Wednesday
Third period dragged on, thick and airless, every second stretching longer than the one before. The classroom had the stifled hush of a hospital waiting room—rows of bored faces, cracked windows letting in a breeze that didn't move anything but the blinds. Kit leaned back in his chair, staring holes in the ceiling, half-listening to the teacher's slow, looping monologue about parabolas or predicates or something equally pointless. His hand drummed a faint, twitchy rhythm against the desk. He looked like a boy counting down the seconds to escape.
Across the aisle, Delorah hunched over her notebook, drawing a spiral of ink in the margin. Abstract. Unraveling. Her hair fell forward, curtain-like, hiding the way her eyes flicked toward Kit every few heartbeats. She told herself the doodle helped her focus, but really, she was just drawing a trap for her own nerves.
It was one of those ordinary, silent stretches where nothing ever happened. Until the static crackle of the intercom snapped overhead, sudden and raw.
"Adrian Scott Honey. Please report to the dean's office."
The pen slipped from Delorah's fingers, hitting the page with a faint click. For a split second, nobody moved. The classroom held its breath, caught off guard by the unfamiliar name—so formal, so out of place among nicknames and careless roll calls.
Someone in the back snorted. A girl leaned in to her friend. "Who the hell is that?" she whispered, barely bothering to hide the smirk.
But Delorah saw Kit go absolutely still. His whole body seemed to lock, shoulders bracing, jaw flexing like he was biting back something sharp. The familiar slouch straightened, every inch of him wound tight as piano wire. For a heartbeat, nobody in the room realized it was him—not the Kit they thought they knew.
He stood slowly, movements careful and stripped of bravado. Not a word. Not even a glance at the others. His hand curled around the strap of his bag, knuckles blanching white, the muscles in his forearm trembling under the skin. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, lashes hiding whatever storm he was swallowing. His face was blank, but the tension carved every line deeper.
He walked to the door in silence, each step too measured to be anything but dread. The usual swagger was gone. What replaced it was colder, smaller—like someone who'd just been called out for something he hadn't agreed to share.
Delorah watched him go, chest tight. Adrian Scott Honey. The name echoed, sharp and heavy, bouncing off the inside of her skull.
She'd seen Kit furious. She'd seen him flirt, seen him spin out, seen him freeze the world out with a glare. But this—this was different. This was a kind of nakedness that no bruise could explain. Like watching someone be undressed in public by nothing but a voice on a speaker.
The door clicked shut behind him. Nobody said a word. Not really. The tension stayed, sticky and electric, clinging to every seat in the room.
Delorah pressed her hand over her notebook, the ink spiral spreading beneath her palm. She didn't move until the teacher stuttered back to the lesson, voice faltering in the new quiet.
But her mind stayed with Kit—Adrian—wondering what it cost to carry a name you'd tried so hard to bury.
The hallway felt too bright—white tile reflecting harsh overheads, every step echoing against his nerves. Kit could feel the eyes on him as he passed, students glancing at the thin, angry cut still healing on his cheek. Some whispered, others just looked away, as if a wound was contagious.
Adrian Scott Honey.
He hated how the name echoed—burning beneath the skin, loud as a siren. He tugged his hood lower, fingers drifting unconsciously to the healing scab along his cheekbone. The skin was tight, tender, impossible to ignore.
He knocked once on the dean's office door, then stepped inside.
Dean Hargrave was already waiting, sleeves rolled and tie half-loosened, papers scattered like small disasters across his desk. Hargrave always looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here—Kit respected that kind of honesty.
"Adrian," Hargrave greeted, looking up over his glasses, then amending with the trace of a smile, "Or should I say Kit?"
Kit forced a crooked half-smirk, trying to look bored, not exposed. "Guess it depends on who's asking."
Hargrave gestured to the chair. "Sit down."
Kit obeyed, slouching as best he could, one hand drifting to the edge of the desk. He could feel Hargrave's eyes flick over the healing cut.
"Rough weekend?" Hargrave asked, tone casual but not unkind.
Kit just shrugged. "Comes with the territory."
Hargrave's gaze lingered for a moment—just long enough to register worry, but not long enough to embarrass. He laced his fingers together.
"Before we start—your brother already briefed me on the... incident. He seemed to think it was all handled internally."
Kit's stomach turned at the mention of Sebastian. Of course he'd inserted himself. Of course he'd already spun it into something useful.
"James is facing suspension for bringing a knife onto campus. Security's got it on video. No one's blaming you," Hargrave continued, voice level.
"Then why am I here?" Kit asked, tension strung tight through his arms.
Hargrave leaned back, sighing. "Because I've seen this before. Smart kid, big family shadow, starts disappearing behind a new name. Builds walls. The rumors say you're trouble, but I don't buy that's the whole truth. I think you're just trying not to drown."
Kit's jaw tightened, gaze falling to the scuffed floor. He felt the weight of the name, the weight of his brother, the sharp ache in his cheek. He wanted to say something, just one true thing, but the words wouldn't come. They never did—not when it counted.
