Tate’s POV
My bedroom door opens without warning, and Ezra slips inside like a ghost.
He's pale and shaking, eyes red-rimmed in a way that tells me he's been crying. And my little brother never cries. Not when Dad screamed at him for quitting lacrosse, not when Mom forgot his birthday last year.
Not once in the two years since he came out to me in this very room.
"Ez?" I sit up from my bed, immediately alert. "What's wrong?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just stands there with his back pressed against the door, trembling, his arms wrapped around himself like he's trying to hold his body together.
His mouth opens, closes, opens again—nothing comes out.
"You're scaring me." I swing my legs off the bed, moving slowly so I don't spook him. "Whatever it is, just tell me. Did something happen at school? Did Dad say something to you?"
"I can't." Ezra shakes his head, a jerky movement that looks almost involuntary. "I can't tell you. You'll hate me, you'll…"
"I could never hate you." I close the distance between us, gripping his shoulders gently. "Look at me. Whatever this is, we'll figure it out together. That's what we do, right? You and me against the world."
His laugh comes out broken, more sob than sound. "You don't understand. This is different. This is so much worse than anything…"
"Ezra."
I make my voice firm, steady. The voice I use when he's spiraling, when his anxiety takes over and he needs something solid to hold onto.
"I've kept your secret for two years. I've lied to Dad's face for you. There is nothing you could tell me that would change how I feel about you. Nothing. Do you understand?"
He searches my face, desperate and terrified. I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—the need to confess battling against the fear of what that confession might cost.
"You promise?" His voice is barely a whisper. "You promise you won't look at me differently?"
"I promise." I squeeze his shoulders. "Talk to me, Ez. Please."
The dam breaks as he starts, the words tumbling out in fragments
"There's someone at school. We've been... it started as mentorship. He actually listens when I talk, Tate. He makes me feel seen for the first time in my life. Not the governor's son, not the family disappointment… just me."
My stomach drops. "Who are we talking about?"
Ezra's face crumples. "Monsieur Laurent."
The name hits me like a physical blow. Laurent. The young French teacher all the girls swoon over. The one who hosts after-school cultural events and takes students on "educational" trips to Montreal.
"Julian… He understands me," Ezra continues, the confession pouring out now that he's started. "I know it's wrong, I know it's so wrong… But I can't stop, and he says we just have to wait until I graduate, and then we can be together for real, and—"
"Ezra." My voice comes out strangled. "How long has this been going on?"
"Since last spring. But that's not… That's not why I'm here." He grabs my arms, his grip almost painful. "Someone saw us tonight. In his classroom. She saw everything."
My blood turns to ice. "Who? Who saw you?"
"That girl from the student council. Harley Valdez."
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Of all the people to hold my brother's secret, it had to be her. The girl I've spent two years tormenting. The girl who has every reason in the world to destroy me and everyone I love.
You’ve got to be kidding me…
"I'll handle it." I pull Ezra into a tight embrace, feeling his body shake against mine. "Don't do anything, don't talk to anyone, don't contact Laurent. Just let me figure out a plan, okay?"
"What if she's already told someone? What if Dad finds out? He'll—"
"He won't find out." I grip Ezra's shoulders, forcing him to meet my eyes. "I won't let that happen. I promise you, Ez. I'll fix this."
Ezra searches my face, desperate to believe me. Finally, he nods—a small, fragile movement that breaks something in my chest.
"Okay," he whispers. "I trust you."
The words settle over me like a weight I'm not sure I can carry.
I walk him to the door, watch him slip back into the darkened hallway toward his own room. He looks smaller than he should, shoulders curved inward like he's trying to disappear. When his door clicks shut, the silence that follows feels suffocating.
I don't turn on the lights. Instead, I sink onto the edge of my bed, letting the darkness wrap around me while my mind races.
Harley Valdez.
Her face materializes in my mind unbidden. Soft warm brown skin, sharp dark eyes that never flinch, that mouth that always curves into something dangerous when she's about to eviscerate someone with words alone.
The way she carries herself, spine straight and chin lifted. Like she's permanently braced for a fight she knows is coming.
She's so beautiful that it haunts me sometimes. I've always known that, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise. Especially when I tried.
I remember the first time I saw her freshman year in September. She was sitting alone in the library, silky dark hair falling across her face as she read, completely absorbed in her book.
The afternoon light caught the curve of her cheekbone, the fullness of her lips, and something in my chest tightened in a way I didn't understand then.
She wasn't like the other girls at Wentworth—not polished and perfect and utterly fucking boring. There was something fierce about her, something unpolished and raw that felt more real than anything in my gilded world.
When I sat beside her and she looked up at me with those sharp eyes, unimpressed by my name or my face or anything else, I felt like I'd been struck by lightning.
For two weeks, I let myself be drawn to her. Made her laugh with that dry humor she tried to hide. Found excuses to touch her—brushing fingers, bumping shoulders, anything to feel that spark again.
When she smiled at me, really smiled, my heart did things I'd never experienced before. Even now, two years later, I remember exactly how she looked in that library.
The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. The glimpse of vulnerability beneath her armor when she thought no one was watching.
I push the memory down violently, the way I always do.
Because then reality intervened.
How my friends noticed and Brooks made comments about my "charity case crush." And my father's voice echoed in my head: Appearances matter, Tate. Associations matter. One wrong step and everything crumbles.
So I made Harley a target instead of a temptation. Watched her face when the paint hit and told myself it didn't matter.
And now she holds Ezra's future in her hands.
If our father discovers the truth, his younger gay-son, entangled with a male teacher, it won't be a scandal. It will be annihilation. Governor Mercer has built his career on "traditional family values."
He would sooner destroy Ezra than let him become a liability.
***
The next day, I find Harley at her locker before first period.
"Hey." I keep my voice soft, careful. "Can we talk for a second?"
She turns slowly, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Why? Did you run out of insults, or is this a new strategy?"
"I'm not attacking you. I just wanted to…"
"What?" She crosses her arms. "Check on me? Since when do you care about anything other than making my life miserable?"
"Look, I know we have history. But maybe we could just talk. Like normal people."
Her laugh is sharp. "You're attempting sweetness. What's the angle, Mercer?"
The mockery stings more than it should. Old reflexes kick in before I can stop them.
"Forget it," I snap. "You're so determined to see the worst in everyone. But I guess that's what happens when you grow up in Southside—everyone's an enemy, right?"
I watch her expression harden, those dark eyes going flat and cold.
Damn it. What the hell is wrong with me?
"Good talk," Harley says flatly, turning back to her locker. "Always a pleasure, Mercer."
I walk away with my hands shaking from the knowledge that she holds all the cards, and I just proved I can't manage a civil conversation without my worst instincts taking over.
I need to be smarter. I need a real plan—something that neutralizes the danger she poses, something that protects Ezra.
Harley Valdez won't be charmed, won't be intimidated, won't be reasoned with.
I need to find something she wants badly enough to make a deal.
I will save my brother. Whatever it takes.