-Treasure.
It's been weeks, and Devon still hasn't looked me in the eye.
Ever since that night—since what happened between us, that softness, that closeness—I've been orbiting around silence. His silence. Like something thick and invisible sits between us now, wedged like a splinter that won't come out no matter how much I prod. He says we're fine. That we're doing good. But his words fall limp against the truth. I can feel it in the way he won't meet me in the kitchen anymore. In the way our nights have turned mute. We used to talk in bed until one of us drifted off, or crack jokes while brushing our teeth. Now, he slips into the apartment like a ghost. If I'm not home, he's already in bed by the time I return. If I am, he barely says anything before disappearing into the bathroom or burying himself in his mattress on the other side of the room.
I don't know what I did wrong. All I know is that I wasn't disgusted by it. Not even a little. I liked it. I liked all of it. I liked the closeness, the heat, the way we moved like we knew each other's rhythms without needing to speak. But maybe that's the thing—maybe I was the only one who liked it. Maybe, to him, it was a moment of weakness, a shameful lapse, something to be scrubbed off in the shower like sweat after a bad dream. I don't know. Because he won't talk to me.
So I started looking for him on campus. Kept an eye out during passing periods, between classes, pretending I just happened to walk by. Sometimes I'd spot him at the far end of the quad, or sitting at the edge of the benches behind the gym, always alone or surrounded by people I didn't recognize anymore. Today, I saw him standing with a group of guys I'd never seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, serious types, handing out flyers like they had something important to say.
Devon was listening. Focused. Interested in whatever it was they were pitching.
I crossed the grass toward them, slipping past a couple making out under a tree, weaving around backpacks tossed on the lawn. I placed my hand lightly on his shoulder. I knew he wouldn't shrug it off. Not here. Not in public. Devon doesn't do scenes. He has this way of maintaining a façade, a polished front, as if we're still okay, like nothing's broken. But I've seen how he recoils behind closed doors, how he flinches from things that used to be routine. And even now, under my palm, his shoulder is tense.
"What's that?" I asked.
He turned toward me, face unreadable. Not angry. Not cold. Just—blank. Then he slammed the flyer into my chest. Harder than necessary. "You can look for yourself," he said, already turning away.
I held the paper in my hand, staring at the bold print: Valmont Academy of Tactical Training. Self-defense courses. Weapons certification. And right at the center, like a cheap promise wrapped in neon, Do you want to be a bodyguard? Work in private security? Start here.
A cartoon man with sunglasses held out his hand toward me like some kind of invitation into a life I never pictured for myself.
I jogged to catch up with him. "Are you thinking of joining?"
He didn't slow down. Didn't even glance back. "Yeah," he muttered. "I signed up already."
There was something final in the way he said it. Like the decision was a door already closed.
I breathed in sharply. "Do you think I should join too?"
He kept walking. I heard the beat of his footsteps, steady against the concrete. Then he stopped. Turned.
"Why would you?" he asked, staring at me—not into me, not through me, just at me. Like I was something small and far away.
I tried to find the right words. "I don't know. We kind of… do things together. It could be fun, right? I mean, I'd love to learn how to use a gun. It sounds cool."
Devon's face didn't change. Not even a flicker. He looked at me for a second longer than I could handle. And then he said, "Do whatever suits you. I don't care."
And he walked off.
Left me standing in the middle of the walkway with the stupid flyer crushed in my fist.
And once again, all I could think was: What did I do wrong?
Because I truly didn't know.
And we did join.
We sat down one night, barely talking, barely meeting eyes, and agreed on it without really saying much. We pulled together what we had—scraps of savings, tips from the café, leftover birthday cash Devon hadn't spent—and handed it over like an offering to something we didn't fully understand yet. It felt reckless, but it also felt like movement. Like we were signing up for something that might give us shape.
The first few days were chaos.
I didn't know what the hell I was doing. My body was quick, sure. I could run fast, duck low, roll on my feet without twisting an ankle—but none of that helped when you didn't know where the strike was coming from. They ran these simulation drills where people would come at you from blind angles, and you had to anticipate it, react, diffuse it. I didn't even know what I was supposed to be anticipating. I kept flinching late, pivoting in the wrong direction, getting tapped on the shoulder or swept off balance like I was a ragdoll on display.
The physical part wasn't entirely new. We'd done plenty of that in college: self-defense, endurance, core work. We were used to sweat soaking through our shirts and aching legs that trembled on staircases. But here, it wasn't just about strength or speed—it was about awareness. Hyper-awareness. Peripheral vision like a hawk's. Knowing the difference between a real threat and a flinch. I didn't know how to think like that yet. Everything felt too fast, too loud. And then there were the mental drills.
