Monday Morning — Hawthorne Academy
Delorah adjusted her sunglasses as she stepped out of the car, even though the sky was overcast and heavy with clouds. The designer frames weren't for the sun. They were armor.
She could already feel it—the stares. Not loud. Not direct. But constant. Like pressure behind glass, whispering through the cracks.
Whitmore parties always came with stories. But this one? It had screenshots. Grainy. Low-res. But the glow of fire and the outline of Kit pinning someone down in the gazebo—it didn't take a genius to guess what had gone down. Or who'd walked away with him.
She kept walking, shoulders back, expression unreadable.
Lana caught her eye in the quad, flashing a half-smile and a you're famous now look.
Del didn't return it.
Her stomach tightened when she saw him.
Kit stood near the lockers, half-slouched against the wall in a black hoodie that looked like he hadn't taken it off since Saturday. He was talking to someone from the swim team, barely listening, his knuckles tapping against the metal as his eyes scanned the crowd. Searching.
And then—they locked.
Blue on green. Two seconds. No smile. No nod. Just recognition. Low and electric. Like touching a live wire.
Delorah didn't break stride. She brushed past the lockers, slipping a hand into her jacket pocket—like she was reaching for gum, not clinging to something real just to stay grounded.
Kit didn't call out. Didn't follow.
But she felt it anyway.
Whatever they'd started that night—it wasn't private anymore.
Kit didn't care much for school.
He cared even less for mornings.
But business was business.
"It's two for sixty unless you're grabbing more than five," he said coolly, slipping a gum wrapper into Nico's palm. Inside it: two pale pills and a thin slip of parchment.
"And don't text me again unless you're using the app."
Nico, broad-shouldered and full of nerves, nodded like a bobblehead. "Yeah, yeah—of course. I wasn't gonna—"
"You were. That's why I'm telling you now."
Kit's tone stayed light, like he was giving advice for a science quiz instead of a low-level felony.
"And don't take both at once unless you want to spend math class chewing through your pen."
He turned and leaned against the lockers, arms crossed.
The hallway was thick with motion—students spilling in from the quad, the air buzzing with the kind of gossip that made your ears ring. The rumors about the gazebo were everywhere, but Kit had learned long ago: you only lost when you reacted.
He was mid-scan of the crowd when his gaze landed on her.
Delorah.
Wearing sunglasses like armor.
Perfect posture.
Cold face.
She passed him like he wasn't even there.
Like they hadn't shared a bed, a hoodie, and the kind of high that rearranged your brain chemistry.
Kit didn't say anything. Didn't move.
But his jaw clenched. Just slightly.
Nico, oblivious, tried to hand him a crumpled five. "Dude, I'm short—can I—?"
Kit knocked the bill from his hand without even looking."No discounts. No debt. Don't be sloppy."
He pushed off the lockers and disappeared into the hallway, shoulders stiff, the buzz of school static and sharp in his ears.
The door to the back parking lot clicked shut behind him with a soft thunk.
Kit exhaled, watching his breath cloud in the morning chill.
He didn't light a cigarette—just held one between his fingers for the ritual of it, flipping it twice before tucking it behind his ear. His nerves were wired too tight for smoke anyway.
Delorah hadn't looked at him. Not really.
And Kit wasn't stupid.
He knew what silence could mean.
She'd seen the photos.
She'd had time to think.
He leaned against the brick wall, letting his head knock gently back against it. One hand stayed buried in his pocket, flicking his lighter open and shut without ever striking it.
It wasn't like he hadn't known it could go this way.
Delorah was different.
Too soft to be dragged into the world he operated in.
But he'd dragged her anyway.
And now… maybe she'd seen too much of him.
Too much of Adrian.
Too much to pretend she liked what was underneath.
A bell rang somewhere inside.
Second period.
Kit didn't move.
Not until he remembered—that was the class she was in too.
Creative Writing.
He rarely spoke in it. Just turned in good-enough work and sat in the back where teachers left him alone. The teacher liked his metaphors.
He liked the silence.
Kit let himself in three minutes late, walking like he owned the floor. He had no idea if she'd even sit next to him anymore.
She'd taken drugs with him.
That had surprised him.
He didn't think she'd ever be reckless enough.
And now…
Now he wasn't sure she even wanted to be seen near him.
But then—something unexpected.
Delorah turned her head.
Her eyes swept the room lazily… until they landed on him.
Her gaze froze for half a second.
And instead of looking away, she held it.
No smile.
No scowl.
Just that unreadable expression of hers—the one she wore when deciding whether to laugh or flip the table.
Then… a small nod.
Almost imperceptible.
She turned back to her packet.
Kit let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Delorah stared down at the poem prompt in front of her, barely reading it.
Her fingers twirled the pen like she cared—like she was present.
But her pulse was loud in her ears, steady and hot.
She could feel him behind her.
Kit.
She hadn't expected him to come to class.
Hadn't expected the way her breath would catch when their eyes met across the room.
She didn't want to feel that—didn't want it to matter.
But when a folded square of paper slid along the desk, brushing her arm, her heart jumped.
She stared at it for a beat.
Then slowly unfolded it under the table.
> You look tired. Bad dreams?
Delorah blinked.
The words were scrawled in a fast, confident hand.
She couldn't tell if it was sarcasm or concern.
Maybe both.
She reached into her notebook, tore off a corner, and scribbled back:
> Guess that happens when you party with the boogeyman.
