Page 21 of Deafened By Silence
“Not much of a sweet tooth?” a feminine voice asks. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me. Among the mass of bodies in the room, a petite frame leans against the counter beside me. Harper’s wide, doe-like eyes are locked on mine, a small smile tugging at the corners of her full lips. I glance side to side, but she is definitely speaking to me.
“I’m too bitter, I suppose,” I reply directly, assuming she isn’t wearing her receivers. There’s no way she could look so calmwhile someone across the cafeteria yells and launches their tray to the floor. I don’t turn to look. I don’t want to. Not when Harper is here, watching me like I’m worth paying attention to. I place the lid on my coffee and add it to my tray, moving along in the queue. I can feel her behind me, not touching but close enough to register her warmth. Like she exists on another frequency that part of me is desperate to tune into.
Reaching the counter, I scan my ID, and the screen flashes red. Of course.Fuck.
“Add it onto mine,” Harper says to the assistant, her hand brushing my arm and pulling me back a step. “I owe you one anyway,” she adds. I freeze as she taps her own card and the scanner lights up bright fucking green. Harper’s smile hits me full-force, not mocking or cruel, but she doesn’t understand my inner working. The shame it triggers in me is sharp enough to cut bone.
Starting as a mild discomfort, it festers and rages until I’m left utterly consumed by its humiliation. This pain is different to the one I bring upon myself each day, this one cuts a little deeper. Feels fresher than the dulled anguish I’ve grown accustomed to. Without another word, I take my breakfast, preparing to leave when Harper’s hand touches my arm. It’s tentative, unsure, but I still anyway.
“Did you… shall we sit?” she nods toward a table that’s just been vacated. My cheeks are burning as the eyes of half the cafeteria shift toward us. To Harper, I’m the jock who offered her a favor. But to everyone else, I’m the guy who couldn’t pay for his own damn breakfast.
I sit down before I can think better of it. Harper places her tray opposite mine, unbothered by the stares. She’s got a calm defiance in her posture, like she’s already made peace with people misunderstanding her. She takes a sip of her coffee anddoesn't flinch at the heat streaming from it. Her gaze holds mine steadily.
“So,” she says, picking up a fork, “do you always brood this early or is today special?” I snort softly, chewing through a nibble of my baguette.
“Depends who you ask.” I keep my eyes on my food, focusing on the simplest task in front of me. Eat. Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t look at her too long. But Harper is all about eye contact, a subtle smile on her mouth. She doesn’t fill the silence with mindless chatter. She eats opposite me, content with the quiet, oblivious to the social pressure to make small talk.
“You don’t have to sit with me, you know,” I say after a while, practically mouthing the words without needing to voice them.
“I know,” she says easily, a half shrug on her shoulder. “But I wanted to.”
I cling onto the weight that tries to lift from my shoulders. Grapple with the guarded wall I’ve built around myself. One small confession and a pair of green eyes can’t undo all of that in four words. Instead, I nod once and swallow the last of my breakfast. The air feels thick now, loaded with things I’m not ready to acknowledge. I glance around and catch a few eyes lingering too long. Whispers moving like smoke between tables. I push back my chair.
“You should stay,” she says immediately, as if she was anticipating I would bolt. I consider it for one brief second, but my mind is already set. She’s the new girl. She still has a shot at surviving this place without a scarlet letter burned onto her reputation. The best way to do that is to stay as far away from me as possible.
Just as I’m about to get up, my phone buzzes. At last. I open the file from the Essay Whizz, checking that he’s made the relevant changes so Harper won’t be picked up for plagiarism. It looks good, and luckily she’s right here for me to lean across thetable and tap my phone against hers. The file is airdropped over by the time I’ve stood. I leave before she can thank me, sliding my tray into the collection rack and walking out.
Pulling a black beanie from my backpack, I tug it low over my ears, shutting out the world for just a little longer. If I stay, I’ll do something reckless. Like sit back down. Like ask her to look at me the way she did, without judgement. Harper is untouched by this place. She’s clean. She still has time to carve out her path, and she doesn’t need me staining it before she even gets the chance.
Chapter Fourteen
Despite his usual hot-and-cold routine this morning, Clay’s tip-off came through. Clutching the assignment in my hand, I pause outside Peterson’s room, steadying my breath. It isn’t just the cheating that has me twisted up inside, but the idea of facing the cocky bastard who’s no doubt already perched at his stool in the front of class. I have many thoughts evolving around Rhys and the stalker moment I had in the library. There’s no doubt he orchestrated it, I just don’t understand what he gets out of it.
Switching on my microphone app, I stride into the room and place both the booklet and my phone on the front desk. When I turn, my eyes are drawn straight to Clayton in the back row, watching me carefully. Rhys is, thankfully, nowhere in sight, which means I don’t have to shield myself behind Clay’s brooding presence. Sitting next to him now would be a decision made freely, and judging by the way he responded to me this morning, I don’t think it’s one he wants me to make.
Swallowing thickly, I settle into a stool in the second row to stay out of his eyeline, pulling a stack of textbooks from my bag.
“Good morning, everyone. Before we begin, a quick reminder to return your consent forms by the end of today for our trip tothe Grayson Laboratory next week.” Peterson’s voice echoes in my mind as I set down my notepad and pen, eyes drifting over the equipment arranged neatly around me.
Each table, raised and spanning six rows back, is lined with a tray of glass beakers, test tubes, pipettes, and the Bunsen burners fixed permanently at the far end. The furniture is all metallic and grey, stools matching the tall cupboards lining the white walls. Long, exposed bulbs stretch across the ceiling, their glare bouncing off the pages of my notepad and nearly blinding me as I begin to write.
I’m mid-sentence when the atmosphere shifts, thickening around me. I don’t need to look up to know exactly who just walked in.
“Ahh, Master Waversea. Nice of you to join us.”
Rhys enters in a full navy tracksuit, the ink on his hands and neck blending into the soft fabric. His hair is swept back with effortless style, but the shine from product betrays how long he must’ve spent getting it just right. His bright eyes land on the empty stool beside me, a smug smile forming as I scramble to block it with my backpack. Tossing his assignment onto the growing pile, he strolls over and knocks my bag to the floor with the back of his hand before dropping into the seat.
“Asshole,” I mutter, scooping up my things from the floor. Peterson waits until I’m settled again before continuing, drawing attention back to the opening slide with a chrome pointer.
Rhys leans on one elbow across the table, his smirk dominating my vision.
“How am I supposed to work with a lab partner who can’t hear me?” he mouths, the metal ring in his bottom lip catching the light more than his words do.
“I can read lips better than you can spread legs,” I fire back under my breath. “The better question is how am I supposed to work with a lab partner who never shows up?”
His resulting smile would be dazzling on anyone else. Straight, white teeth that scream private orthodontics. But on him, it’s something else entirely. It’s a cocktail of arrogance and temptation, dangerous in a way that feels deliberate. A trap I have no intention of falling into.
“What about him? You can’t see his mouth when he’s turned around.”Rhys tilts his chin toward Peterson, who’s currently filling my head with ways to tell plasma and serum apart. I raise a hand in front of Rhys’s face to block him out, trying to scribble down a few notes before the slide changes. A sudden wet heat against my palm startles me. His tongue curls around my middle finger.