De-escalation.
I thought it'd be easy. Talk it out. Calm people down. Use your voice. But no. There were whole systems to it. Rules. Angles. Approach from the side, not head-on. Lower your voice instead of raising it. Mirror their words, not their volume. Keep your hands visible. Redirect the aggression. Don't ever say "calm down." That's the worst thing you could say. It only ever makes people snap harder. Apparently, your words have to hit like hands—steady, grounded, neutralizing.
And there were even rules depending on who you were dealing with. A man. A woman. Someone older. Someone younger. Someone under the influence. Someone with a weapon. Someone screaming. Someone silent. Every scenario required a different part of you. It was like being asked to rebuild your instincts from the ground up.
Devon didn't talk to me through any of it.
He stayed quiet, focused. Always ahead of the group, like he'd already memorized the handbook we hadn't been given yet. He'd fall into line like a soldier, smooth and wordless, and I trailed behind him, always one breath late. He didn't look at me unless he had to, and even then, it was brief. Unreadable. I was used to sharing energy with him, knowing what he felt without needing to ask. But now, he was locked away behind some wall I didn't remember us building.
So I played dumb.
If he wanted to pretend like nothing happened, then fine. If he wanted to ignore me, keep everything under that stoic armor, then I'd match it. I'd smile with the others, nod during drills, keep my distance. He didn't want to face me? Then I wouldn't make him.
But pretending has its limits.
It happened during one of the scenario drills. The instructor, this guy named Roland with too many tattoos and not enough patience, had set up a maze-like obstacle course out in the field. Wooden partitions, rope lines, punching bags dressed in hoodies like fake assailants. We had to sprint through, identify the threats, subdue, then extract someone they'd hidden in the back—a mannequin strapped to a stretcher.
We were paired into groups, and somehow I ended up alone. Devon was with someone else. I didn't complain.
I charged through the course, heart pounding in my ears. The first two threats I managed to identify and dodge. The third I wasn't so lucky. I stumbled at a turn, hit the corner too fast. My foot slipped, skidding across the dry dirt, and I lurched forward. There was a metal bar hooked low to the ground, part of a tripwire trap I hadn't noticed.
My leg clipped it.
Pain tore through my ankle, sharp and sudden, and I crashed forward hard, shoulder-first into the ground. The wind punched out of my lungs.
I didn't have time to get up before someone was pulling me back by the waist. Strong arms, steady grip, fast reaction. I didn't need to look up. I knew it was him.
Devon was crouched over me, voice low but fierce. "Don't move. Let me see your ankle."
I couldn't say anything. The sting in my foot was sharp, but it was the weight of his hands that knocked something loose in my chest. He looked furious—more with the situation than with me—but there was something else in his face. Panic. Concern. The kind that doesn't just bloom for anyone.
He moved my leg gently, examined it with hands I knew too well. "It's not broken," he muttered, half to himself. "You just hit the bone."
"I didn't see the bar," I said, my voice raw from dirt and ego.
"Because you weren't paying attention," he snapped, but it didn't sound cruel. It sounded scared.
He helped me up, arm wrapped around my side. My weight pressed into him without resistance. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he held me. Not because he had to. Not because anyone was watching. Just because.
And I thought, so you don't really hate me.
You wouldn't run to me like that if you did. You wouldn't be checking my ankle like it mattered. You wouldn't be holding me like something that wasn't broken.
You're not disgusted by me.
I must've done something to upset you. Something that struck a place I couldn't see.
But this… this wasn't hatred.
It wasn't indifference, either.
And that made everything harder.
Because if he didn't hate me, then why was he pushing me away?
And why did it still feel like I'd lost something I didn't know how to ask back for?
I had to stay home for nearly two weeks while my ankle healed. The doctors said it was nothing serious, just a deep bone bruise and a shallow wound that needed cleaning and time. But time moved differently when you were left behind.
The apartment was quiet during the day. The television became background noise, the ceiling a familiar face I stared at more often than I should admit. I caught myself checking the clock every few hours, imagining where the rest of the class would be by now. Running drills. Getting stronger. Sharpening their instincts. Becoming someone I wasn't.
Devon didn't say much in those days. He'd leave in the morning before I was fully awake and come home smelling like sweat and metal, a towel looped around his neck, fingers still twitching from holding training weapons. He'd drop his keys in the dish, maybe glance toward me if I was on the couch, but never linger long enough to speak. I stopped trying to start conversation. The air between us was thick with something I couldn't name, so I let it sit. Let him drift past me like a tide I wasn't allowed to swim in.
When I returned to training, the gap between us had widened.
Devon was already top of the class.
