The summons came on a Tuesday.
A thin envelope in Theo's campus mailbox, folded too cleanly, like it had been handled by someone who wanted their professionalism mistaken for kindness.
Notice of Disciplinary Review.
Subject: Unlawful Assembly and Violation of Campus Code of Conduct.
Date: Friday, 9:30 AM.
He read it twice. Then again.
His first thought wasn't fear.
It was: Mara's going to hate this.
She did, but not for the reason he thought.
"I knew it would come," she said flatly, standing in her kitchen the next night, arms crossed over her chest like a shield.
"I just hoped they'd take a breath first."
Theo sat on the same couch he'd been on four nights ago, after she had pulled him from the edge of a protest and into the hush of her apartment. It felt smaller now. Or maybe the world outside had grown louder.
"You think they'll suspend me?"
Mara didn't answer right away. She walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside slightly, then let it fall again.
"I think they want to make an example out of someone," she said. "And you were holding the megaphone."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't even plan to speak."
"No one ever plans to become the face of something."
A pause.
Then, softer, "I'm proud of you, Theo."
He looked up at her, surprised.
"I mean it," she said. "You were brave. Clear. That crowd listened. But systems don't reward clarity. They punish disruption, even when it's peaceful."
Theo stared at the table. "I just don't want this to be the thing that defines me."
"Then don't let it," she said. "Use it. Name it. Don't let anyone else tell your story."
---
That same day, across town, Mara stepped into her precinct's back hallway—low ceilings, bad coffee, the smell of paper and worn leather. Two of her colleagues were talking just outside the briefing room.
"…guess that's what happens when you spend too much time around undergrads," one said.
She didn't look at them, but she heard it.
The same tone she'd learned to decode years ago. Not outright accusation—just the slow-dripping poison of implication.
She stepped past them, jaw tight, and pushed through the door. Captain Stan was waiting at the head of the table.
"We need to talk about last weekend," he said, his tone clipped.
"I de-escalated a volatile protest without force," Mara replied. "Exactly what we're trained to do."
"You also walked a student away from the scene. Off duty. In plain clothes. Into your own car."
"I protected him from being mishandled."
"You made yourself part of the story, Delaney."
There it was.
She said nothing.
"Be careful, Delaney," he said, almost gently. "People are starting to ask questions."
She left the meeting with that sentence echoing in her head.
People are starting to ask questions.
As if curiosity was the real threat.
Meanwhile, The campus café felt colder than usual.
Maybe it was the way Kareem didn't look up when Theo sat down across from him.
"Hey," Theo offered, trying to be casual.
Kareem didn't answer. Just kept scrolling on his phone, thumb twitching faster than necessary. There was a student newspaper open beside him, folded back to the op-ed page. Theo caught a glimpse of the headline:
"Who Protects Us From the Protectors?"
He didn't have to read the rest. He'd already seen versions of it online—anonymous threads, tweets, captions pasted over blurry photos of the protest, and one of him walking beside Mara toward her car.
It wasn't even a good shot. Just silhouettes.
But it was enough.
Finally, Kareem spoke. "So… it's true."
Theo blinked. "What is?"
"That you've got some kind of thing going on with that cop."
"She's not— It's not a thing."
Kareem looked up, eyes hard. "Then what is it, man? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like a twenty-something student getting cozy with a forty-year-old police officer. Your game is kinda different, man. Like what the fuck…"
"A widow Theo? Really?" Kareem still cannot believe that his best friend has a relationship with a widow police officer.
Theo stiffened. "She's thirty-five."
"Oh, well, my bad," Kareem snapped, pushing his phone aside. "That makes it all okay."
"She's my friend."
"Bullshit," Kareem said, too loudly. A few heads turned. He lowered his voice. "C'mon, Theo. You think people don't notice? The way she shows up like your personal bodyguard? The way you talk about her like she's some misunderstood hero? That's not just friendship."
"It is for us," Theo said tightly. "You don't get to decide what it means."
"I'm your best friend," Kareem shot back. "If I don't say this, who will? A cop—no matter how 'different' you think she is—shouldn't be getting this close to a student. It's not just optics. It's power, it's imbalance, it's—hell, it's weird."
Theo stared at him. "You think she's using me?"
"I think she's lonely and you're easy to be around," Kareem said. "And you're smart enough to know better."
Theo felt something sharp crack behind his ribs.
Kareem shook his head. "Look, I know she helped you the other night. I saw the video. She got between you and a guy with a badge, and I'll give her that. But since when does one act of protection erase the badge itself?"
Theo stood slowly, pushing his chair back with a scrape. "You don't know her."
"And maybe you don't either," Kareem said, quieter now. "Because you're not seeing her—you're seeing who you want her to be."
The silence between them stretched—tight, final.
Then Theo walked away, his pulse loud in his ears, his throat dry. The newspaper headline stared up at him from the table.
