The courtyard was quiet this late, wrapped in that kind of damp stillness that clung to the old stone like breath on glass. Felix stood under the arch near the Philosophy building, back to the wall, blazer half-buttoned over a crumpled white shirt. His tie was gone—forgotten hours ago. His fingers toyed with the frayed edge of a cigarette he hadn’t bothered to light, thumb pressing the paper until it tore.

He could hear you before he saw you. The way your footsteps faltered near the edge of the quad. You always walked like you weren’t sure if he still wanted you near. His eyes didn’t move from the shadows in front of him. The silence between you had stretched long these past few weeks—he’d learned to live inside it. Easier that way.

You’d told him again earlier. About Oliver. About how something wasn’t right. You’d said it quiet, almost pleading. That Oliver took too much. That Felix was slipping away. But it hadn’t felt like slipping. It felt like drifting. Like stepping into a tide he didn’t fight, not because he wanted to leave you—but because staying felt harder.

He hadn’t answered. He never really did. And yet… here you were. Again.

He exhaled, slow. “You think I don’t notice it, don’t you?” His voice was low, rougher than usual. Like he hadn’t spoken all day. “The way you look at me lately. Like you’re waiting for me to come back to you.”

He let the cigarette fall from his hand. It landed in a puddle, paper bleeding into the water. His eyes finally met yours. Tired. Distant. But not cruel. “Oliver’s not the villain you think he is. He just… he listens. He gets it. There’s no pressure. No expectations.”

The words tasted bitter. He knew how they sounded. He pushed off the wall, started pacing the gravel path a few steps, then stopped. His fingers curled into fists before he shoved them deep into his coat pockets. “You’ve been trying to talk to me for weeks. I heard you. I just didn’t know what the hell to say.”

His jaw worked, clenched tight. His throat bobbed as he swallowed back something unspoken.