I stood near the corner table, the silver-foiled variant cover pressed face-down against my palm, and let the noise of the cafeteria wash around me like a tide I didn't have to swim in. The fluorescent lights hummed their dull song overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional glow, and I could feel the weight of a dozen curious stares sliding off my shoulders like water. Let them look. Let them wonder why the girl who'd spent yesterday draped over Derek Russo was now hovering at the edge of the math team's territory like she belonged there.

Marcus sat with his back to the window, a half-eaten sandwich in front of him, his hoodie swallowing his frame the way it always did. His dark hair was messy, falling into his eyes, and he was saying something to Isaac — something that made Isaac laugh and shake his head. Pearl sat on his right, close enough that her shoulder almost brushed his, her hand resting on his forearm like she'd glued it there.

I felt the familiar curl of something hot and tight in my chest. Possession. Want. The need to reach across the table and peel her fingers off him one by one.

Instead, I set the comic down on the empty space near the edge of the table — face-down, silver foil hidden — and waited.

Isaac looked up first. His eyes flicked to me, then to the comic, then back to my face, and I saw the moment recognition hit. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"No way," he breathed. "Is that —"

Tony's head snapped up from whatever he was reading on his phone. His eyes went wide behind his glasses, and he leaned forward so fast his elbow knocked over a salt shaker. "Is that the limited run? The one with the silver foil?"

I let the corner of my mouth lift. Not a smile. Just enough to keep them hooked. "Maybe."

"Lila, come on," Tony said, and there was a desperate edge to his voice that made something warm bloom in my chest. "You can't just — is it the variant? The one that only had a print run of five hundred?"

I glanced at Marcus. His eyes had dropped to the face-down cover, and I watched his throat move as he swallowed. His hand twitched on the table, fingers curling like he wanted to reach for it but didn't trust himself to.

That's when I flipped it over.

The silver foil caught the fluorescent light like a struck match, sending a blade of reflected brightness across the table. The cover art — Ultimate X issue one, the brother standing in the rain, his face half-shadowed, the city bleeding behind him — seemed to glow against the dark background, the title raised and sharp enough to feel under a fingertip.

Tony made a sound I'd only ever heard in porn.

"Oh my god," Isaac said, and his voice cracked. "Oh my god. You have it. You actually have it."

I kept my hand on the edge of the comic, fingers spread, letting them see it. Letting them want it. And I watched Marcus.

His eyes had gone wide — really wide, the kind of wide that meant he'd forgotten to breathe. His lips parted, and I saw the stutter start before he made a sound: a small, almost imperceptible hitch in his chest, the way his jaw worked as he fought to get the words out.

"I — I — that's —" He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "That's the one. From the — the first run. The one with the —"

"Silver foil on the logo," I finished, and my voice came out softer than I'd meant it to. "I pre-ordered it three months ago. Had to set an alarm and everything."

Marcus's hand lifted off the table. Hovered over the comic, a few inches above the surface, like he was afraid to touch it. Like he was afraid it might disappear if he got too close.

"Can I —" He stopped. His eyes met mine, and I saw the question there, fragile and hopeful and terrified of the answer. "Can I —"

I nodded before he could finish. "Go ahead."

His fingers brushed the cover. Light. Reverent. The way he touched it made my breath catch in my throat, because I knew what that kind of attention felt like — I'd been starving for it, for him, for days — and seeing him give it to a piece of cardboard and ink made something twist in my chest.

He picked it up. Turned it over in his big hands, careful, like it was made of glass. His thumb traced the edge of the foil, and he let out a breath that sounded like a prayer.

"It's perfect," he said, and there was no stutter. Just wonder.

Pearl's hand had fallen away from his arm the moment I flipped the comic. I saw it happen out of the corner of my eye — the way her fingers slid off his sleeve, the way she pulled back into herself like she'd been burned. She was staring at the comic too, but there was no wonder in her face. There was something else. Something tight and pale and ugly.

I felt a slow, satisfied warmth spread through my chest, but I didn't let it show. I kept my expression soft, open, a little uncertain — the girl who was still hurting from yesterday, still nursing the wound Pearl had given her.

"I've been collecting since I was twelve," I said, and my voice was quiet, almost shy. "My dad got me into it. He used to read Ultimate X to me before bed."

Isaac made a sound of pure empathy. "That's the most wholesome thing I've ever heard."

