Evan's POV
I leaning against the car in the parking lot, checking my phone, wondering what's taking Noah so long.
We're supposed to leave immediately after class because Mom texted saying she and Dad want to introduce us to someone tonight—probably another business associate's daughter they think would be good for one of us.
The parking lot is mostly empty when I see a girl rush toward her friends near the entrance.
She's breathless, excited in that way people get when there's drama. She mutters something, then one of them says it loud enough for half the parking lot to catch. "There's a fight?"
My attention sharpens.
The girls start racing back toward the building, and I catch fragments of their conversation. "Noah and Trent and Lena" are the only words I need to hear before I'm moving.
I rush toward the hallway, scenarios running through my head.
Did Trent start something?
I see Noah walking toward me from the opposite direction. He's alone, his jaw tight, hands clenched into fists, and there's fury mixed with hurt in his expression.
I move closer. "What happened?" I'm scanning him for signs of injury.
Noah doesn't answer. He just walks past me. His silence tells me whatever happened wasn't good. When we reach the car I get the door for him. He slides into the passenger seat without a word.
I start the engine and pull out.
"What happened?" I ask again, trying to give him space to answer. "Noah, talk to me."
"Just drive," he says, his voice flat, staring straight ahead.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, frustration building. The silence stretches before I can't take it.
"What the hell happened?" The words come out sharper than I mean them. "Noah, you're shutting me out."
Noah finally turns to look at me. "Lena is avoiding us," he says, and there's so much weight in those words. "She won't look at me. Won't talk to me. I tried approaching her in the cafeteria and she just left. Like I'm toxic."
"Of course she's avoiding us," I say, navigating through traffic. "Noah, we need to give her space. She's processing everything. She needs time to figure out how she feels."
"Time?" Noah's voice rises. "How much time? We can't just let her think we used her. We need to explain ourselves better, make her understand that we care about her."
"And what are we supposed to say that we didn't already say?" I counter. "We told her our feelings were real. We told her the money was hers regardless. What else is there?"
"Maybe we should have thought about that before—" Noah stops himself.
"Before we what?" I challenge. "Before we kept a stranger from potentially hurting her? Before we made sure she got the money she needed for school?"
"You brought this idea," Noah says, his voice accusatory. "I told you it was a bad one from the start. I told you we should just offer to help her directly, give her the money as a loan or something. But you said she'd never accept charity. And now she's ignoring us, and I punched Trent in the face because he was calling her—" He breaks off, breathing hard.
"So now you want to shift the blame on me? So you think letting her get used by another person was the best option?" My voice is cold now. "You think some stranger who found her profile would have been better? Someone who didn't know her, didn't care about her?"
"I don't know!" Noah's voice cracks. "I don't know what the right answer was, Evan. All I know is that she hates us now. What if she never forgives us? What if we ruined any chance we ever had with her?"
The question hits harder than I want to admit. "What if a stranger had been there instead?" I say quietly. "What if we hadn't intervened and something bad happened to her? Could you have lived with that?"
"Don't," Noah says, his voice raw. "Don't make this about hypotheticals. This is about what we actually did."
We're pulling up to a red light near his friend's street, and Noah reaches for the door handle. "Stop the car."
"Noah—"
"Just stop the car, Evan." The light turns green, and I pull over. Noah steps down, slamming the door harder than necessary, and starts walking back the way we came.
I watch him in the rearview mirror for a moment, jaw clenched, then drive off.
My foot presses harder on the accelerator, anger and frustration and guilt mixing into something I can't name.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mom asking where we are. I ignore it. Because right now, I don't have answers for her, or for Noah, or for myself about whether we did the right thing or just made everything worse.