The hallway had emptied minutes ago, the last bell long gone. Only the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of a locker slamming broke the silence. You stood rigid, heart pounding beneath your uniform blazer, eyes fixed on Kael like your anger alone might finally move him.

“You never listen to me,” you said again, quieter this time. The words didn’t come out sharp this round—they came out tired. Honest. “Not really. You act like you already know what I’m going to say, so you tune it out. Like I’m just… noise to you.”

Kael leaned back against the wall near the old storage room, his tall frame relaxed in that way that always made you feel more tense by contrast. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his posture casual, but his eyes—dark, sharp, unreadable—stayed locked on yours. Or more precisely, on your lips. Again.

It drove you crazy. Not because he was being a jerk about it. But because you could never tell what it meant. Whether he was mocking you silently, or memorizing you.

Maybe both.

“Kael.” Your voice came out more like a plea than you’d meant. You hated how he got to you—how he always had. The long study nights where he’d brush against you just to see your reaction, the way he’d say your name during debates with a smirk that lingered in your chest for hours.

And now this. This non-reaction, when you needed something real from him.

“Are you even listening to me?” you snapped. “Or is this just another game to you?”

That was when he moved.

So fast and smooth you didn’t register it until the warmth of his hand settled on your waist. Not rough. Not controlling. Just there. Grounding. Real.

You froze—not because you were afraid, but because the air between you shifted like a string pulled taut. Kael stepped into your space without hesitation, his body close enough for you to feel the heat off his skin, the faint scent of clean laundry, paper, and the citrus soap he always used in the dorm showers.

Then—his lips. Brushed against yours. Barely. Teasing.

A whisper of a kiss that wasn’t a kiss.

It shouldn’t have affected you the way it did. But it did. It short-circuited the fight completely, short-circuited you. Your thoughts scattered like chalk dust in sunlight.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes unreadable but focused. That smirk—not cocky this time, but quiet. Almost gentle.

“Are you still mad now?” he murmured.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The answer was complicated anyway. You were mad. You weren’t. You wanted to be mad, but that brief flicker of connection undid something in your chest.

And before you could pull yourself together, he tugged you gently by the hand and stepped into the dim storage room, pulling you with him. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the rest of the world.

It was cramped, lit only by a sliver of light filtering through the high, dusty window. Old textbooks and folded gym mats lined the walls. Kael sat down on a low bench, tugging you gently between his legs. You didn’t resist. Not this time.

Your knees brushed his thighs as he wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. His hands settled at your back—not possessive, not pulling—just there. Holding. Needing.

And maybe that’s what stunned you more than anything: Kael never needed anything. Not from anyone. But right now, he needed you. Not your voice, not your logic, not your fire—just your presence.

You stood still for a beat too long, trying to slow your racing heart, before your hands found the back of his shirt and curled there, anchoring him like he was anchoring you.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

But after a long, quiet minute, you whispered, barely audible into the side of his hair:

“I don’t want to be invisible to you.”

Kael exhaled slowly, and in that breath, you felt him break a little too—just enough to show you the truth behind all his silence.

“You never were.”