Saille draped herself across the radiator by the gothic window, one leg bent and skin luminous against her midnight socks, as if she already belonged to the night. Her gaze lingered lazily on Torrek, who’d claimed a spot on the arm of the nearest chair. He wore his team’s practice shirt, sleeves rolled, jaw shadowed with a sleepless pallor; beneath the bravado, his knee bobbed with nervous energy he couldn’t quite hide. Saille’s voice curled through the air, sly as a secret: “You always look like you’d rather be anywhere else. Except maybe when someone’s watching.”

Torrek’s mouth twitched, a half-smile forced into shape. “And you always look like you know everyone’s secrets.” He ran a hand through damp hair, trying for careless, but the gesture was too precise—too practiced for someone who wanted you to believe he didn’t care.

Saille slid off the radiator and closed the distance with feline deliberateness. She adjusted the hem of her skirt, fingertips grazing her thigh as she passed Torrek. He inhaled sharply, but didn’t move. “Maybe I do,” she whispered, low enough for only him. Her fingers trailed his shoulder, electric in their brief touch. “But yours, Torrek…they’re still hiding.”

In the corridor, Lyra’s arms were hugged protectively across her chest; her cardigan hung off one shoulder, hair a little wild over anxious eyes. She avoided glances, the rumor mill swirling hot in her ears. Her phone buzzed—a message from Saille: Come to the old rec room. Now. Lyra’s pulse spiked. She found the courage to go, if only for the hope of reassurance.

Peris passed her in the hallway, his dark jumper loose on a frame always slightly tensed, as if bracing for a blow or a confession. He avoided her gaze, jaw clenched. The loss of his warmth, just yesterday so close, left Lyra exposed. He vanished down the stairwell, steps echoing restraint he could barely maintain.

Inside the rec room, Saille was perched on the edge of a battered sofa, arms thrown back, skirt riding high and unapologetic. Torrek slouched against the window, arms folded tight, pretending indifference but missing nothing. Lyra hovered in the doorway, small and lost.

Saille’s lips curled. “Cute cardigan, Lyra. Shame about the stains on your reputation.” The words landed soft but sharp. Torrek cut in, voice edged with real concern. “You don’t have to mess with her, Saille.”

Lyra’s cheeks flamed scarlet. “I’m not—I haven’t done anything.”

Saille arched a brow, dark eyes molten. “That’s not what they’re saying. Peris. You. Spending all that time after hours. The others are starting to ask questions. You might want to be more careful.” She let the words hang, a challenge and a threat.

Lyra’s mouth trembled. “I just…needed extra help. That’s all.” Her eyes flicked desperately to Torrek, but he refused to meet her gaze head-on, jaw flexing under the weight of his own turmoil.

The silence grew thick. Torrek picked at his thumbnail, leg jittering. Saille’s attention shifted, dangerously, to him. Her next words were liquid temptation: “Do you get lonely, Torrek? Or do you just pretend?”

He laughed, the sound brittle. “I’m not the one hiding after dark,” he shot back, but his voice cracked, betraying him. Saille’s grin widened, satisfied.

When Saille finally left—her skirt swinging, gaze lingering a fraction too long on both Lyra and Torrek—Lyra collapsed on the sofa, eyes glassy. Torrek hesitated, then sat beside her, space closing with every breath.

“Don’t listen to her,” he muttered, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall. “You’re not the only one people are talking about.”

Lyra looked at him, tears tracing the curve of her cheek. “It hurts. I just wanted…it doesn’t matter.” Her voice broke.

Torrek surprised himself, reaching out, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. His hand trembled. “It matters if you say it does.”

She turned to him, searching his eyes. For a moment, her longing for comfort collided with his need to feel seen—need flaring raw and immediate. Lyra pressed her lips to his—tentative, almost chaste—but Torrek responded, desperate to pour some of his own ache into hers. The kiss deepened, hunger overtaking uncertainty, their bodies pressed close in the shadowed room.

They broke apart, breathless. Lyra’s cardigan slipped, baring her shoulder; Torrek’s fingers traced the new skin like he was memorizing every freckle. She shivered—not from cold, but from the newness of being wanted for who she was, not who she pretended to be.

In the hallway, Saille leaned against the door, eavesdropping. Her eyes narrowed, calculating. She tapped out a message, lips parting in a wicked smile. Chaos, she knew, was only beginning.

To be continued…