She passed it behind her without looking.
Seconds ticked by.
A breath.
A shuffle of papers.
A faint cough from somewhere behind them.
Then—
Another note, warm from his palm, slid beneath her elbow.
> He wasn't going to hurt you.
But if he had?
I would've done worse.
Delorah exhaled slowly.
Her chest felt too tight for such a simple note.
She didn't write back.
But when the teacher turned off the lights and played an old poetry video,
Delorah leaned back just slightly in her seat—
until her shoulder brushed his desk.
Barely there.
But just enough to say: I'm still here.
The bell rang, jolting the classroom into motion.
Chairs scraped. Zippers buzzed.
Voices bloomed from quiet like flowers cracking through concrete.
Delorah tucked her notes into her bag, lingering longer than necessary.
She didn't want to look eager.
She wasn't even sure what she was.
Nervous?
Curious?
Shaken?
Kit was slower.
He always was.
Like time didn't apply to him.
She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
Just as she reached the door—
"Wait."
His voice behind her, low enough to make her stop.
She turned, brows raised.
Kit's hair had fallen in front of one eye, and he pushed it back with the kind of motion that looked unbothered— but wasn't.
"Wanna eat?" he asked. Just like that.
Her stomach flipped.
"I don't really sit with anyone."
"I wasn't offering to sit with everyone," he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Just me."
He wasn't smirking.
He wasn't joking.
He meant it.
Delorah glanced past him.
The classroom had emptied—
but his presence still filled the space like it echoed.
"I guess," she said casually. Too casually.
Like it didn't matter.
"Sure."
Outside, the lunch courtyard was already packed with the usual chaos. Kit didn't even look around.
He led her to a quiet spot behind the music building, half-shaded by a tree, and sat down on the low concrete ledge like he'd done it a hundred times.
"I don't like tables," he muttered.
"They feel like invitations for people to come sit next to you."
"I don't think anyone's brave enough to join you anyway," she said, opening the top of her thermos.
She hadn't meant it to come out soft— but it did.
Kit smirked a little.
"Yeah, well. You did."
She didn't respond.
But the silence didn't feel uncomfortable.
Just quiet.
Like the air before a spark.
Delorah sipped her soup in small, slow mouthfuls.
Kit picked at a granola bar with all the enthusiasm of someone
who hadn't been hungry in years.
It was quiet—except for the low hum of the music room's A/C unit
and the occasional shout from the main courtyard.
She glanced at him sideways. "You always sit here?"
"When I show up," he replied."Yeah."
"Why?"
Kit paused, crumbling the edge of the bar between his fingers. "Because people leave me alone."
Delorah let that hang in the air.
Then:
"So why didn't you want me to?"
That got his attention.
Kit looked over, studying her with a slight tilt to his head— like she'd said something in a language he wasn't used to hearing.
"You really want an answer?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't."
He leaned back on his hands, long legs stretched out in front of him. His jaw worked for a second before he spoke."Because you weren't scared of me."
A pause.
"You looked at me like I was real. Not broken. Not dangerous. Just… real."
Delorah looked down at her spoon.
"That's not fear. That's curiosity."
Kit gave a small huff of amusement.
"Same thing, sometimes."
She tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling suddenly exposed under the dappled light.
"I wasn't sure if you were going to punch that guy or kiss him."
"I'm not into guys."
"I was joking."
"I wasn't."
His voice was calm. Measured.
"And if I was going to kiss someone that night...it wouldn't have been James."
The way he said it made her heartbeat stutter.
She met his eyes— and for a moment it felt like the rest of the world dropped away.
Then:
"Funny. Still running your mouth, Adrian?"
Delorah's smile faded in an instant.
James stood a few feet away,
his school-issue jacket pulled tight around his frame, a sick gleam in his eye.
The faint, red-pink burn still marred his cheekbone— a scar that hadn't faded. And wouldn't.
Kit straightened, expression going flat.
"You don't belong here."
"You think you can just do what you did and walk away?" James spat, stepping closer. "You're a coward who hides behind a fake name
and plays tough in front of girls."
"Go away, James," Kit said quietly,
but with steel behind the words.
"This isn't going to end how you think."
Delorah's breath caught—James's hand was already dipping into his jacket.
Then came the flash of metal.
A knife.
Her scream echoed across the quad as James lunged.
Kit moved fast,
pushing Delorah behind him
just as the blade sliced his cheek—
shallow, but bloody.
"Get off!" he shouted, slamming into James and knocking him backward.
The knife clattered to the ground
just as two security officers sprinted in, grabbing James and dragging him back.
"He's the one who scarred me!"
James shouted, thrashing in their grip."At a party last weekend — burned my face with a joint!"
Kit, still panting from the adrenaline, didn't flinch. "And you came to school with a weapon."
"Enough!" one of the guards snapped."You can explain yourself to the dean."
Delorah dropped to her knees beside Kit as the courtyard erupted in whispers and scattered students.
She pressed a crumpled napkin to the cut on his cheek, fingers trembling.
Kit winced slightly—but didn't move.
"It's fine. Just a scratch."
"You scared the hell out of me," she whispered.
He looked at her then, eyes darker than usual— still vibrating with unspent rage—but softened just a little by the sight of her concern.
"Welcome to my world," he muttered.
Delorah tried to hold onto that moment—but the words James shouted still echoed in her mind:
Adrian.
Another crack in the mystery that was Kit.