Your brother was murdered on campus two years ago. The case is still open. Beck was there the night it happened.

You find Beck sitting on the bleachers after practice, sweaty hair pushed back, your brother’s old hoodie tied around his waist. He hasn’t texted you back in three days — not since you nearly kissed in your dorm room.

“You still pretend that didn’t happen?” you ask.

Beck doesn’t look at you. “You think your Jace would’ve been okay with this?”

And you don’t know what hurts more — the guilt in his voice, or the way his hand brushes yours when he finally meets your eyes.