By the time my shift at the gas station ended, my limbs were buzzing with that bone-deep exhaustion—the kind that makes even blinking feel like a chore. I tossed the rag I'd been wiping the counter with into the bin, locked up, and jogged toward the church.
Lucien was supposed to be waiting.
But halfway through the shortcut behind old man Greeley's fence, my phone buzzed.
Mara.
A tight, vibrating sort of dread settled in my chest. I picked up.
I didn't get a word in.
Just muffled crying. Then the line went dead.
I cursed under my breath, turned on my heel, and sprinted home.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the lights were off except for the flickering glow of the kitchen bulb. Mara was on the floor, back pressed against the sink cabinet, knees pulled up, breathing like the walls were closing in on her.
Her eyes locked onto mine like I was either a monster or a lifeline.
"Hey," I said softly, squatting next to her. "I'm here. It's okay."
It wasn't. But what else was I going to say?
I didn't ask what triggered it. I didn't need to.
I just sat with her while she rocked herself gently and cried so quietly it was barely a sound. At some point, I got her to drink water. Got her to bed. Brushed her hair out of her face like she used to do when I was small enough to be held. Before she forgot how to hold anything but grief.
By the time her breathing evened out, my body was crashing. I collapsed on the couch, not even bothering to grab a blanket. Sleep came jagged and uncomfortable, curled like a comma at the end of a long sentence.
I woke up late. Groggy, disoriented, drool crusted near the corner of my mouth.
I didn't shower—no time. Just threw on a wrinkled t-shirt, joggers, sneakers, and tied my hair back into something that could pass as intentional. My lip still throbbed, but I ignored it. Pain was just another background noise.
Mara was still asleep, snoring softly in her room. I left quietly.
Ran to school.
The walk of shame? More like the jog of "please-don't-give-a-damn."
Of course, the second I stepped into class, the teacher did a double-take like I'd just walked in wearing a balaclava and wielding a machete.
"Iris Vance," she said, aghast. "Where have you been? And—what happened to your—"
I waved a hand and walked past her mid-sentence, slumping into the seat at the back. My body had other priorities. Like passing out.
I did. Right there. Head on the desk. Out cold.
I woke to the sound of crying.
Ugly, loud, mascara-down-your-chin crying.
I blinked blearily and saw Katie—yesterday's slap-happy drama queen—clutching her friend while wailing like the world was ending. Her crowd was gathered around her like she was royalty mid-breakdown.
"My—my brother is dead," she sobbed. "The person who mugged him yesterday k-killed him. He's dead!"
Her voice cracked like a windshield under pressure.
I sat up slowly, rubbed my face, and stared at her. Not out of guilt. Out of irritation.
She'd woken me up.
I dropped my forehead back against the table with a muted thunk.
But she wasn't done.
Heavy footsteps stormed toward me, and then she was standing at my desk, eyes red and wild.
"You!" she spat. "They found him next to where you work—and you assaulted him the other day! You did this, didn't you?"
The class went silent.
I didn't lift my head.
Not right away.
Then I did. Slowly. Calmly. Eyes flat.
I popped my gum.
"Maybe tone it down," I said coolly. "You're starting to sound like a bee again."
Katie's words dropped like stones into the room.
"I know it was you. Killing your parents wasn't enough… You had to go destroy other lives, too."
Oof. There it was.
I blinked once. Let it settle. The class around us sucked in a collective gasp like they were watching a car crash happen in real time but couldn't look away.
I didn't flinch. I didn't even breathe differently. Just tilted my head, bored.
"Yeah. Figures," I said, voice as dry as gravel. "So, uhm, you got proof for that, or do you just get off on accusing me of everything that goes wrong in your miserable little orbit?"
Katie's face turned blotchy, rage puffing her up like a toad. But I didn't care anymore.
"You wrecked my naptime, y'know," I added with a deadpan sigh. "Jeez, at least wail quietly next time."
And with that, I stood and walked out. No one stopped me. Not even the teacher. Honestly? I think they were afraid to.
The art room was empty, save for dust motes and dried-up brushes that looked like they hadn't been used since the dinosaurs died.
