Three days into the performance, and Wentworth still hasn't recovered.
Every morning, Tate's car idles at the Delancey bus stop. We walk the halls side by side, his hand on my back or mine threaded through his, performing a warmth that tastes like ash in my mouth.
The whispers haven't stopped. If anything, they've multiplied—mutating from disbelief into theories, each more ridiculous than the last.
Pregnancy, blackmail, a dare gone wrong. Nobody at Wentworth can fathom a universe where Tate Mercer willingly chooses Harley Valdez, and honestly, neither can I.
The stairwell between the second and third period is always crowded. I'm weaving through the traffic, planner pressed to my chest, when a hand connects with the center of my back.
Not a tap, not a brush, but a shove—hard, deliberate, aimed with surgical precision at the exact moment I'm two steps from the top of the staircase.
My balance breaks as the drop yawns beneath me, a full flight of marble stairs, sharp-edged and unforgiving, and for one horrible second, I'm falling.
Then I'm not.
A hand locks around my arm and yanks me backward with enough force to whip my neck. My shoulders slam against a solid chest, and an arm wraps around my waist like a steel bar, pinning me in place.
I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade—fast, harder than it should be. His breath comes warm near my temple, and his grip tightens. I look up and see a familiar arrogant beautiful face with sharp blue eyes.
Neither of us moves. The hallway has gone silent around us.
I'm pressed against Tate with my pulse screaming in my ears, acutely aware of his chest rising and falling against my back, of his fingers digging into my hip hard enough to bruise, of the heat of him seeping through my clothes.
Then the moment cracks and Tate releases me. He steps around my body and faces Sloane, who stands three feet away with her hand still raised and her expression caught between satisfaction and the dawning realization that she miscalculated.
"Let me make something very clear to you."
Tate's voice carries the quiet authority of someone who's watched his father dismantle people for a living and inherited the blueprint.
“You touch her again, you look at her wrong, you breathe in her direction with intent, and I will personally ensure that every donor your father has been courting learns exactly what his daughter does for fun between classes. And Sloane?"
He steps closer, his smile thin as a razor.
"I have receipts. The kind that doesn't wash off."
Sloane's face drains of color. Her mouth opens, closes, and she retreats without a word—heels clicking a rapid, humiliated rhythm down the hallway. The crowd parts for her like she's contagious.
The second the hallway empties, Tate's armor drops like a costume hitting the floor.
"You know, for someone with four brothers, you'd think basic staircase survival skills would be in the family toolkit. Do they not cover that in the Southside?"
He leans against the wall, crossing his arms with the smugness of someone who just saved a life and intends to be insufferable about it for the rest of time.
"Also, Harley, I've been meaning to ask. Did your parents really named you after the motorcycle, or was that just a coincidence?"
My eyes light up with righteous anger.
"My grandmother's name was Harley, you ignorant piece of—"
"Sure it was. Next you'll tell me your middle name is Davidson."
I want to strangle him. I want to grab that smug, perfect jaw and shake until something useful falls out. But the bell rings and the hallway floods again, and Tate disappears into our classroom with a wink that makes my eye twitch.
"Harley."
Grant's voice comes from my left, careful and warm, right when I’m in the doorway of the classroom. He steps closer, brown eyes scanning my face with the focused concern of someone who just watched a girl nearly fall down a flight of stairs.
"Are you okay? I saw what Sloane did—that wasn't just bullying, that was assault. You could report her. I'd back you up, I saw the whole thing."
"I'm fine, Grant, really. Tate handled it."
"Yeah, I saw that too." I see something in his expression—not quite suspicion, but doubt. "Can I ask you something honestly? And you don't have to answer if you don't want to."
"Since when has that disclaimer ever preceded a comfortable question?"
He almost smiles.
"You and Tate… It doesn't add up, Harley. Three weeks ago, this guy was making your life miserable. And now suddenly he's your boyfriend?"
