Serena’s POV
Finals week descends on campus, and suddenly nobody has time to care about who's sleeping with their stepbrother when organic chemistry is threatening to destroy their GPA.
The shift happens gradually, the way a bruise fades — you don't notice the exact moment the purple turns yellow, but one morning you look down and the worst of it has passed.
Caleb's hand finds mine as we cross the quad, his fingers threading through my own with the casual certainty of someone who's done this a hundred times.
He hasn't, though. Not in the open, not where anyone with a phone camera could document it. But his grip doesn't waver, and neither does his stride, and I realize this is what courage looks like when it's finished being loud — quiet, steady, refusing to let go.
"You're squeezing my hand like you're trying to juice it," he says, not breaking pace.
"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm testing your pain tolerance."
"Survived my father's custody hearing. Your grip strength is adorable by comparison."
A girl from my Constitutional Law section glances at us as she passes, her eyes dropping to our joined hands before darting away. I wait for the familiar clench of shame in my stomach.
It doesn't come.
"That's the third person who's pretended they didn't see us," Mia announces from my left side, where she's been marching like a Secret Service agent with a personal vendetta.
"I'm keeping count. Yesterday's stare-to-indifference ratio was one in four. Today we're at one in nine."
"You're literally tracking this?" Caleb leans forward to look past me at her.
"I made a spreadsheet. Categories include 'Hostile Stare,' 'Curious Glance,' 'Couldn't Care Less,' and my personal favorite, 'Too Busy Failing Midterms to Judge.'"
"That last category must be doing well this week," I say.
"It's the clear frontrunner. Turns out academic panic is a powerful antidote to moral outrage."
A guy in a lacrosse jersey opens his mouth as he approaches, and Mia pivots toward him with a look that could strip paint. He closes his mouth and keeps walking.
"What were you going to do if he actually said something?" Caleb asks.
"Violence." Mia doesn't miss a beat. "Targeted, proportional violence."
"She's been practicing her intimidation face in the mirror," I tell him. "There are exercises involved."
"Jaw clenching is an underrated skill," Mia says, entirely serious. "Most people neglect their masseter muscles."
Caleb laughs — not the dark, sharp-edged version he used to weaponize, but the real one that softens the lines around his eyes and makes him look like the boy in that photograph Shane found in his racing jacket.
The warmth of it settles beneath my ribs, in a space that used to hold nothing but dread.
We reach the humanities building and Mia peels off toward her sociology lecture with a pointed finger aimed at both of us. "Stay visible. Stay boring. Boring is the endgame."
"Boring," Caleb repeats as she disappears through the glass doors. "That's aspirational."
"For us? It's revolutionary."
He pulls me closer by our joined hands, pressing his mouth against my temple in a kiss so casual it aches. "See you after class."
"Don't start fights with anyone while I'm gone."
"Define 'anyone.'"
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