Monday Morning — Hawthorne Academy
Delorah pushed open the car door, stepping onto pavement slick with last night's rain. The sky was gunmetal gray, clouds hanging low and threatening, but she slipped on her oversized designer sunglasses anyway. They weren't for the weather. They were for the world.
The frames covered half her face, glossy black armor. They gave her the illusion of control, a wall between her and the stares she could already feel pressing in—soft as a bruise, constant as a heartbeat. Every time she crossed the quad, she felt it: students clustering under trees, conversations stalling and reshaping, threads of rumor winding through the crowd like smoke.
Whitmore parties always left shrapnel. But this time, the story had teeth—screenshots, rumors, low-res flashes caught by someone's shaking hands. The images glowed on a dozen phones all morning: the haze of firelight, Kit's silhouette hunched over James, the snarl of a fight, a glimpse of her hair in the background. The whole scene was a puzzle, but the answer was obvious. And so was the fallout.
Delorah straightened her spine and kept walking, heels clicking with forced confidence. Her hands curled in the pockets of her jacket, fingers finding the soft inside seam, grounding herself on a texture that belonged to her, not the story.
Across the quad, Lana grinned at her with predatory delight, lips curling around a private joke. You're famous now, her eyes seemed to say. Delorah met her gaze, let it slide off like water. She refused to play.
Her chest tightened as she rounded the corner and spotted him. Kit—leaning against the battered lockers, shoulders hunched, hair a little too messy, eyes flickering with the kind of exhaustion that didn't sleep off. He wore the same black hoodie from Saturday, sleeves chewed at the cuffs, hood up like a shield. He was talking to a swimmer, lips moving in distracted half-answers, but his gaze was elsewhere—scanning faces, tracing the pulse of the crowd.
He found her.
For a moment, the noise of the hall died away.
Blue eyes on green.
The stare lasted two seconds, maybe less, but it burned through the haze. No nod. No smile. No safety.
Something sharp coiled beneath Delorah's skin. She didn't break pace—just drifted past the lockers, keeping her head high, brushing a hand into her jacket pocket like she was searching for gum, not holding on to the only part of herself that felt real.
Kit didn't move. He didn't call after her. He just watched, something unspoken locked behind his eyes. But Delorah felt the gravity of him anyway—an orbit she couldn't break, a secret written into her bones.
Whatever they'd started that night, it didn't belong to them anymore. It was out here now, breathing in the hallways, living in whispers, lurking on every screen. And all she could do was keep moving, praying her mask would hold.
Kit never loved school, but he understood the power in owning his own corner of it. Every transaction was a script, every line rehearsed. Control meant survival.
He flicked his wrist and pressed a folded gum wrapper into Nico's sweating palm—two pale pills, tucked with a slip of parchment thin enough to vanish in a heartbeat.
"It's two for sixty unless you're grabbing five or more," Kit said, voice bored and casual, as if they were swapping test answers instead of chemical shortcuts to a better morning. His gaze never lingered—he watched the restless churn of students over Nico's shoulder, always tracking exits, always calculating.
Nico shifted his weight, muscles tense beneath his varsity jacket. "Yeah—yeah, of course, man. I wasn't gonna—"
"You were. That's why I'm telling you now." Kit didn't raise his voice. He just cut the words clean, like a surgeon. "No texts. Not unless you're using the app. You remember how?"
Nico nodded, eager and stupid. Kit leaned in, letting the air between them do half the work. "And don't double up unless you want to spend math chewing through your pen. I'm not responsible for spit or blood."
He rolled his shoulders, pressing his back to the lockers—arms crossed, hoodie pulled tight, eyes scanning the crowd. The hallway throbbed with the pulse of too many voices, all tuned to the same frequency: Did you see the photos? Was it really him? Was it really her? The party rumor spun tighter with every retelling. Kit kept his face neutral. You only lost if you reacted.
He was almost out—almost clear—when Delorah drifted into his periphery.
Sunglasses. Perfect posture. Chin high. She glided past, her stride measured and silent, like she was skating over the surface of the world, refusing to look at him. Like he was a ghost.
He kept his cool, didn't move, but his jaw tensed, molars grinding a groove into his composure.
Nico, missing all of it, pulled out a wrinkled five-dollar bill. "Dude, I'm short. Can I—?"