People admired the way he moved—fluid, focused, never second-guessing. He was quick on his feet, faster in decision-making, and somehow always aware of his surroundings like he'd grown an extra sense. He could de-escalate mock fights like a professional negotiator, turn tense scenes into handled ones with a few clipped words and a pointed nod. Watching him in the field made it feel like he'd been born for this.
I tried to catch up. I really did.
But something about the rhythm had already left me behind. And maybe I could've forced it, maybe I could've fought for the lead again, but I didn't. I let it go. Not out of laziness—God knows I worked myself raw—but because I didn't have it in me to fuss over being a few steps back. Not when everything else inside me was already in pieces. Not when I was still trying to figure out what to say to him, how to even begin a sentence that wouldn't fall apart before it reached his ears.
The final arc of our training was the one that sparked the most nervous excitement in the air—gun handling.
They didn't let us anywhere near a weapon until the very end, and even then, it felt ceremonial, like we were crossing some threshold we couldn't come back from. The instructors brought out the locked black cases with the kind of careful reverence you usually only see in movies. Inside, the guns were lined up on dark foam like sleeping creatures. Cold, silent, and waiting.
We started with the basics—learning every piece by name, holding the weight of it in our palms, disassembling, then assembling, over and over until the action felt like breathing. I remember the first time they placed one in my hand. It was heavier than I expected, not just in mass, but in implication. Like I was holding something more than metal and parts. Something that could take away. Something final.
The grip was smooth but rigid, the trigger stiff until the right amount of pressure applied. We were taught to cradle it, not clutch it. To respect it. To know where the muzzle was pointed at all times. They drilled it into us like scripture: finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot, treat every gun as if it's loaded, be aware of what's behind your target. Safety wasn't just a protocol—it was religion.
We lined up at the shooting range in long rows beneath an open shelter that smelled faintly of oil and gravel. Ear protection on. Goggles in place. Targets shaped like silhouettes waited in the distance, paper bodies with faint outlines of the kill zones. When the first shot cracked through the stillness, I flinched. My own hand jerked slightly in instinct, and I hated that it showed.
The kickback was something else entirely.
The moment I pulled the trigger, I felt the jolt up my wrist, into my shoulder. It wasn't violent, just sharp, clean, like the gun reminding me I wasn't in control unless I learned to be. The sound echoed in my chest more than my ears. I adjusted, tried again, steadier this time. Breathe in, aim, tighten, fire. A rhythm slowly started to form, and with it, some kind of thrill I wasn't ready to admit. Not because of the power, but because I was doing it. I was holding my own.
Devon was at the far end of the line. I hadn't noticed him at first, not until I stepped back after emptying my magazine and saw him through the veil of smoke. His stance was different now. Controlled. Precise. Legs slightly apart, arms extended, shoulders locked. He looked like he belonged there. His face was calm, not stone-cold but deeply focused, like he had carved out a space for himself where no one could reach.
And for a moment, I just watched.
Something about the way he moved, how deliberate he had become, made me ache. I wanted to reach that part of him again, the one I used to share space with so easily, back when we were young and dumb and full of invincibility. Now, there was a gap between us that couldn't be measured in steps. It was something less visible. Something heavier.
He caught me looking.
It wasn't long—barely a second—but his eyes lifted from his target and found me. There wasn't a smile. There wasn't a frown either. Just a flicker of recognition, something unreadable, like maybe he didn't know how to react. Or maybe he did, and just didn't want to show it.
Later, we were paired for a movement drill. The instructors set up a simulation with barriers and tactical dummies, meant to train us in moving while aiming. We were supposed to alternate—one covered, the other moved—communicating silently through hand signals. I hadn't known Devon would be my partner until he came to stand next to me and simply nodded, wordless.
My heart started thudding like a trapped thing.
We moved as instructed. He gave the first signal. I responded. We began.
Something strange happened then. Despite the silence that had grown between us these past weeks, our bodies remembered how to read one another. I moved the moment he did. He crouched, and I knew where to place my footing without even looking. We anticipated each other. It was muscle memory, yes, but it was something deeper too. Something that hadn't left us, even if everything else had.
The drill ended, and he walked off without a word.
But for the first time in a long time, I wasn't hurt by the silence.
Because in those few minutes, when we moved in sync with loaded weapons between us, I remembered what it felt like to be trusted by him. Maybe he didn't speak it out loud. Maybe he couldn't. But he'd trusted me to move, to cover him, to keep pace. That had to mean something.
And for the rest of the day, I didn't flinch.
Because for a few minutes, I wasn't just someone left behind.
I was his partner again.
Even if only in motion.
Even if only in silence.
That evening, after the gun drills wrapped up and the sun dipped low behind the concrete yard, washing the sky in a fading orange bruise, we walked home together.