Hargrave's voice softened, as if sensing the tremor beneath Kit's silence.
"You don't have to carry it all yourself, Kit. You can talk to me. Or not. Just… don't pretend you're made of stone."
Kit almost laughed. He wasn't made of stone. He was glass, cracked all the way through.
He swallowed hard. Said nothing.
Hargrave waited, then finally nodded. "You're free to go. And Kit—tell your brother not to worry so much. You don't need another shadow."
As Kit stepped out of the dean's office, the door eased shut behind him with a whisper that felt like a verdict. He didn't bother with the straightest path back to class—just let his feet carry him until the hallway swallowed him whole, the bright lights cutting cold into his vision. The world felt too sharp, too exposed. Every step set the cut on his cheek throbbing, a reminder that he couldn't bleed quietly, not here.
He stopped at his locker, bracing his knuckles against the chilled metal. For a moment, he pressed his forehead to the door, shutting his eyes tight, letting the rush of heat rise up in his chest. His heart was pounding out a name he wanted to forget—Adrian Scott Honey—over and over, the syllables burning like old paper.
Kit. My name is Kit.
He whispered it to himself, lips barely moving. As if the sound might cauterize the wound, or at least build the mask back up, brick by stubborn brick. He straightened, shoulders tense, and exhaled slow—long enough for the fire inside him to cool, if only a little. The world didn't know what to call him. That was fine. He knew.
He was still here. And his name was Kit.
The bell's metallic shriek faded, but Delorah didn't move, frozen at her desk while the rest of the world reassembled itself—chairs scraping, laughter rising, the rush of bodies pouring out into the hallway. The din had the feel of rain on glass: relentless, impersonal, washing over her without ever really touching her. Nobody noticed that Kit's seat stayed empty. Nobody cared that a ghost had just been summoned out of him, leaving something hollow behind.
Adrian Scott Honey. The name looped through her mind, slow and strange—unfamiliar, fragile. It felt like the wrong label sewn onto the right jacket. "Kit" was all wild light and serrated wit, a reckless storm in denim and black. "Adrian" felt too delicate, too classical. A boy who played piano in sunlit rooms and never let his voice crack. A boy who might have been soft. Sweet. Safe.
She tried to picture him as Adrian—shoes shined, hair combed, eyes innocent instead of battle-bright. She couldn't. Not really. Not after last night, or the knife, or the haunted look on his face when that name cut the air.
Her grip tightened around her phone, thumb ghosting over Kit's contact, wishing she knew what to say. Part of her wanted to reach for him, to ask—Are you okay? But she knew better than to break the spell. Not yet. Not when he was out there, bracing himself against a world that only knew how to name things just to break them.
Delorah stood and threaded herself through the hallway, letting the crowd push and swirl around her—voices overlapping, feet pounding, the world never noticing the storm raging just out of sight. She told herself she wasn't going to chase after him. She wasn't that girl. She wasn't ready to bare her throat, not for anyone.
But she felt it in her bones—a dangerous pull, a longing she couldn't swallow down.
Who was Adrian? What had he lost, to become Kit? And why did he look like he wanted to set the world on fire rather than ever answer to that name again?
She exhaled, slow and shaky, letting the tension settle somewhere beneath her ribs. The crowd parted around her, oblivious. She walked on—away from the classroom, away from the noise, but never away from that question burning in her chest.
She didn't know what it would cost to get close to the truth.
But she was already too close to turn back.
It was Thursday.
Delorah sat perched on the edge of her bedroom window, a chipped mug of Earl Grey cooling slowly on the sill. She hadn't taken more than two sips—the taste had gone flat, the scent a memory already fading into the soft gray air. The breeze from the open window played at her sleeves, carrying in the distant sounds of evening: a lawnmower somewhere, the hush of tires on wet street, the shudder of leaves rattling in the garden below. She drew her knees up, chin balanced atop them, letting the quiet settle like dust.
No texts from Kit. Not since the day before. No sly messages flickering onto her screen during class, no sideways glances across the hall. The quiet was supposed to feel peaceful. Instead, it gnawed at her—unsettled, unfinished.
And underneath it all: Adrian Scott Honey. The name repeated in her mind like a song she couldn't get out of her head. There was nothing ugly about it—nothing weak. It sounded like something you'd read on the inside of a book, a secret dedication. But the way it had cracked Kit open, just for a second, haunted her. It made her chest tight in a way that was half affection, half grief for something she'd never known.
She picked up her phone and thumbed through their message thread, debating, writing and erasing, too aware that there were words you couldn't just ask for. Hey, can I ask you something? Was that your name in class? Are you okay? None of it seemed right. None of it would reach him where he lived—behind those careful walls, behind the deflecting grin.
A car's headlights swept across the house, splintering the shadows on her walls. Delorah startled, mug nearly slipping from her fingers. She glanced down at her clothes—an oversized cardigan, soft leggings, hair still in a messy knot. She couldn't remember the last time she'd bothered to change out of pajamas.