"People change, Grant.” I'm trying to sound convincing, even though lying to someone's face, especially Grant's, isn't easy for me. “Corrective hours forced us into proximity, and I saw a different side of him. It's not that complicated."
"It's exactly that complicated.” He doesn’t give up, but his natural softness does’t allow me to close off completely. “You're the most cautious person I know—you don't trust anyone, and you shouldn't, not in this place. So what could possibly have changed enough to make you trust Tate Mercer?"
I hold his gaze, keeping my voice steady, my expression open and honest because Grant deserves that even when the honesty is manufactured.
"He's not who I thought he was. I know that sounds naive coming from me, but it's true. He surprised me, and I'm choosing to give him a chance. That's all."
Grant searches my face for a long moment, then nods slowly. The doubt doesn't leave his eyes, but he buries it. "Just... be careful, okay? You've worked too hard to let anyone derail you—especially someone with his track record."
"I'm always careful."
He squeezes my arm once and walks away, and I watch him go with guilt sitting like a stone in my throat.
Grant's been one of the few genuine people here, and here I am, lying straight to his face about something he clearly cares about, something that worries him enough to risk our friendship by warning me.
The worst part is he's not entirely wrong—there is a game. He just doesn't know I'm a willing player.
Inside the classroom, I slide into my seat and open my textbook and feel it immediately—a weight on the back of my neck, steady and unrelenting. I know what it is before I turn around.
Tate watches me from two rows back, his blue eyes traveling between me and the exact spot where I'd been standing with Grant in the doorway.
When I catch him, he doesn't look away—he just holds my gaze with an expression I can't decode.
I turn back to the front but his stare doesn't move. I feel it through the entire lesson, burning between my shoulders, feeling those blue eyes tracking me like I'm something he's trying to solve.
After class, he catches my elbow before I make it five steps into the hallway. “Whatever cozy little heart-to-heart you and Mr. President had, it's not a great look for a girl who's supposed to be in a committed relationship.”
His voice is low, conversational, pitched for my ears only.
"He's my friend, Tate. That's what friends do—they check on each other. I realize that's a foreign concept in your world, where your best friends sold you out for a pool party, but in mine, basic human decency still exists."
"Daniels doesn't want to be your friend, Valdez. He's already mentally ripped off his own shirt to play hero, and pictured ripping off all of yours right after. The puppy dog eyes, the protective routine, the convenient concern every time I step away..."
"That's the most delusional thing you've ever said, and the bar was already underground."
"You're painfully slow, Valdez." He says it flatly, like he's stating a weather fact, and walks past me toward the exit.
I follow because his car is my ride, and the entire walk across campus is silent.
The parking lot empties around us. The sidewalk stretches ahead with no audience, no performance required, just fading afternoon light and two people who bring out the absolute worst in each other.
I don't plan it—well, almost. Just something to teach him a lesson. My foot connects with his ass—a solid, square kick that sends him stumbling forward two steps.
Tate's shock lasts half a second before he turns, disbelief breaking across his face like dawn, and then he's moving—long legs eating the distance between us with terrifying speed.
I bolt, actually bolt, sprinting down the sidewalk like a twelve-year-old who just rang a doorbell and ran.
He catches me in seconds. His arms hook around my waist, lifting me clean off the ground, and before I can scream or bite or kick, he pivots and launches me sideways into the decorative landscaping bushes lining the school entrance.
I crash through leaves and branches, landing on my back in a bed of mulch and ornamental shrubs, dirt showering into my hair, twigs jabbing through my jacket.
"You're taking the bus home today, Davidson," Tate calls over his shoulder, already walking away. He doesn't look back.
I lie there, staring up at the sky through a canopy of decorative greenery, dirt in my hair, mulch down my collar, a branch poking my ribs, and something terrible happens.
I almost laugh. I press my hand over my mouth and kill it before it fully forms, horrified at myself. No one saw. Somehow that makes it worse. And somehow, infuriatingly, it makes it better.