Kit flicked the bill back at him, eyes flat. "No discounts. No debt. Don't be sloppy."
And then he was gone, shoulders tight, the friction of the crowd scraping his nerves raw as he cut through the swarm. The rumor-mill swirled around him, never touching the core, but still, he felt flayed. He slipped through a side door to the back lot, the hush outside sudden and biting.
The door clicked shut with a hollow, final sound. Kit stood in the chill, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, the ache of Delorah's silence still echoing somewhere deep in his chest.
Kit stepped out into the brittle morning, air sharp enough to sting his lungs. He fished a cigarette from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers as he scanned the empty parking lot. No teachers in sight. No security guard doing rounds. Just a handful of crows on the power line and the echo of his own nerves.
He sparked the lighter, took a quick drag, and let the smoke curl past his lips, eyes narrowed against the wind. The nicotine steadied his hands, dulled the edge of everything inside him. It was stupid and he knew it—but the ritual made the world feel smaller, something he could hold.
It wasn't Delorah's judgment that worried him. She'd watched him smoke before, hadn't even flinched. No, it was the looming threat of suspension, the admin with their clipboard patrols, the threat of getting caught and dragged into another pointless meeting.
Delorah hadn't looked at him in the hallway. Not really. Not a flicker of recognition, not a glance. He could still feel the chill of it, the way her indifference burned hotter than any slap.
She'd seen the photos. She'd had time to do the math.
He pressed his back to the brick wall, letting it scrape his hoodie through the fabric, his head knocking gently against the hard edge.
You knew this was coming, he told himself.
She was too good for this. Too soft for your kind of mess.
You let her see Adrian, and Adrian's what ruins everything.
He took one last hurried pull, then crushed the butt beneath his sneaker, grinding it into the pavement until only ash and orange filter remained.
From his hoodie pocket, Kit pulled out the battered travel-sized bottle of drugstore cologne. Two sharp sprays at his chest, one at his sleeves. The citrus-chemical fog barely masked the scent of smoke, but it was enough for a crowded hallway and a quick pass by a teacher's office.
A bell shrieked from inside, first period calling. Creative Writing.
Delorah would be there. He'd sit at the back, like always. Maybe pretend he hadn't noticed her, just to see if she noticed him.
Or maybe he'd say nothing at all. Sometimes the right metaphor was silence.
He pulled up his hood, wiped his palm on his jeans, and ducked back inside, cologne and nicotine ghosts trailing him down the corridor.
.
.
.
.
Kit slipped through the door three minutes late, hood up, posture loose as if he didn't care who saw. His sneakers squeaked faintly on the linoleum. He felt every eye on him. Whether it was real or just his nerves, he couldn't say. The teacher barely looked up, too used to Kit Honey's late arrivals to bother with a comment.
He scanned the rows quickly, pretending he didn't care, but there she was: Delorah, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown, green eyes turned toward the window. She was sitting two seats from the back, a stack of half-filled worksheets in front of her. Her posture was too straight, almost rehearsed. She looked untouchable, but Kit could read the signs: bitten nail at the edge of her pen, a loose thread at her cuff wound tight around one finger.
He hesitated. Should he risk sitting beside her, or play it safe and keep his distance? Was this the part where she shut him out for good?
But then Delorah turned, slow and deliberate, her gaze sweeping the room like she was searching for trouble. She landed on him. For a split second, her eyes went soft, then sharpened. No smile. No frown. Just that cool, dangerous maybe.
Kit didn't look away. He gave her a barely-there nod, like an apology or a challenge, and slid into the seat behind her. His breath left him in a long, slow exhale, nerves spiking and receding all at once. He told himself he didn't care, but the relief was as bright as pain.
Delorah stared at the writing prompt on her desk, words swimming out of focus. She was aware of every breath, every heartbeat. She could feel Kit's presence like static behind her, the kind that makes your skin prickle. She twirled her pen, trying to look bored. Inside, she was anything but.
She hadn't wanted to care if he showed. Had told herself she wouldn't. But the second their eyes met, she'd felt the world tip. Kit was still Kit. Even after the rumors, even after the photos, even after the way he'd let her see every jagged edge.
The teacher's voice droned on about metaphor and sensory detail, background noise to the buzzing inside her chest.