I waited. Sat on the paint-splattered bench. Picked at the peeling corner of a sticker on the wall. Waited more.
No Lucien.
No scuffed sneakers at the door. No cheeky grin. No lame prince charming jokes or smooth escape plans.
Just silence.
I frowned. Maybe he was in class. Maybe he bailed. Maybe he got bored with this haunted little circus and decided to go find something shinier.
I stood up and made a decision that even I knew was dumb.
Go look for him. Apologize. For what? I wasn't even sure. For flaking? For being me?
There was just one problem: I didn't know his last name. Or his class. Or anything remotely useful.
I stepped into the hallway.
And that's when it happened.
Arms. Nails. Laughter. A door slammed behind me.
They came out of nowhere—like shadows with lip gloss. Katie and three other girls. I didn't recognize them, but their energy was unmistakable: pack mentality and zero conscience.
"What the hell—?" I started, but someone shoved me hard. My shoulder hit the tiled wall with a loud crack.
Pain flared, hot and blinding. Then they were on me. Fists. Nails. Hair pulling. Someone kicked me in the ribs.
I didn't scream.
Katie grabbed my jaw and leaned in close, her breath reeking of artificial strawberries and venom.
"Murderer."
Then she spat in my face.
They laughed.
Then locked me in a stall like I was some wild dog to cage. The door slammed. I heard the click of something—maybe a stick wedged through the latch.
Then silence.
I sat on the closed toilet seat, blood dripping somewhere near my eyebrow, lip split again, arms sore. My stomach ached. My ribs throbbed.
I sighed.
Wiped at my face with the hem of my shirt. Winced.
"Seriously," I muttered under my breath. "I just wanted a nap."
Time didn't exist in the girls' bathroom.
It could've been ten minutes. Or ten hours. I wouldn't have known. My phone was in my bag, my bag was who-knew-where, and my body was a patchwork of stings and aches.
The pain wasn't sharp anymore. Just… present. A dull throb beneath my skin, like a heartbeat under wet cloth.
I tilted my head back against the stall wall, closed my eyes. Listened to the ticking of some distant hallway clock. Footsteps. Laughter. The world kept moving, and I was just… paused.
Figures.
The stall door creaked open.
I tensed.
Then came a voice.
"The hell?"
I blinked up. The light made his silhouette glow a little—messy hair, shadowed eyes, Lucien's very specific brand of concerned.
I must've looked like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe.
"Hey," I croaked, because what else do you say when a imaginary, maybe-not-imaginary boy finds you bleeding in a toilet stall?
"How did you find me?"
He stepped inside fully, eyes scanning me like he didn't know where to land without getting mad.
"Overheard some students saying you were locked in here. Took a guess. What happened? Come on—let's get you out of here. School's out, by the way. Can you walk?"
I gave him a dry chuckle. Immediately regretted it when my ribs screamed.
"Yeah," I said. "I got jumped by four girls. Probably deserved it."
His brows furrowed like I'd just insulted his entire bloodline.
"Sorry for bailing on you last night," I added, because apparently that still felt important.
I stood. Or tried to. My knees gave a theatrical wobble, and gravity tried to throw me a second punch.
But Lucien was faster.
He caught me like it wasn't a big deal. Like I weighed nothing. His arm snuck around my waist; mine instinctively grabbed the fabric of his hoodie.
Up close, he smelled like old books and citrusy shampoo and warmth.
"I don't care about that," he muttered. "You're hurt. We're going to the hospital. Screw the pharmacy—what the hell is wrong with these people?"
He didn't wait for permission. Just shifted, gently hooking his arms under my legs and back, and lifted me like it was nothing.
I didn't even protest.
My head rested against his chest, my body too tired to pretend it didn't want comfort.
We left the school through the back, the sky painted soft with the sunset's leftovers. The parking lot was mostly empty. The air felt cooler than before, and the breeze brushed against the bruises on my cheek like an apology.
Lucien walked fast, but careful. Every time I winced, he adjusted.
"You still with me?" he asked, voice softer now.
"Mhmm."
"Okay, keep talking."
"About what?"