He didn't look back. And he decided to come back to Mara's apartment.
Mara didn't open the door right away.
Theo stood outside her apartment for a full thirty seconds before he knocked again. He had walked half the city to get there—head down, hood up, heart burning after what Kareem had said.
When she finally opened it, she looked tired.
Not in the way people usually mean—fatigue or overwork—but in the way someone does when they've already made a hard decision, quietly, before saying it aloud.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
She stepped aside, but didn't offer the usual joke, or the glass of water, or the unspoken comfort of her presence. Her space felt different tonight—less like a refuge, more like neutral ground.
Theo noticed. But he waited.
She moved into the kitchen, picked up the mug she'd abandoned earlier, then set it back down again, untouched.
"I heard from a reporter this morning," she said. "Someone from the university paper. They're running a story on the protests."
He didn't respond.
"They have a photo of us. Leaving together. And a quote from an anonymous source claiming we have 'inappropriate ties.'"
His stomach tightened. "Do you care what they say?"
She hesitated. "Not for me."
He stepped closer. "Then what?"
"For you," she said. "Theo, I'm a cop. I'm older. I'm the one with power in the world's eyes. That makes this—any of this—dangerous for you."
"You didn't use that power."
"I don't have to," she said, voice quiet. "All it takes is people believing I did."
She crossed her arms. "You're one hearing away from being suspended. You've already been pulled out of class once. Your best friend thinks I've crossed a line."
"He doesn't know me."
She looked at him, finally. "He knows how the world works."
Theo swallowed hard. "So what—you're just going to ghost me?"
"I'm trying to protect you."
"By pulling away?" His voice cracked—not angry, but sharp with something worse: hurt.
"By making space," she corrected gently. "I don't want to be the reason things go worse for you."
He stepped toward her, slow, deliberate. "But you were the reason they didn't get worse the first time. And I don't want you to protect me by disappearing. That's not friendship, Mara. That's just fear dressed up as sacrifice."
That stopped her.
He added, quietly, "Let me choose this. Don't take it away from me."
For a long moment, she didn't speak. Just looked at him—really looked at him. Not as someone young or idealistic, but as someone equal, even in this imbalanced world.
Her voice, when it came, was small. "I'm scared."
"I am too," he admitted.
They stood like that, silence thick between them. But it wasn't the same kind of silence as before. This one was built from hard truth. This one could hold.
After a moment, she said, "Do you want to stay for dinner?"
Theo nodded.
She moved to the fridge, slower this time, like the weight hadn't lifted—but like maybe she didn't have to carry it alone.
The world outside was quiet. Too quiet, almost—as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Mara's apartment was dim except for the soft, flickering light of a candle on the kitchen table. She wasn't usually one for candles. Too sentimental, she'd say. But tonight, it softened the edges of everything—the room, the tension, the uncertainty hanging in the air.
Theo sat on the floor, legs stretched out under the table, head leaning against one of the chairs. He looked up at her as she moved about the kitchen with a kind of stillness that was unlike her. Purposeful, yes. But slower. Careful.
"I couldn't eat if I tried," he said.
"I know," she replied, setting down two mugs of tea anyway.
He smiled faintly. "You're doing it again."
"What?"
"Making space for me. Even when it's all crashing in."
She didn't answer at first. Just sat across from him, hands around her mug like she needed the heat to say what her mouth wouldn't.
"Tomorrow's not about guilt or innocence," she said eventually. "It's about performance. Optics. Who looks like they belong. Who looks like a risk."
Theo looked down at his hands. "You think I look like a risk?"
"I think you look like someone who challenges systems that prefer silence. That always makes you a risk."
There was no bitterness in her voice. Just a kind of weary respect.
He hesitated, then: "Will you come?"
"To the hearing?"
He nodded.
She studied him. "Do you want me to?"
"Yes. But not if it's going to cost you something."
She gave a half-smile—more breath than expression. "Everything worth showing up for costs something."
He looked at her for a long moment. "You don't have to say anything. Just… being there."
Mara reached across the table, resting her fingers lightly over his. Her touch was warm. Familiar. Nothing romantic. Nothing vague. Just there.
"Then I'll be there," she said.
Outside, the wind shifted, brushing past the window. The candle guttered briefly, then steadied.
Theo exhaled slowly. "I hate that it has to be this way."
"I hate that we're pretending this is unusual," she said softly. "A cop and a student, having dinner. Drinking tea. Talking like people."
He gave her a look. "It is unusual."
"Only because no one teaches us how to be close without suspicion."
They sat in silence, just the two mugs between them, the candlelight dancing gently across the table.
And though the next day promised scrutiny, judgment, and the machinery of bureaucracy—tonight, there was just this: two people, unafraid to sit in the same truth.
.
.
.
.
.
End of Chapter 6