Tony was still staring at the comic like it held the secrets of the universe. "The foil gradient is insane. I've only seen photos online. The way the light hits it —"

"It's something else in person," I agreed, and I let my gaze drift to Marcus. He was still holding the comic, still turning it over, and I watched his expression cycle through a dozen different emotions in the space of a breath. Awe. Gratitude. Something softer that made my stomach tighten.

Then I looked at Pearl.

I let my face change. Let my smile falter. Let my eyes go wide, like I'd just noticed she was there — like I'd forgotten she existed, and the memory of her was a slap.

"Oh," I said, and the single syllable came out small. Hurt. "Pearl. I — I didn't see you there."

Her face went blank. The kind of blank that meant she was working very hard to keep it from doing something else.

I took a step back. Then another. I pulled my hand away from the comic, letting it fall back to my side, and I looked at Marcus with an expression I'd practiced in the mirror that morning: the girl who was trying to be brave, trying to be okay, but not quite pulling it off.

"I should go," I said, and my voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I just — I wanted to show you the comic. I thought you'd like it."

Marcus's brow furrowed. He was still holding the variant, but his attention had shifted to me, and I saw something flicker in his hazel eyes. Confusion. Concern. The beginning of a question he didn't know how to ask.

"Lila —"

"It's fine." I forced a smile. It wobbled at the edges. "I'll see you another time, okay? Maybe when —" I stopped. Swallowed. Let my gaze flick to Pearl and then away, like the sight of her hurt me physically. "Maybe when things are less crowded."

I turned before anyone could respond.

The comic was still in my hand — I'd taken it back without thinking, the foil warm against my palm — and I walked away from the corner table with my shoulders curved in, my steps slow, like I was carrying something heavy. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I could feel Marcus's eyes on me, could feel the weight of his unfinished sentence hanging in the air behind me like a hook.

Behind me, I heard Tony say something — "Wait, where's she going?" — and Isaac's quiet response, too low to make out. But I didn't hear Marcus speak. I didn't hear Pearl say anything either, and that silence was sweeter than any victory I'd ever tasted.

I kept walking. The foil caught the light one last time, a silver flash in the corner of my vision, and I let the noise of the cafeteria close over me like water.

Let him wonder. Let him ache. Let him sit there with the ghost of my hurt and the taste of what he couldn't have, and let him remember that Pearl was the reason I left.

The cafeteria doors groaned shut behind me, and the afternoon air hit my face like a cool cloth — still carrying the last of autumn, crisp enough to cut through the steam-and-sweat smell I'd been breathing for the last twenty minutes. I let myself exhale. Let my shoulders drop. The silver foil of the variant caught the sun for a second, and I tucked it against my side, letting the cover face my thigh so the light couldn't find it again.

The courtyard was half-empty at this hour — a few stragglers from late lunch hunched over phones on the low concrete walls, a couple making out near the bike racks, the usual cluster of football players spread across the picnic tables near the far end. Derek was there, leg kicked out, letterman jacket unzipped, his voice carrying across the open space like he owned it.

And Chloe. She was perched on the edge of the table beside him, one leg crossed over the other, her honey-blonde hair catching the light. She saw me before anyone else did. Her chin lifted. Her mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile — a knowing, patient, told you so shape that made my stomach tighten with something that felt a lot like gratitude.

I walked toward them. Slower than I needed to. Letting my footsteps drag, letting my shoulders stay curved, letting the performance settle over me like a second skin.

Derek spotted me when I was ten feet out. His face lit up with that familiar, cocky brightness — the expression of a guy who thought he was winning something he hadn't even started playing for. "Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

I didn't smile. I let my gaze slide to Chloe instead, and I saw the flicker in her eyes — play along, I've got this.

"Can I sit?" My voice came out small. Quiet. The kind of voice that made Derek's cocky grin falter for half a second.

He scooted over on the bench without waiting for a better answer, patting the space beside him. "'Course you can. What happened? You look like someone kicked your puppy."

I sat. Not too close to him — close enough that my thigh brushed his, but with enough space that I could pull away if I needed to. I set the variant face-down on the table between us, and watched Derek's eyes flick to it, then back to my face, then back to the comic with the slow recognition of a guy who didn't know what he was looking at but knew it was probably expensive.

"That the comic you were waving around?" he asked. "The shiny one?"