Then—a folded scrap of paper slid across the side of her desk, brushing her wrist. She looked down, heart skipping. Kit's handwriting was rough and quick, a little impatient. She unfolded it under the table, hiding it behind her notebook.
You look tired.
Bad dreams?
Delorah stared at the message, lips twitching. She couldn't tell if it was sarcasm or concern. Maybe both. That was the thing about Kit—every word felt like a dare and an invitation, all at once.
She glanced over her shoulder, just long enough to meet his gaze. The smallest ghost of a smile passed between them.
The bell cracked the air open, and the classroom bloomed into noise—chairs grinding the floor, zippers running, voices building from whispers to a low, anxious thrum. Delorah stacked her notebook with slow precision, forcing her hands to steady. She didn't want to look eager, didn't want to betray how her nerves tangled with something reckless and bright.
She could feel Kit behind her. He never rushed, not even with the threat of tardy slips. He moved through time like it bored him. She lingered at her desk, adjusting the strap of her bag, waiting for… what, exactly? A sign? Permission?
As she moved toward the door, the room mostly emptied now, his voice stopped her. "Wait." It was softer than she expected—intentional, coaxing her to pause without demanding it.
She turned. Kit's hair had tumbled over his eye again, and he shoved it aside with a careless flick that wasn't careless at all. He looked tired, the lines under his eyes softer in the washed-out classroom light.
"Wanna eat?" he asked, voice low, eyes steady.
For a second, she froze. It shouldn't have mattered. But it did. Her heart thudded so loud she was sure he could hear it. She forced herself to shrug, to sound easy. "I don't really sit with anyone," she managed.
He shook his head, mouth curving just slightly—not quite a smile. "I wasn't offering to sit with everyone. Just me."
There was no bravado in it, no flirty joke. Just the offer, simple and real. Kit stood there with his hands buried in his pockets, waiting, letting her decide.
Delorah glanced past him at the empty rows, the scattered paper, the teacher's scrawled notes half-ghosted on the board. Alone in the aftermath, his presence filled the space, heavier than the hush left behind.
For the first time all morning, she let herself hope. Maybe she wasn't just passing through. Maybe someone saw her, here and now.
She nodded, slow and certain. "Yeah. Okay."
Kit's shoulders eased, just a fraction, like he'd been holding his breath and finally let it go. He held the door for her as they slipped into the hall, two shadows sliding away from the noise, searching for a place to exist outside the story everyone else was writing for them.
"I guess," Delorah said, feigning indifference, forcing her shoulders loose. "Sure."
The noon bell hadn't even rung, but the lunch courtyard was already an explosion of noise—students clustered around benches and tables, their laughter ricocheting off the brick. Delorah's eyes darted across the crowds, the familiar cliques slotting into place. Kit didn't pause. He didn't scan for somewhere safe, didn't wait for her reaction. He cut straight behind the music building, slipping past a pair of smokers and down a short path only half-paved, toward a patch of shadow thrown by a sprawling old tree.
He dropped onto the low concrete ledge beneath it with a practiced ease, legs out, back resting against sun-warmed brick. He looked like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.
"I don't like tables," Kit muttered, not quite meeting her eyes. "They feel like invitations. Too many open seats, too many chances for people to sit down and ruin your lunch."
Delorah sat next to him, her knees brushing the edge of the ledge, backpack dropped at her feet. She popped the lid on her thermos, letting the faint scent of vegetable soup curl out into the air.
"I don't think anyone's brave enough to join you anyway," she said quietly, not intending the words to sound as soft as they did.
Kit's mouth twitched, his eyes flicking up with a wry light. "Yeah, well. You did."
She looked away, hiding the smile tugging at her mouth. The quiet between them settled, not awkward but charged, like the hush before a storm.
Delorah took slow, careful sips of her soup, the heat burning the roof of her mouth. Kit tore at a granola bar, picking it apart crumb by crumb, eating without real hunger. His fingers shook just a little, but not from cold.
Around them, the thrum of the school pulsed on—an air conditioner droning from the music room, the clatter of trays, the occasional caw of a crow perched above. They were close enough to hear it all, but distant enough for privacy to feel possible.
She glanced over, watching the way his shoulders hunched just slightly. "You always sit here?"
