Harley’s POV
The art wing is empty during lunch period—that's why I come here. The silence, the smell of turpentine and clay, the half-finished sculptures standing like frozen ghosts.
It's the one place at Wentworth where I can breathe without feeling watched.
I drop my bag beside a paint-streaked stool and lean against the worktable, letting the quiet settle over me like a blanket.
My fingers find a dried smear of cobalt blue on the wood grain and trace it absently while the tension in my shoulders starts to uncoil.
Except my brain won't cooperate—it keeps circling back to him, to the hallway.
To the way Tate's body had pressed me into that wall like he owned every inch of space between us, and the way I'd let him—for a beat too long, a breath too many.
The way his eyes had dropped to my mouth and I'd felt it everywhere, a hot wire dragged down the center of my chest.
I hate that I noticed. I hate more that I'm still noticing—replaying it frame by frame like my subconscious is building a museum exhibit dedicated to Tate Mercer's jawline and the way his voice drops when he's trying not to lose control.
Stop it.
My fingers press harder into the dried paint, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
I force myself to exhale, to focus on the quiet. For a few minutes, it almost works. There's nothing but the distant hum of the ventilation system and the muffled noise of the cafeteria two hallways over.
A world happening without me. I close my eyes, which is why I don't notice the footsteps until they've already stopped.
A shelf shifts. The faint creak of metal, barely there—like someone who's been holding very still has finally decided to move.
"I know you saw us."
My eyes snap open.
Ezra steps out from behind a supply shelf, his face drawn with anxiety. He looks younger than seventeen at this moment—vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache despite myself.
I keep my expression neutral, tilting my head like I don't understand. "Saw who? What are you talking about?"
"Don't." His voice cracks on the word. "Please don't pretend. I saw your face through the door. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
The pretense crumbles and there's no point in maintaining it—we both know what I witnessed in that classroom.
The image flashes through my mind again, unwanted: Ezra on his knees, Monsieur Laurent's hand in his hair, the soft French words that made my stomach turn.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I saw. Now what?"
"You can't tell anyone." He moves closer, desperation bleeding through every word. "Please. You don't understand what would happen if this got out. My father, he would…" His voice breaks completely. "Please. I'm begging you."
Something in my chest tightens. I've heard that tone before—the raw terror of someone whose entire world hangs by a thread. I've felt it myself, standing in Wentworth's hallways while classmates mocked me about my father, my brothers, my address.
I choose my next words carefully.
"Ezra, can I ask you something? This relationship with Laurent… How did it even start?"
His brow furrows, confusion mixing with fear. "What does that matter?"
"Humor me."
"He... he noticed me. In class. Said I had potential, that I was different from the other students."
Ezra's expression softens slightly, some of the panic giving way to something almost dreamy. The words hit me like stones. I recognize them—not the specific details, but the shape of them.
The desperate need to believe that someone finally sees you.
"Ezra..." I keep my voice gentle, the way I'd speak to Aro when he was younger and still believed the world might be kind. "A teacher who truly cared about you wouldn't put you in this position. He wouldn't risk your future, your safety, your reputation… Not if he actually loved you."
His jaw tightens immediately, defensively. "You don't know him. You don't know what we have."
"You're right, I don't." I've seen that look in my own mirror—the desperate clinging to something that feels like love, even when every sign points to danger. Pushing harder won't help. It never does. "I'm just saying... be careful. That's all."
"Are you going to tell anyone or not?" The words come out harsh, but I hear the fear beneath them.
I hold his gaze, letting him see that I mean every word. "I'm not going to tell anyone, Ezra. I promise."
"Why?" Suspicion flickers across his face. "You hate my brother, I know you do. This would destroy him, destroy my whole family. Why wouldn't you use it?"
"Because you're not a weapon." The truth of it settles in my chest, heavy and certain. "Whatever problems I have with Tate, you didn't cause them. You're seventeen years old, and you're caught in something that never should have happened. I won't make it worse."
Ezra searches my face, clearly doubting my sincerity. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions.
"Thank you," he finally says. The words sound hollow, uncertain—like he wants to believe me but can't quite manage it.
"You don't have to thank me. Just... think about what I said. About Monsieur Laurent."
The conversation should end there. We should walk away, return to our separate worlds, pretend this never happened.
I’m ready to turn away when Tate appears. He rounds the corner into the art wing, and the moment he spots us together, his eyes go dark and dangerous—the look of a predator who's found a threat near something he's sworn to protect.
"What the hell is going on here?" He strides toward us, every line of his body radiating tension. "Ezra, get away from her."
"Tate, it's fine." Ezra steps between us, hands raised. "She's not going to say anything. She promised…"
"And you just believed her?!" Tate's voice rises, incredulous. "Jesus Christ, Ez, she's been waiting two years for a chance to destroy me. You think she's going to pass this up out of the goodness of her heart?"
"I'm standing right here," I say flatly. "You could try addressing me directly instead of talking about me like I'm furniture."
Tate's eyes snap to mine, blazing with fury. "I need to speak with you. Privately. Now."
"Tate, there's no need…" Ezra starts.
"Go to class, Ezra." Tate's voice leaves no room for argument. "I'll handle this."
Ezra hesitates, looking between us with obvious worry. But he's clearly spent his whole life following his older brother's lead, and old habits die hard. He retreats, casting one last uncertain glance over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
The moment he's gone, Tate grabs my arm. His grip is firm, not quite painful, as he pulls me around the corner into a narrow alcove between supply closets.
Away from witnesses. Away from anyone who might hear.
"Let go of me," I hissed.
"Shut up." His voice is low, threatening, barely above a whisper. "I don't care what you told Ezra. I don't care what promises you made. If one word of this gets out, one word, I will make your life a living hell. What you've experienced so far? That's me being nice."
"I already told your brother I wouldn't say anything. I meant it."
"Right." Tate's lip curls into something ugly. "You can feed that shit to Ezra because he's naive enough to believe it, but not me. I can see right through your kind, Valdez. You're waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The moment it benefits you most."
"I don't know what you're putting in your eyes," I fire back, shoving hard against his chest, "but your x-ray vision is clearly defective."
He's solid beneath my palms, warm. The contact sends something electric through my fingertips—something I refuse to acknowledge. And then in one fluid motion, Tate pins me against the wall.
His body crowds mine, chest to chest, his arms braced on either side of my head. I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell soap and something woodsy beneath it. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the individual flecks of darker blue in his eyes.
Close enough to feel his breath warm against my lips.
"I'm warning you," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "Stay away from my brother. Keep your mouth shut. Or I swear to God, I'll—"
"You'll what?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Throw more paint on me? Spread more rumors? You've already done your worst, Mercer. And I'm still standing."
Something flickers in his eyes—something that isn't quite anger. His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up.Then he's gone. Pushing off the wall, stepping back, striding away without another word.
I stay pressed against the cold stone, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I force myself to focus on my hatred, on two years of cruelty, on paint dripping into my eyes while his friends laughed.
I refuse to acknowledge that we stood pressed together far longer than necessary, and that neither of us had pulled away.