"Anything," he said. "Just not about how you 'probably deserved it.' That's crap."
I tried to think. My brain was running on autopilot, or fumes, or vibes.
"I used to think pain was good," I murmured, watching a bird hop across a power line. "Like… at least when it hurt, I knew I was still here."
Lucien didn't respond right away. Just kept walking, holding me like I was made of something he didn't want to break.
"That's not wrong," he finally said. "But that doesn't mean you have to collect pain like it's your only souvenir."
"Hah. That's poetic."
"Shut up," he muttered, but he smiled.
I closed my eyes again.
"I used to draw more," I said. "Before things got… messy."
"What'd you draw?"
"People. Dreams. Scars I didn't know how to explain."
Silence.
Then—
"You gonna draw me?"
I cracked one eye open.
He smirked. "I better be handsome."
"You're a seven at best."
"Out of five?"
I laughed again. Actually laughed. It still hurt—but it felt… better. Softer. A real sound in my mouth, not just a defense mechanism.
We reached the hospital just as the stars began to show up, scattered and sleepy across the sky. Lucien didn't stop until we were inside, and nurses were running over, and I was being laid on a rolling bed, and I hated that I didn't want to let go of his hoodie.
"Stay?" I muttered, my voice small.
His hand squeezed mine.
"I'm not going anywhere."
When I woke up, the light was too white. The kind of sterile white that seeps through your eyelids and pokes at your skull.
My body ached in the familiar way. The afterburn. The echo of fists and kicks. A dull pulse in my ribs, my face, my knees. But nothing new. Nothing worth crying about.
Then I felt it—something warm wrapped around my hand. A palm. A thumb gently brushing against mine.
"Lucien?" I mumbled, my voice cracked and foggy. My eyes blinked open slowly, vision bleary with that morning haze.
It wasn't Lucien.
"No, honey. It's me."
I focused harder. Mara's face came into view, drawn with sleeplessness. Her features softened and aged more than usual. Her eyes were red-rimmed like she'd been holding back a scream for hours. She squeezed my hand tighter.
"Who's Lucien?" she asked quietly. Then her tone shifted, sharp and steely: "And more importantly—who did this to you?"
I looked away.
"...No one. I fell."
She exhaled through her nose like she was trying not to explode.
"I might be crazy now," she muttered, "but I was a police officer. Do you think I can't recognize a beating when I see one?" Her voice cracked there, but she pressed on. "Who hit you, Iris?"
I pulled my hand away, more gently than I intended. Still enough to draw a line between us.
"Regardless," I said, my voice hollow, "if I say it's no one, then it was no one."
She didn't answer for a while. Just watched myself with something like heartbreak twisted into fury.
"When did you get here?" I asked, softer.
"The hospital called," she said after a beat. "I came about an hour ago. Been sitting here since."
There was silence between us. The kind that filled a room without making a sound.
"Be careful, Iris," she whispered eventually, almost defeated. "I taught you self-defense for a reason. At least use it."
I nodded because it was easier than talking. The truth was I had used it. And it had worked. It just hadn't fixed anything.
Before either of us could say anything else, a knock came at the door, and the doctor walked in—clipboard in hand, scrubs neatly wrinkled with overnight fatigue.
"Miss Vance," he said in that overly professional tone only medical staff could master, "you're stable and can be discharged tomorrow morning. Your medication list has been handed to your guardian. Please avoid stress for the next few days and keep your bandages dry."
He glanced at Mara, then back to me.
"Now," he said, flipping the clipboard, "about the bruising. Given the pattern and extent, we're required to ask—do you wish to file a case?"
I stared at him.
A second too long. Then shook my head.
"No."
He gave a slow nod, like he expected that answer. Scribbled something, then left with a polite nod toward Mara.
Once the door clicked shut, I leaned back against the pillow. The mattress wasn't soft. The blanket smelled like bleach. The IV in my arm made my skin itch. But for the first time in hours, I wasn't pretending to be fine.
Mara didn't say anything. Neither did I.
We just sat there—me in a hospital bed, her in a cheap vinyl chair—with all the unsaid things blooming between us like weeds.