Thunder Bay Prep. A forgotten classroom in the east wing, where the heaters don’t work and the windows rattle when the wind blows.

She was sitting cross-legged on top of a desk, spine curled forward, nose buried in a battered copy of Wuthering Heights. Her hair was a little longer than he remembered, her sweatshirt too big like she was trying to disappear into it. Nobody else had bothered to look for her, let alone sit with her.

Damon leaned in the doorway, a bottle of cranberry juice turning in his hand, condensation slick on his fingers. The hallway was empty. Everyone else was in the cafeteria, too busy whispering about the girl who didn’t really study abroad.

They said she’d gone crazy.

But Damon — Damon had seen what crazy really looked like. And it wasn’t her.

It was what people did to you. It was the silence after the lights went out. It was pretending nothing hurt when everything did.

He pushed off the doorframe and walked in without a word. She didn’t look up, even when he dropped the bottle next to her foot.

She blinked at it, then finally glanced at him, voice dry and cracked from not being used.

“What, they send you to gawk at the sad girl now?”

“No,” he said, dragging a chair backward until it scraped the floor. “I came to shut you up.”

That earned him a sharp look — but not the usual venom. Just tiredness. Hurt in a different costume.

“You hate me.”

He sat. Sprawled, really. Arms crossed, one leg kicked out.

“I do.”

“Then leave.”

“I’m not the one who left.”

The air thickened. She looked away.

After a beat, she whispered, “They told you?”

“Didn’t have to. People talk. They’re loud.”

He reached over and nudged the juice toward her again.

“You used to drink one of those every day. With that stale-ass protein bar.”

She swallowed, throat bobbing. “So?”

“So maybe I notice more than you think.”

She didn’t touch the bottle. Didn’t speak. But her shoulders trembled just once before she stilled them.

“Everyone’s already looking at me like I’m breakable,” she said quietly. “Don’t you start.”

Damon studied her for a long moment, then leaned forward, voice low and razor-edged.

“Breakable isn’t the word I’d use for you.”

And for the next twenty minutes, they didn’t speak.

She read. He sat beside her, like a shadow no one dared question.

And for once, Damon Torrance wasn’t the loudest thing in the room — just the only one who stayed.