"Variant cover," I said. "Limited run. Only five hundred in existence."

Chloe let out a low whistle. "And you brought it to school. In a cafeteria. With ketchup packets and spilled soda."

I shrugged, small and tired. "I wanted to show Marcus."

The name landed like a stone in still water. Derek's jaw tightened. Chloe's eyebrow lifted. Around us, the football players exchanged glances — the kind of glances that said here we go without anyone having to speak.

"You wanted to show Marcus," Derek repeated, and his voice had gone flat. "The stuttering giant. That Marcus."

I looked down at my hands. Let my fingers play with the edge of the silver foil. "He likes comics. I thought he'd appreciate it."

"He appreciates it," Derek said, and there was an edge in his voice now, sharp and thin. "I saw him back there. Looked like he was about to cry."

I felt a spike of satisfaction, hot and sweet, but I kept my face soft. Kept my eyes on my hands. "He didn't even get to hold it for long. Pearl was there, and I —" I stopped. Swallowed. Let the silence stretch long enough that Derek leaned forward, his knee pressing harder against mine.

"Pearl?" he said. "The flat girl with the bob? What's she got to do with anything?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. It's fine. I shouldn't have — I just thought —" I let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob, and I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. "God, I'm being pathetic. I'm sorry. I just needed to get out of there for a second."

Chloe slid off the table and walked around to sit on my other side, her hand landing on my shoulder with practiced ease. "You're not pathetic. You're dealing with a lot." She shot a look at Derek — a look that said back off, let her breathe — and Derek raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning back on the bench.

"I'm just saying," he said, "if someone was making you feel like shit, you should've come to me first. Not that —" He gestured vaguely toward the cafeteria doors. "Not the math team."

I let my hands fall from my eyes. Looked at him. Let my gaze go soft and a little grateful, the way I knew made him preen. "You'd have my back?"

"Always." He said it like it was a promise. Like it was a line he'd practiced in the mirror. "You know that."

The football players around us had gone quiet, watching the scene with the kind of attention reserved for a particularly good episode of a reality show. One of them — a redheaded guy with a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times — leaned forward and said, "Who's Pearl again?"

"Nobody," I said softly.

"Some nobody who's got her claws in Marcus," Derek corrected, and there was a bitter edge to his voice that made my pulse skip. He was jealous. Good. Let him be jealous. Let him be confused and possessive and wanting, because that made him useful. "She's been hanging off him since freshman year. Doesn't know when to quit."

I felt something cold and satisfied settle in my chest. Derek had noticed Pearl. Derek thought she was a problem. That meant I didn't have to manufacture the conflict alone — I had backup I hadn't even asked for.

"She's just —" I started, then stopped. Shook my head. "She's just trying to protect what she thinks is hers. I get it."

"She's blocking," Chloe said, and her voice was dry, clinical, the voice of someone who'd spent years watching people and cataloging their weaknesses. "She sees you coming and she's scared. That's why she touches him all the time. That's why she made that comment about derivatives. She's marking territory."

Derek snorted. "Marking territory. Like a dog."

The redheaded guy laughed. One of the others — a broad-shouldered guy with a buzz cut — said, "She's not exactly competition, though. I mean, have you seen her?"

I kept my face neutral. Kept my voice soft. "She's nice. I don't want to be mean about her."

Derek's hand landed on my knee. Heavy. Warm. Ownership in the shape of a touch. "You're too good for that, Lila. That's what I've always liked about you."

I wanted to peel his fingers off me one by one. I wanted to tell him that the only thing I liked about him was his usefulness as a prop. Instead, I let my breath hitch, let my hand rest on top of his, and let my eyes go wet and grateful.

"Thanks, Derek. I needed that."

He puffed up like a pigeon. It was almost sad, how easy he was.

Chloe's hand was still on my shoulder, and I felt her thumb press once — a signal. Good. Keep going.

I turned to look at her, and for a second, the mask slipped. Just a crack. Just enough for her to see the satisfaction underneath. Her eyes glinted, and she gave me the smallest nod.

"So what's the plan?" Chloe asked, her voice casual, like she was asking about homework. "You going to go back in there, or are you done with them for the day?"

I looked down at the variant cover. Silver foil winking in the sun. Marcus's fingerprints still on the edge from where he'd held it, careful, reverent, like it was something sacred.