"When I show up," Kit replied, voice quiet. "Yeah."
"Why?"
He paused, breaking the bar in half and letting a few crumbs fall to the ground. "Because people leave me alone here." He didn't say it with sadness or bitterness. Just fact. Like it was the price of peace.
Delorah let that settle. She stared down at her lunch, processing for a moment. Then, soft: "So why didn't you want me to?"
Kit stilled, caught off guard. For a moment, his mask flickered. He looked at her, blue eyes clear and searching, as if he was recalculating something crucial. He leaned back on his palms, long legs stretched, the sunlight catching the faint bruise on his cheekbone.
"You really want an answer?" he asked, the question hanging in the air between them.
She nodded. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't."
He considered her for a long, quiet beat, jaw working, searching for the right words. Finally, he let out a breath. "Because you weren't scared of me." The words landed gently, almost apologetic, but there was a depth behind them—a secret hope, a quiet dare.
A hush fell between them. Leaves overhead flickered sunlight across the concrete, mottling Delorah's hands as she set her thermos aside, nerves fluttering somewhere beneath her skin.
"You looked at me like I was real," Kit said at last, voice quieter now, almost surprised at his own confession. "Not broken. Not dangerous. Just… real."
Delorah toyed with her spoon, tracing the rim of the thermos. The urge to say something clever, to deflect, pressed against her tongue—but the honesty in his voice pinned her in place. "That's not fear," she murmured, watching the way steam curled from her lunch. "That's curiosity."
Kit let out a short, quiet huff of amusement. "Same thing, sometimes." His eyes—always so quick to dart away—held steady on her. There was a challenge there, and something a little raw. He looked away only long enough to crumble the last bit of his granola bar, scattering crumbs for the crows.
Delorah tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture too self-conscious to feel casual. The sunlight caught on her knuckles. "Honestly," she said, voice light but not unserious, "I wasn't sure if you were going to punch that guy or kiss him."
Kit's mouth quirked, one brow raising in dry disbelief. "I'm not into guys."
She gave a mock gasp, grinning. "Wow, tragic. There go my hopes."
He let himself smile, but it was brief, gone almost before it started. "I was joking," she clarified, her tone softening.
Kit nodded, the motion slow, his gaze turning thoughtful. "I wasn't. And if I was going to kiss someone that night…" He paused, the words hanging heavy and electric. "It wouldn't have been James."
He let it linger, a line cast across the space between them.
For a moment, Delorah forgot the rest of the school existed. All the sounds of the courtyard faded into a distant roar, her focus narrowing to the boy beside her—the set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, the hungry, hesitant hope in his eyes. She looked up and met his gaze—really met it, green searching blue, no armor left between them.
Then it shattered—the peace, the moment, the whole precarious truce of the day.
"Funny. Still running your mouth, Adrian?"
Delorah's half-smile fell away as quickly as a glass dropped to tile. She froze. James was there, looming just a few feet off, shoulders hunched inside his uniform jacket, jaw clenched around something he couldn't swallow. The burn on his cheek—a pink, angry welt—looked raw and recent in the midday sun, an accusation carved right into his skin. His eyes fixed on Kit, fever-bright with something ugly and wounded.
Kit moved without thinking. The old, cold armor slid into place. He straightened up, body shielding Delorah as he spoke. "You don't belong here," he said, voice measured but quiet as a gun cocking.
James scoffed, eyes flicking to Delorah—seeking the audience, the drama. "You think you can just do what you did and walk away?" His words sharpened as he stepped closer, voice trembling at the edge of something desperate. "You're a coward, hiding behind a fake name, trying to look tough in front of a girl."
Kit didn't blink. "Go away, James." The words were soft but iron-tipped. "This isn't going to end the way you think."
The quad shrank to a pinprick. Delorah could barely breathe—she could feel the shape of the crowd around them, the eyes, the little gasps. James's hand disappeared into his jacket, and her stomach plummeted. For a split second, the world spun on the edge of disaster.
Then: the glint of metal, the tiny, sickening click as a knife unfolded.
Delorah's scream ripped itself from her throat, cutting through the low buzz of lunch like a siren.
