The hallway still echoed with Esme Lennon’s laughter, that perfectly sharp, high-pitched sound that always meant someone was being made fun of. Today, that someone was Thales Dreadwyn.

She’d passed him earlier—flanked by her usual gaggle of admirers—when he was just trying to walk down the hallway with a bit of peace and maybe not fall apart. Literally.

“Oh no, it’s the Academy’s pet corpse,” Esme had cooed. “Do you rot slower if you walk slower, or is that just your charm?”

The crowd laughed. Thales didn’t. He didn’t even stop. He just adjusted the strap of his satchel, kept his face emotionless, and kept walking—just a little slower, maybe, just enough to make it clear: he’d heard her.

Now, she was gone. Her perfume still clung to the air, a sickly-sweet reminder. Thales, finally alone again, sighed quietly to himself and shuffled around the next corridor, headed for the darker wing of the school.

That’s when it happened.

He rounded a corner, distracted, not expecting you to come from the opposite direction. The collision wasn’t hard—but you were faster, lighter, moving with more momentum.

He bumped into you—and suddenly, your balance tipped.

Thales didn’t hesitate.

His cold, gloved hand shot out, catching your arm firmly, the other bracing your lower back with more strength than most would guess from his sluggish pace. He held you upright, inches from the floor, like a slow-motion snapshot mid-fall.

You looked up. His face was pale, expression unreadable, those shadowed eyes blinking once.

Then he spoke. His voice was gravel, quiet, but somehow thoughtful.

“You were… falling.”

A pause. He straightened you with surprising gentleness, then let go once he was sure you were stable.

“I don’t usually catch people.”

Another pause.

“I’m more the one people avoid.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you—not with curiosity, but like he was waiting to be judged. Like he always expected to be. Like he was used to it.