"I don't know," I said, and my voice was small again. "I don't want to make things weird. I just wanted to share something I thought he'd like. I didn't expect Pearl to be —" I stopped. Shook my head. "I didn't expect her to look at me like that."

"Like what?" Derek asked, his hand still on my knee.

I met his eyes. Let him see the hurt I'd practiced. "Like I was something she needed to get rid of."

The table went quiet. The football players exchanged glances again. The redheaded guy cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit, and I watched the calculation move behind his eyes — the way guys like him thought about conflict: simple, linear, solvable with a shove or a word.

"You want me to talk to her?" Derek asked, and his voice had dropped, gone serious. "I can talk to her."

I shook my head quickly, my eyes going wide. "No. God, no. Don't — please don't make it worse. I just —" I let out a breath, shaky and deliberate. "I just needed to be somewhere else for a minute. Somewhere she wasn't."

Chloe's hand squeezed my shoulder. "You're safe here. Take all the minutes you need."

Derek's hand tightened on my knee, and I felt the heat of it through my skirt, the weight of his palm pressing into the fabric. "Yeah. We've got you."

I let my lips curve into something small and grateful. Let my hand rest on top of his again. Let the performance settle so deep I could barely feel the difference between the mask and my face.

And then I looked up — just a glance, just a flicker of my gaze toward the cafeteria doors — and I saw him.

Marcus was standing just inside the glass, half-hidden behind the frame, his hoodie pulled up over his hair. He was holding a napkin in one hand, crumpled and forgotten, and his eyes were fixed on me. On Derek's hand on my knee. On my hand on top of his. On the way I was sitting close enough to touch, close enough to claim, close enough to mean something.

I didn't move. I didn't pull away. I held his gaze through the glass, and I let my expression stay soft, staying wounded, staying the girl who'd been hurt by Pearl and was seeking comfort wherever she could find it.

His jaw tightened. His hand crumpled the napkin. And then he turned — slow, heavy, like the movement cost him something — and walked back into the cafeteria, disappearing into the fluorescent blur.

I felt my heart pound once, hard, against my ribs.

Good. Let him see. Let him ache. Let him wonder if he'd lost his chance because of the girl who sat beside him and touched his arm.

I turned back to Derek and let my smile wobble. "Thanks for letting me sit. I think I needed the fresh air more than I realized."

Derek's chest swelled. "Anytime, Lila. My table's always open for you."

Chloe's thumb pressed against my shoulder again, and I felt the warmth of her approval like a hand on my back.

The silver foil of the variant caught the light one more time, a flash of brightness against the gray concrete, and I thought about Marcus's fingerprints — still there, still pressed into the edge, still carrying the weight of his wonder.

I'd let him touch it again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after. I'd let him hold it while Pearl watched, and I'd let him choose between the girl who'd given him something precious and the girl who'd made her run away.

The courtyard stretched around me, half-empty and gold-lit, and I let myself breathe.

The game was still mine to win.

The redheaded guy — I think his name was Miller, or maybe Mills — leaned forward, elbows on the table, and his eyes swept over me with a new kind of attention. Not the casual once-over guys gave girls they'd seen a hundred times. This one had weight. Calculation.

"This Pearl chick," he said, and his voice had dropped, gone low and serious. "She been giving you trouble?"

I let my gaze flick to him, then away. Small. Vulnerable. "She's not — I mean, she's not doing anything wrong. She just —" I stopped. Shook my head. "She sits next to him. Every day. And she touches him. And I don't —"

"You don't what?" Derek's hand tightened on my knee.

I looked down at my fingers. Let them twist together in my lap. "I don't know how to compete with that."

The table went quiet. I could feel the weight of their attention, the gravitational pull of a girl who looked like me admitting she felt small. It was a performance, but a good one — the kind that made men want to prove something, to step into the gap I'd opened.

Derek's jaw tightened. "You're not competing with her. She's not in your league."

Miller — Mills? — cracked his knuckles again. "Want us to have a word with her? Nothing heavy. Just — let her know she's being watched."

I bit my lip. Let my eyes go wide. "I don't want anyone to get in trouble."

"Nobody's getting in trouble," the buzz-cut guy said, and his voice was flat, confident. "Just a conversation. Friendly, even."

I could feel Chloe's presence beside me, still and patient. Her thumb pressed against my shoulder again — good, keep going, this is working — and I let the tension drain out of my posture, let myself slump against Derek just a little, letting my shoulder brush his chest.