James lunged—faster than she'd expected, but not faster than Kit. Kit shoved Delorah back with one arm, moving into the path of the blade. The knife sliced a red, stinging line across his cheek, blood beading instantly. He didn't cry out, didn't back down. With a guttural shout, Kit slammed his shoulder into James, knocking him off-balance.
The knife hit the ground with a metallic clatter, spinning out of reach. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of Kit's ragged breathing and James's wild, gasping threats.
Kit's eyes stayed locked on James, jaw tight, but his whole body went still in a way that made Delorah's heart stutter—a terrible, practiced quiet. Like he'd stepped out of himself for a second, just waiting for the next blow.
Suddenly, two security officers thundered across the quad, black uniforms stark against the chaos. One grabbed James's arms, pinning them behind his back, while the other swept the knife away with a gloved boot. James twisted, shouting, "He's the one who scarred me! At a party last weekend—he burned my face with a joint! Ask anyone, he—"
Kit was panting, blood running down his cheek, sweat glinting at his hairline. His hands were fists, but his eyes were icy calm. "And you brought a weapon to school," he said. "Who's the coward now?"
The security guard's glare could've shattered glass. "Enough. Both of you. You can explain yourselves to the dean."
Students whispered behind their hands, phones up, eyes wide. The quiet exploded into a storm of rumor and speculation.
Delorah dropped to her knees beside Kit, reaching out before she could think better of it. The world pressed in—her vision tunneling down to Kit's face, to the blood on his skin, to the way his shoulders trembled from adrenaline and rage.
But as she pressed the napkin to his cheek, Kit didn't flinch. If anything, he stilled further, his gaze fixed on some point beyond her shoulder. His breathing was too even, too controlled. Delorah had seen people in shock before, but this was different—this was someone used to bleeding quietly.
"Are you—" Her words caught, thin as paper. "Are you okay?"
Kit didn't look at her at first. He was still somewhere far away, heart thundering, hands shaking.
Kit didn't look at her at first. He was still somewhere far away, heart thundering, hands shaking. When he finally turned, his eyes softened, just for her. "Yeah. I'm here."
She continued to press the balled-up napkin to Kit's cheek, her hands not quite steady, breath quick and uneven. The white paper soaked up the blood in a single, blooming spot of red. Kit winced at the harder touch, but didn't pull away—if anything, he leaned into the pressure, grounding himself in the sting and the closeness. His pulse hammered beneath her fingertips.
"It's fine. Just a scratch," he tried, voice thick—trying to sound careless, but the lie trembled at the edges. His eyes, usually so guarded, glimmered with something raw. Adrenaline. Pain. Maybe a little pride.
Delorah's face twisted in a mix of worry and frustration, words bubbling out in a whisper too soft for the gathering crowd. "You scared the hell out of me," she said, the confession barely there, but heavier than any scream.
Kit's gaze flicked up to meet hers. The blue was storm-dark now, shadows swirling deep in his eyes—still burning with the afterimage of violence, the electricity of a moment that could have gone so much worse. He held her stare a long moment, and some of that sharpness melted, just for her. The hardness cracked, and what peered through was the tired, aching boy underneath.
"Welcome to my world," he muttered, voice low, as if the words hurt to say.
Delorah tried to steady her hand, pressing the napkin a little more firmly, not wanting to let go. All around them, the school hummed with shock and hunger for new gossip—phones still raised, voices darting like wasps. But none of that mattered in the tight space between their bodies.
She studied his face up close—the blood, the half-healed bruises, the mess of hair. He was impossible. Impossible and real and suddenly fragile, in the way that only someone you care about can be.
But in the midst of it all, James's scream echoed in her mind: Adrian.
Another piece of Kit's puzzle, jagged and unclaimed. Delorah clung to the moment anyway, holding his gaze as if the answer to everything might be hiding there, just out of reach.
Delorah's hand lingered, not wanting to pull away, not wanting the moment to end. She saw the confusion and fury mixing in Kit's eyes—the hunger to be understood, the fear of it. There was so much she didn't know. So much he'd never say. But for now, she was still holding on, and he was still letting her.
The world blurred at the edges. She wanted to ask him everything. She wanted to tell him nothing. She wanted, most of all, for him to stay.
But the napkin kept soaking up blood, and her fingers kept shaking, and Kit just watched her—quiet and ruined and real.