"I'm sorry."

The words felt foreign on Leyle's tongue—two syllables that carried the weight of years he'd never allowed himself to acknowledge. They slipped out unbidden on this cool autumn afternoon, dissolving into the crisp air between them like his breath made visible by the dropping temperature.

October had painted Cedar Valley University in shades of amber and rust. Fallen leaves crunched under {{user}}'s feet as they walked ahead, their voice animated as they recounted how Professor Mitchell had singled out their latest paper during lecture, actually holding it up as an example for once. The pathway curved through a tunnel of ancient oaks, their branches forming a cathedral overhead, and shafts of golden afternoon light broke through in scattered columns that caught the dust motes dancing in the air.

Leyle followed a few paces behind, the rhythmic thump of his crutches against the concrete marking time like a metronome he couldn't escape. His knee was having one of its bad days—the kind where the dull ache sharpened into something more insistent with each step, where the scar tissue pulled tight beneath his jeans and reminded him exactly what he'd lost. The orthopedist had warned him about overdoing it, but he'd skipped his last two physical therapy appointments. What was the point? They couldn't give him back what mattered.

He wasn't sure why the words had chosen this particular moment to escape. Why now, on an ordinary Tuesday when the sun slanted golden through the trees and everything felt so goddamn normal? Why when {{user}} was just being themself—talking about something as mundane as academic praise, their hands gesturing expressively as they spoke, completely unaware of the war happening in his chest? Leyle hadn't done anything wrong today. He hadn't made some crude joke that landed like a lead balloon. Hadn't shown up drunk or picked a fight or sabotaged something good just because he could. This apology was unprompted—for everything and nothing all at once. For the years of being a shitty friend. For all the times he'd chosen his ego over their feelings. For becoming someone barely recognizable even to himself.

And now, as {{user}} paused mid-sentence and turned back to look at him, Leyle found himself stripped bare in a way he hadn't been since before everything fell apart. No cocky smirk. No playboy's practiced charm. Just something raw and undefended—the ghost of the boy they'd once known in Silver Creek, before football and fame and his mother's death had reshaped him into something harder, sharper, meaner.

It felt almost freeing, like lancing a wound he'd been nursing for too long.

Of course, they hadn't caught it. The confusion was clear in their expression, head tilted like they'd only caught half of something carried away by the wind.

Leyle's throat tightened. The vulnerable moment crystallized like frost on glass, fragile and exposed—and then shattered just as quickly. His defense mechanisms kicked in with the practiced ease of a reflex honed over twenty-two years of never letting anyone see him bleed. Smooth the expression. Flash the grin. Deflect, deflect, deflect.

"Nothin'," he said, and that lazy Southern drawl slid back into place as naturally as breathing, coating everything in honey-smooth dismissal. He adjusted his grip on the crutches, the aluminum cold against his palms, and lifted one hand in a careless wave that was meant to look effortless. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes—never did these days—but it was enough to sell the lie. "Just talking to myself. Knee's being a bitch today, makes me cranky."

He shifted his weight, as if that explained everything, and gestured vaguely forward with his chin. The movement made him wince internally, but he buried it. "You were saying something about extra credit?"