequential, each one building off the last with deliberate structure. She doesn't rush him. She just holds the space steady and waits.

"Geez, Avery," Julian mutters under his breath, shifting his weight against the lockers. He drags a hand down his face, not quite looking at Ethan but hovering close enough to step in if needed. "You trying to make him feel bad?"

It's not sharp, exactly. More frayed at the edges than accusatory. Julian's voice carries that uneven thread of someone who doesn't know how to sit still inside tension like this, someone who hears the precision in Avery's questions and mistakes it for pressure instead of care. He shifts his weight, heel thudding lightly against the locker behind him, arms crossing and uncrossing like he can't quite decide where to put his hands. The fluorescent lights above them hum faintly, the sound stretching thin across the silence that follows his comment. Marcus's jaw tightens again but he stays quiet, eyes moving between Avery and Ethan like he's tracking something fragile. Sienna exhales softly through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite impatience.

Avery doesn't snap back. She doesn't even look offended. Her gaze shifts to Julian slowly, deliberately, assessing without being cruel, as if she's cataloging his interruption and filing it away for later analysis. There's no flare of temper, no defensive edge— just a brief, silent acknowledgment before her attention returns to Ethan with laser steadiness. She knows the difference between confrontation and clarity, and she refuses to dilute one for the comfort of the other. Her notebook remains poised in her hand for a second longer, pen hovering, but she isn't looking at the page anymore. She's looking at Ethan, watching, measuring the microexpressions he probably doesn't realize he's broadcasting.

It's subtle— barely there —but Avery sees it. The fractional pause before he answers stretches just a beat too long, like a skipped frame in a film. His shoulders don't tense the way they would if he were afraid of Devon; they settle instead, a quiet inward bracing, as though the threat lives somewhere closer to home. His fingers flex once at his sides, not defensive but grounding, like he's steadying himself against a memory rather than a person. His eyes shift— not away, not evasive, but inward, unfocusing for half a second before sharpening again. The air between them tightens, fine as pulled wire. That's when she lowers the notebook, the soft thud of it hitting her thigh unnaturally loud in the narrow pocket of silence they've carved out.

She steps closer, closing the distance without hesitation. The movement is calm enough that no one immediately reacts, though Marcus straightens slightly and Julian's mouth parts as if to say something else. Avery lifts her hand to Ethan's face, fingers cool where they press lightly against the line of his jaw, her thumb settling just beneath his cheekbone. It isn't a romantic gesture. She angles his head downward with gentle insistence until he can't avoid her gaze, until he's forced to meet her eyes fully instead of hovering somewhere near her shoulder. Her touch isn't restraining him; it's anchoring him. And when she speaks again, her voice has shifted— quieter now, but edged with something sharper than before.

"You're not telling me everything. This isn't just about Devon."

For a moment, the hallway fades— not because it's silent, but because her attention is absolute. She reads him the way other people read text, tracking the smallest inconsistencies the way others might notice spelling errors. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth doesn't escape her. Neither does the way his eyes lose focus for half a second before sharpening again, like he's pushing something back behind a door and locking it quickly. His breathing stays even, but too measured, like he's conscious of it. She's seen that look before— the careful calm, the deliberate smoothing over. It isn't panic, it's concealment. And she knows the difference.

"I'm fine."

The words come fast, clean, almost rehearsed. Ethan gently removes her hand from his face— not irritated, not defensive —and lets it fall between them. He offers a small shrug, a faint smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Seriously. I feel fine. It's not a big deal." He keeps his tone level, almost light, like he's trying to shrink the moment down to something harmless. Around them, lockers slam and voices rise, the ordinary chaos of the hallway pressing in again as if nothing unusual is happening. On the surface, he looks composed. Grounded, perfectly steady.

Avery doesn't blink. "That's not true."

"It's handled," Ethan replies instead, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. The motion is small, almost absentminded, but it gives him something to do with his hands— something solid to focus on. His tone stays even, controlled down to the last syllable, but there's an unmistakable edge of finality threaded through it now, a quiet closing of a door he doesn't intend to reopen. He doesn't raise his voice, he doesn't look angry. If anything, he looks composed in a way that feels deliberate. "I've got it." The words are simple, but they land with weight, firm enough to signal that the conversation has reached its limit whether the rest of them agree or not.

And then he steps out of the circle.

It's not abrupt, nor dramatic. He doesn't shove past anyone or storm off in frustration. He just moves at the exact moment their hesitation creates an opening, slipping sideways and then forward, merging seamlessly into the steady current of students flowing toward the first period. Backpacks brush against him, voices overlap, the crowd swallowing him up with indifferent efficiency. Within seconds, he's just another figure in motion, shoulders squared, head forward, stride steady. If someone were watching from a distance, they'd see nothing unusual at all.

The circle that had formed around him doesn't collapse immediately; it just hangs there, hollowed out. The fluorescent lights seem harsher somehow, reflecting off the pale metal of the lockers. The background noise rushes back in, louder now that there's no focal point to absorb it. Marcus uncrosses his arms slowly, jaw tight, eyes still fixed on the spot where Ethan disappeared as if he might reemerge if watched hard enough. Julian exhales under his breath, the sound barely audible but heavy with something unresolved. Sienna shifts her weight, glancing between the others, uncertainty flickering across her face.