"You guys are sweet," I said, and my voice came out soft, almost shy. "I don't know what I did to deserve having people in my corner like this."

Derek's chest swelled. His hand slid an inch higher on my thigh, and I felt the warmth of his palm through the denim skirt. "You deserve all of it, Lila. Trust me."

I let my lips curve into something grateful. Let my hand rest on top of his again. And then I looked up — slow, deliberate — and met the eyes of the other guys at the table.

They were looking at me. All of them. Mills-Miller, the buzz-cut guy, the other two whose names I hadn't bothered to learn. And there was something in their eyes I recognized. Hunger. The particular kind of hunger that came from watching a girl they wanted curl into another man's space, knowing she couldn't be touched but wanting to look anyway.

Their gazes dropped, just for a second, to the V of my shirt. To the curve of my chest. To the outline of my nipples pressing against the gray fabric — because I wasn't wearing a bra, because I never did, because I knew exactly what the light did to the thin cotton when the sun hit it at the right angle.

I saw Mills swallow.

I saw Buzz-Cut's fingers curl against the table.

And I saw Chloe's chin lift, just slightly, catching my eye.

Her hand moved. A small gesture — a brush of her fingers against her own collarbone, then a flick toward the table. The signal.

I took a breath. Let it settle. And then I let my elbow catch the edge of the ketchup bottle.

It tipped in slow motion — the kind of slow motion that only happens when you've planned it, timed it, rehearsed it in front of a mirror until the trajectory was muscle memory. The red blob hit the table with a wet plop, splattering across the surface, and a thin line of it arced onto my shirt, just below the collar, blooming into a dark stain against the gray.

"Oh, shit," I said, and my voice came out breathy, startled. "I'm so sorry —"

I was already standing, pushing back from the table, my hands fluttering at the stain like I didn't know what to do. The ketchup was warm and sticky against my skin, soaking into the fabric, and I let my eyes go wide and helpless.

"Here —" Chloe was up in an instant, grabbing a stack of napkins from the dispenser. "Let me —"

"It's fine, it's fine, I just —" I dabbed at the stain, which only made it worse, spreading the red into a bigger, uglier blotch. "God, I'm such a mess today."

Derek stood too, his hand dropping from my knee. "You want me to get you something? Water? A wet cloth?"

I shook my head, still dabbing, still making it worse. "No, I — I just need to —" I stopped. Looked down at the napkins in my hand. Then at Derek. Then at the guys still sitting at the table, watching me with the kind of attention I'd been cultivating all afternoon.

"Hold on," I said, and I leaned across the table toward the napkin dispenser — not the closest one, but the one on the far end, the one that meant I had to stretch, had to arch my back, had to let my shirt pull tight across my chest.

My breasts brushed against Derek's arm as I reached.

It was light — barely a touch, a whisper of fabric against his sleeve — but I felt him go still. I felt the hitch in his breathing, the way his muscles locked as my chest pressed against his bicep for half a second before I pulled back, napkins in hand, utterly oblivious.

"Sorry," I said, and I gave him a small, apologetic smile. "Didn't mean to —"

He shook his head. Swallowed. "You're fine." His voice was rough. "Take your time."

I turned my back to the table, facing Chloe, and let my shoulders slump. "This is ruined. I can't walk around campus like this."

Chloe tilted her head, playing along. "You want to borrow my sweater? It's in my bag."

I looked at her sweater — thin, cropped, useless for covering anything. And then I looked at Derek's jacket. The letterman. Heavy. Warm. Long enough to cover me to mid-thigh.

"Actually —" I turned, and I let my voice go small again. "Derek? Would it be okay if I borrowed your jacket for a minute? Just to — you know, cover up while I figure out what to do about the shirt?"

He was already shrugging it off before I finished the sentence. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. Here."

He pulled it off his shoulders and held it out to me, and I watched his eyes track over my body — the stain on my shirt, the curve of my hips, the way my skirt rode up when I stood. His gaze lingered on my chest. On the outline of my nipples through the now-stained fabric. On the soft swell of my breasts, clearly visible, unbraced, the way I wanted them to be.

I took the jacket. Held it in front of me. And then I looked at him with the most innocent, grateful expression I could muster.