The front door clicked open downstairs, the noise cutting through the quiet like a bell. Her mother's voice echoed up the staircase, sweet and bright, layered with just enough excitement to feel rehearsed. "Darling!" The word landed like an order, not a greeting.
Delorah met her at the base of the stairs, arms half-open before she realized she was being swept up into a cloud of floral perfume and designer silk. Her mother's embrace was gentle, yet somehow stiff, the way someone hugs an expensive dress instead of a daughter.
"Oh, I missed you. Look how grown you look!" she cooed, stepping back, eyes scanning for imperfections.
Del barely had time to respond before her father followed, phone pressed to his ear, distracted as always. He murmured a quick, "Hey, kiddo," then ducked back into whatever business was demanding his attention.
"We were hoping to catch you for dinner," her mother said, dropping her suitcase by the entry. She smiled, sharp and perfect. "But I imagine you've been eating takeout all week, hmm?"
Del forced a small laugh. "Something like that," she said, swallowing the urge to confess that she'd spent more nights in someone else's kitchen than her own.
She caught her mother's gaze, trying to read whether she'd passed some invisible test. She had a feeling it was already too late. The house seemed to shrink around them, the walls drawing in closer with each step her parents took.
Behind her back, Delorah's phone vibrated softly, another message waiting in the quiet. Not from Kit. Not yet.
But for the first time all week, she found herself wishing she could disappear back into that silence—back into the warmth of someone who knew her name, and never used it to hurt.
The house was quiet again. Her parents had retreated to their separate corners—her father's office closed off with the gentle thud of heavy doors, her mother's laughter echoing faintly from behind the marble and glass of the upstairs bath. The luxury of their absence pressed against the walls. Delorah stretched out on her bed, legs tangled in the sheets, lights dialed down to the softest gold. She stared at the ceiling, phone balanced on her ribcage, trying not to want what she knew she couldn't have. Some nights, the house felt like a glass display case, cold and pristine, with her on display.
Then the phone buzzed—once, sharp, an alarm in the hush. The screen glowed: Kit 📞 Calling…
She answered so quickly she startled herself. "Hey," she said, and her own voice came out breathless, surprised by how much she'd needed the sound of his.
"Hey," Kit murmured, his tone rough at the edges, as if he'd just woken from a dream. Or maybe he just saved his softest voice for her. "Didn't wanna let the day end without hearing you."
Delorah smiled in the dark, the kind of smile you make for yourself. "Smooth."
He snorted quietly. "I try. Gotta keep my reputation up. You know how it is." There was a lull, the kind that didn't feel empty, just full of things neither had learned to say aloud.
"You okay? After… all of it?" Kit's voice was careful, like he was afraid she'd vanish if he pressed too hard.
"I think so," she said, honest and small. "I just needed today to be nothing. Just… quiet. What about you?"
"I'm alright." He sounded tired but lighter somehow, like a weight had shifted but not left. "Just sore. Moody. Still better looking than James, even with a busted face."
Delorah's laugh was a soft explosion, a real thing in the gentle dark. "That's a low bar."
He made a sound, equal parts wounded and delighted. "Harsh, LaRoche."
"Truth hurts," she teased.
"Speaking of… I was actually calling for a reason. There's this party tomorrow. Not some huge, blowout thing. More like—friends of friends, decent music, way less attempted murder. If you're up for it, I'd kinda like you to be there." His voice tried for easy but cracked at the edges, too sincere to pass for cool.
Delorah hesitated, rolling onto her side, fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt. "Tomorrow?" she echoed, uncertain. "I think my mom's got some dinner thing planned. She was being cryptic, as usual. I'll know more in the morning."
Kit let the silence breathe. "It's not a big deal. Just… if you can. I wanna see you. No pressure." The words landed quietly, but they hummed against her skin, honest and wanting.
"I'll see what I can do," she promised, and she knew she meant it. She'd find a way, even if it meant lying with a straight face.
They lingered there for a while, suspended on the line, neither wanting to be the first to say goodbye. Finally, Kit spoke, the words barely a whisper. "I liked hearing your voice tonight."
Delorah's heart skipped. "Me too," she breathed. She didn't want to hang up. She wanted to let the call stretch all night, filling the silence her parents had left behind.
"Goodnight, Kit."
"Night, Del."
She waited until the line went dead, then lay back and stared up at the ceiling, letting the echo of his voice settle into her bones. The flutter it left behind felt dangerous, precious, and real.
She set her phone on the pillow beside her, heartbeat still unsteady from the call. The room felt bigger, emptier, and somehow charged—like the silence was waiting for something. She closed her eyes, willing the calm to last.
But from downstairs, her mother's voice drifted faintly up the stairs—words blurred by distance, but the tone unmistakable: careful, practiced, just a little too bright. Something about dinner tomorrow. Something about Sebastian coming by to meet someone special.
Delorah didn't catch all of it. Didn't want to.
But soon, she'd have no choice but to listen.