There's a beat where none of them speak. It stretches longer than it should— long enough for the bell warning to chime faintly down the hall, long enough for the crowd to thin just slightly as students funnel into classrooms. The absence Ethan leaves behind doesn't feel like relief. It feels like something unfinished, suspended mid-sentence. And whether any of them want to admit it or not, the certainty in his voice lingers in the air more than his footsteps ever did.

Julian's hands hover mid-adjustment over the layered bracelets at his wrist, the small metal charms clinking faintly before going still. "Oh," he says softly, the word falling flat in a way that immediately feels wrong coming from him. "That was...not good." He swallows, gaze drifting down the hallway where Ethan vanished as if he could rewind the last thirty seconds and listen again more carefully. "That was the 'I'm compartmentalizing and pretending I'm not' voice."

Sienna straightens from where she'd been leaning against the lockers, arms unfolding slowly across her chest. The casual ease she carries most of the time fades into something more deliberate, more thoughtful. "He redirected twice," she says, eyes narrowing slightly as she replays it in her head. She glances at Avery. "He didn't answer the second question." There's a faint crease between her brows now. "And he hates incomplete answers."

Marcus pushes off the wall immediately, boots hitting the floor with solid purpose. The decision shows in his posture before it reaches his face— direct, physical, actionable. "I'll get him to talk."

Avery snaps her notebook shut with a crisp, decisive sound that slices cleanly through the hallway noise. The sharp clap of it draws a few passing glances, but she doesn't notice. Her eyes remain fixed down the corridor long after Ethan has disappeared around the corner, as though she's still tracking something no one else can see. Her expression is composed, but tight at the edges— precision strained by something she doesn't like not being able to name. She calculates quickly, silently, weighing variables against behavior patterns.

"He won't," she says at last. "Not like that."

Julian looks between them, fingers finally dropping from his bracelets. "So what do we do?" he asks, quieter than before. "Because letting him marinate in silence feels...statistically bad." The attempt at humor lands thin, but the concern underneath it is unmistakable.

Avery inhales slowly, the breath measured and deliberate, as if she's containing something sharper beneath it. "If we push directly, he'll retreat further," she says, voice even but threaded with certainty. "He'll minimize. Reframe. Tell us we're overreacting." Her eyes flick briefly to where he disappeared, then shift to Marcus with pointed clarity. "If we leave him alone, it compounds. He doesn't vent. He stacks." She folds her arms loosely, more to anchor herself than to close off. "And he'll keep stacking it until something small tips it over."

No one argues.

"Get him to talk," Avery says, quieter now but firm. The directive isn't forceful— it's strategic. "Not an interrogation. Not a confrontation." Her gaze lingers on Marcus for half a beat longer, softening the command into something more collaborative. "Just stay close. Make space for it." Her jaw tightens slightly despite her effort to remain composed. "The longer he stays quiet, the worse it builds."

They start moving almost in unison, the decision made without being formally stated. The hallway has thinned now, most students already swallowed by classrooms, leaving behind the echo of lockers clicking shut and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Sienna falls into step first, adjusting her bag higher on her shoulder. Julian follows beside her, still quieter than usual, fingers absently brushing the beads at his wrist as his thoughts race ahead. Marcus lingers only half a second before turning toward the direction Ethan went, long strides already forming with intent. Avery walks with them, notebook tucked beneath her arm, expression composed but distant— calculating, replaying, filing.

Marcus angles slightly ahead of the group, pace picking up with purpose. Before he can take two full steps past them, Avery reaches out and catches him by the ear. He startles immediately. "Ow—what—"

She doesn't yank hard enough to hurt, but enough to redirect. She pulls him down just enough that he has to bend and meet her eyes at level. Up close, her expression is calm, but there's steel beneath it.

"Do not threaten Devon," she says in a low, precise voice. "Do not decide this is something you can solve with intimidation." Her grip tightens slightly for emphasis, just enough to ensure he understands she means every word. "Figure out what's wrong with Ethan."

Marcus holds her stare for a long second. The reactive spark in him— the instinct to confront, to protect through force —flares once behind his eyes before dimming. His shoulders ease a fraction. The tension redirects, reshapes itself into something more deliberate.

"...Yeah," he mutters. "Okay."

Avery studies him one beat longer, confirming the shift, then releases him. He straightens, rubbing his ear with a faint grimace, but he doesn't argue. The four of them resume walking, their footsteps echoing down the corridor toward separate classrooms and the same unspoken objective.

Marcus breaks from the group at the last intersection, turning down the science wing without another word. His stride is no longer aggressive, but it's still purposeful, controlled. He reaches the classroom door just as the final bell rings, the sharp tone echoing through the hallway. Slipping inside a second before it shuts, he scans the room once— quick, instinctive —until he finds Ethan already seated, posture composed, and gaze forward.

From the outside, nothing looks wrong at all with Ethan. However, inside, there's a storm brewing.