"Can you —" I gestured vaguely at my back. "Can you kind of block me? So no one sees? I don't want to — you know — flash the whole courtyard."

Derek's eyes went wide. His throat moved as he swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I got you."

He stepped closer, positioning himself between me and the rest of the courtyard, his broad back blocking the view from the bike racks, the stragglers, the distant table of freshmen who'd been staring. Mills and Buzz-Cut were still watching from the table, but they had a clear sightline now — Derek's body was a shield for the public, not for them.

I pulled the shirt over my head.

The air hit my skin like a cool shock — crisp, sharp, raising goosebumps across my stomach, my ribs, the swell of my breasts. I was bare from the waist up, my chest fully exposed, my nipples tightening in the afternoon chill. I didn't hurry. I let the shirt clear my head slowly, letting my hair fall loose, letting my breasts catch the light, letting Derek see.

He made a sound — a small, strangled thing, barely audible — and I watched his eyes drop to my chest and stay there. His lips parted. His hands hung at his sides, curled into loose fists, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch.

I handed the shirt to Chloe. "Here. Can you — I don't know — get the stain out or something?"

She took it, and I saw the corner of her mouth twitch, the barest hint of a smirk. "I'll see what I can do."

I pulled Derek's jacket over my shoulders.

It was warm. Heavy. It smelled like him — deodorant and grass and something vaguely spicy — and it hung loose on my frame, the sleeves swallowing my hands, the hem dropping past my hips. I didn't zip it. I let it hang open, showing a sliver of bare skin, the curve of my collarbone, the shadow between my breasts.

I looked up at Derek. Let my eyes go soft and grateful. "Thank you. Really."

He was still staring. Still caught. "You — yeah. Anytime."

I turned back to the table, and I saw the looks on the faces of the other guys. Mills was staring at my chest, at the gap in the jacket, at the bare skin I'd let them see. Buzz-Cut was doing the same, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming against the table. The other two had gone quiet, their eyes tracking me as I sat back down, as I leaned into Derek's side, as I let his jacket fall open just a little wider.

"So," I said, and my voice was light now, almost cheerful, like I'd forgotten the hurt act entirely. "What were you guys saying about teaching Pearl a lesson?"

Mills leaned forward, his gaze still fixed on the bare skin at my throat. "We know a few people on the math team. Friends of friends. We can make sure she gets the message."

"Nothing violent," I said quickly, my eyes going wide. "I don't want anyone to get hurt. I just —" I bit my lip, let my gaze drop to the table. "I just want her to know that Marcus isn't hers. That there's someone else who —" I stopped, let the sentence hang, unfinished and full of implication.

Derek's arm came around my shoulders. Heavy. Protective. "Say the word, Lila. We'll handle it."

I leaned into him, letting my body press against his side, letting my bare chest brush against his arm through the open jacket. "You're all so sweet. I don't know how to thank you."

Buzz-Cut grinned, and there was something sharp in it. "We'll think of something."

I let my smile waver, let my eyes go shy, let my hand rest on Derek's knee — the mirror of his earlier gesture, but lighter, softer, more of a question than a claim.

Chloe cleared her throat. "So. About that variant cover."

I turned to her, grateful for the redirect. "What about it?"

"You think Marcus is going to come find you? After he saw you out here with —" She gestured at Derek, at the jacket, at the tableau we'd created. "All this?"

I let my gaze drift toward the cafeteria doors. The glass was empty now. Marcus wasn't standing there anymore. But I knew he was inside, somewhere, at the corner table with Pearl and Isaac and Tony, the taste of the silver foil still on his fingertips and the image of me curled into Derek's side burned into his memory.

I took a slow breath. Let the jacket shift, letting the cool air brush against my bare ribs.

"I think," I said, "he'll come find me when he's ready to choose."

Derek's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Choose?"

I looked up at him, let my gaze go soft and unreadable. "Between the girl who's been sitting next to him for years and the girl who brought him something precious." I paused. Let the words settle. "I think he's smart enough to make the right call."

Derek's jaw tightened. He didn't like the implication that Marcus was the one choosing — that there was a choice at all, that Lila was something to be won rather than already owned. But he didn't say anything. He just pulled me closer, his arm a cage around my shoulders, and I let him.

The jacket smelled like him. The afternoon light was golden and warm. And across the courtyard, through the glass, I could feel Marcus's absence like a held breath — waiting, aching, still not broken.