The gossips grew worse the next few days until Oliver couldn't take it anymore.
He started doing it without saying a word.
He walked a little faster to class, just enough that Liam had to slow down or fall behind. At break, he chose seats farther away—still in the same space, but not beside him anymore. When Liam reached for his hand, Oliver pretended not to notice and shifted his bag instead.
Liam noticed everything.
"Why are you walking like I bite?" Liam asked one morning, half-joking, half-annoyed, catching up to him near the lockers.
Oliver didn't stop. "I'm just late."
"You're always late now?"
Oliver paused, then said softly, "Liam… people are watching."
"So?" Liam scoffed. "Let them."
Oliver finally turned to face him. His eyes looked tired. Not angry. Just worn.
"They're not just watching," Oliver said. "They're talking. Every day. Every minute."
Liam leaned closer, lowering his voice. "And since when do we care what idiots say?"
Oliver swallowed. "Since it started hurting you."
That made Liam quiet.
From then on, Oliver kept his distance more deliberately.
In class, he changed seats when there was space. In the hallway, whenever people are around, he nodded instead of smiling. When Liam waited for him after school, Oliver pretended he had something else to do.
Each time, it felt like Oliver was pulling a thread tighter around his own chest.
Liam, on the other hand, was losing patience.
One afternoon, he cornered Oliver near the science block.
"Are you avoiding me?" he asked bluntly.
Oliver opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. "I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need protection."
"You do," Oliver snapped quietly. Then he softened. "Your life isn't like mine, Liam. You have… expectations."
Liam laughed, sharp and humorless. "So your solution is to erase yourself?"
"I'm still here," Oliver said. "Just… let's not do this anymore...in public"
"That's worse," Liam said. "That hurts more."
Students passed by, glancing at them. Oliver took a step back instinctively.
Liam saw it.
Something in his expression cracked.
"You're ashamed of me now?" he asked.
"No!" Oliver said quickly. "Never you. I'm ashamed of what they're turning us into."
Liam stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "I don't care about them. I care about you."
Oliver's voice dropped to a whisper. "I care too much. That's the problem."
The bell rang, Oliver turned to walk away, shoulders stiff, heart pounding.
Before Oliver could take another step away, Liam grabbed his wrist.
"Wait."
Oliver turned, already nervous, already looking around. "Liam, don't—"
Liam didn't listen.
He pulled Oliver in and kissed him.
Not gentle. Not careful. It was desperate, like he was trying to force a memory back into Oliver's bones. Like he was saying remember us without using words—lips crashing together, tongues meeting in a hungry slide that tasted of salt and longing. Liam's hand cupped the back of Oliver's neck, fingers threading into his hair, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss until Oliver's soft gasp vibrated against his mouth.
His heart slammed hard against his ribs.
People were around. Too many people.
He pushed at Liam's chest, panicked. "Liam—stop—please."
Liam pulled back just enough to see his face.
"I'm not leaving you," Oliver said quickly, his voice shaking. "I swear I'm not. I just—just don't do this here. Not in front of them."
"I don't care who sees," Liam said.
"I do," Oliver whispered. "Please."
And then—
"LIAM!"
The scream cut through the air like glass.
Oliver turned sharply.
Lorette.
She was standing a few steps away, eyes wide, face twisted in shock and fury. For half a second, she didn't move—then she ran forward.
Straight at Oliver.
"You—" she shouted, her voice breaking. "You disgusting—"
Oliver stepped back without thinking.
But Liam stepped forward.
He placed himself directly in front of Oliver, blocking her path.
"Stop," Liam said.
Lorette skidded to a halt, staring at him like she didn't recognize the boy in front of her.
"You're protecting him?" she cried. "After everything? After me?"
Liam didn't raise his voice. That scared her more.
"Yes."
Students were slowing down now. Watching. Whispering.
Lorette laughed, sharp and shaking. "So the rumors are true. You really chose this."
Oliver's hands trembled behind Liam's back.
"Say whatever you want about me," Liam said. "But you don't get to touch him."
Lorette's eyes burned. "You humiliated me."
"I never promised you anything," Liam replied.
That silence after was heavy. Ugly.
Lorette looked past him, straight at Oliver. Her voice dropped, venomous. "This won't end well for you."
Liam stiffened. "Don't talk to him."
She scoffed, backing away slowly. "You'll regret this. Both of you."
Then she turned and walked off, shoulders shaking.
The crowd slowly dissolved, buzzing with fresh fuel.
Liam finally turned to Oliver.
Oliver's face was pale.
"I told you," Oliver whispered. "This is why."
Liam opened his mouth, then closed it again.
For the first time, he had no argument.
Oliver gently removed Liam's hand from his wrist. "I'm not leaving you," he said again, softer now. "I just need you alive at the end of this."
Then he walked away.
Liam stood there, watching his back disappear into the crowd, realizing something painful and new—
Love wasn't always loud.
Sometimes it was restraint.
And sometimes, that hurt even more.
The afternoon was calm, the kind that made the big house feel almost sleepy.
Mrs Montero moved around Mrs Gracie's room with practiced ease, fluffing the pillows behind her back and straightening the thin blanket over her legs. Sunlight slipped in through the tall windows, lighting up the pale curtains and the expensive furniture that always felt too clean, too perfect.
"You're fussing again," Mrs Gracie said with a small chuckle, her voice thin but warm. "Sit down for once. You'll wear yourself out."
Mrs Montero smiled softly. "If I sit, you'll say I'm lazy," she replied, adjusting the glass of water on the bedside table.
Mrs Gracie watched her closely. "You've lost weight," she said suddenly. "Are you eating well?"
Mrs Montero waved a hand dismissively. "I eat plenty. You worry too much."
Mrs Gracie hummed, unconvinced, but let it go. "When you go home next time, tell your son I asked after him. That boy works too hard."
"I will," Mrs Montero said.
She turned to walk toward the cabinet—but halfway there, her step faltered.
At first, she thought it was just dizziness. She paused, placing a hand lightly on the edge of the table. Then she tried to breathe in.
The breath came sharp and shallow.
She frowned.
Another breath—worse this time. A burning pain spread across her chest, deep and heavy, as if something was pressing down on her from the inside.
"Anna?" Mrs Gracie called, noticing the way she had gone still. "What's wrong?"
Mrs Montero shook her head weakly, forcing a small smile that never fully formed. "It's nothing… I just need—"
She tried to inhale again. The pain made her gasp.
Her chest tightened. Every breath hurt more than the last.
She raised her hand slightly, signaling Mrs Gracie not to worry, and began walking—slowly, carefully—toward the wall where the emergency device was fixed. Each step felt heavier than the last. Her vision blurred at the edges.
The room felt far away.
She reached the device and lifted her hand. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the button.
A soft beep sounded.
That was all she managed.
Her knees gave way, and she slumped to the floor.
"Anna!" Mrs Gracie cried out, her voice sharp with fear.
She got onto her wheelchair hurriedly and wheeled it forward, panic replacing the calm that usually lived in her eyes. "Montero—look at me. Can you hear me?"
Mrs Montero's chest rose and fell unevenly. Her face was pale, her lips slightly parted as she struggled for air.
"Help is coming," Mrs Gracie said, her hands shaking as she reached out. "Stay with me, child. Please."
The house, once quiet, now felt unbearably loud—every second stretching thin.
Not long after, the distant sound of a siren broke through the stillness.
The ambulance had come...