Neither of us said a word at first. Our boots struck the sidewalk in rhythm, but it was the kind of silence that didn't settle—more like it hovered between us, thick and uneven. The chill of the evening brushed past our shoulders, and cars hummed along the avenue, headlights blinking in and out like distant signals.
I kept sneaking glances at him.
The streetlights cast long shadows behind us, stretching our figures across the pavement like they were trying to remind us of something we used to be. Devon had his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, jaw set tight, gaze fixed forward. He didn't look at me once. Not when we crossed the avenue. Not when I slowed down to match his pace.
But I missed him.
God, I missed him so much it almost felt like a bruise in my chest that wouldn't fade.
So I said it.
I stopped walking and let the words fall out before I could lose the courage.
"Devon… I miss you."
He didn't stop.
But I kept going. My voice shook, just enough to betray how hard this was for me. "I hate that we're not talking to each other. I hate that I don't know what I did wrong. I mean… if you told me, really told me, I'd stop doing it. I wouldn't do it again. You know me. But I just— I need to know. Don't I at least have that much credit with you? For you to just tell me what I did wrong?"
Devon's steps slowed. He didn't stop, but I could feel the shift in his posture, like something inside him had braced. He kept walking for a few more seconds, then finally exhaled.
"You're an asshole, Treasure," he muttered, voice low, not cruel but raw. "You really are an asshole."
That stung.
It shouldn't have surprised me, but it still landed like a slap across something fragile.
He ran a hand over his face, like he was trying to keep himself from snapping completely. "And I sometimes wish you'd consider my feelings. Just… for once."
I swallowed, my throat dry. "What did I do that hurt your feelings?"
"I just wish you'd think about my feelings sometimes," he added. "Actually think. Not assume. Not breeze over things like they're easy just because they're easy for you."
I blinked hard, my voice catching a little. "What did I do? Was it… was it that night?"
He didn't say anything, and I stepped closer, speaking more carefully now. "You were the one who asked. You said you wanted to try it again—to see how it would make you feel. I just said okay. I just followed your lead."
"I know I did," he snapped, turning his head just enough for me to see the fire in his eyes. "I know I fucking asked for it. And I'm angry at myself for that. Because I was confused. I didn't know what I wanted, and I thought maybe if I just… if I did it, it would clear something up. And then we—"
He broke off, clenching his jaw, gaze slipping back toward the street ahead. "You didn't even stop to ask how I felt afterward. You just said, 'That was nice,' and then suggested we keep doing it like it was some casual, stress-relief thing. Like I was just… available. Like I didn't matter in it. Like I wasn't a person."
"I didn't mean it like that," I said quickly, but he didn't let me finish.
"You acted like I was just there for your convenience," he said. "Like, oh great, here's someone I already live with, might as well keep using him when things get stressful. That's how it felt."
I stopped walking.
He finally turned, just a little, enough to look at me fully. His face was flushed with anger—not the loud kind, but the kind that simmers quietly, the kind that hurts more because it means he's been holding it in.
"You're so selfish sometimes. You don't even realize it. You take whatever's given to you and twist it so it fits whatever you want. You don't stop to think how that affects the person giving it."
The street was silent now, the world narrowed to just his words, my shame, and the dull ache behind my ribs. My arms hung useless by my sides, and I stared at the sidewalk for a second, trying to breathe through the fog settling in my chest.
I looked up.
"Is that really what you think of me?"
He didn't answer.
I stepped forward, barely a pace closer. "It wasn't something I did intentionally, Devon. I wasn't trying to use you. I didn't know… I didn't understand that you were hurting. I didn't check. I just assumed—fuck—I assumed you liked it too. I thought that when I said we could do it again, I was leaving room for you to say no. I didn't know you'd taken it like that."
He turned away again, arms crossing tightly over his chest.
I lowered my voice. "I'm sorry. I fucked up. I should've said something else. I should've checked on you first. I should've asked how you felt instead of jumping straight to my version of it. I just— I didn't mean to hurt you."
The space between us still felt wide.
I took one more step. "I promise, I won't bring it up again. I won't put you in that position. I won't make you feel like that ever again."
He didn't speak.
And I let the silence hang there a few seconds longer before my voice cracked open once more.
"But just… can we stop this?" I said, quietly now. "Can we stop pretending we're not friends? Can you just talk to me again? Because I miss you. I really, really miss you."
I looked at him.
And I waited.
Not for forgiveness, maybe, but for something softer than the wall he'd built between us. Something that might crack—just a little—if I was lucky. Something that could remind us of who we were before all this confusion tangled everything up.
Because beneath it all, I still believed we hadn't lost everything.
Not yet.