9
1059 Words
JASON GREY
The morning after the confrontation with Chase, I was on edge. I had skipped my 8 AM review session—a move that would undoubtedly get reported back to my father by Marcus or some other diligent spy—and was instead focused entirely on my "non-negotiable project": Hillary.
I knew Chase had taken her home. That meant she wouldn't be walking in alone today. I had to assume Chase would be her shadow, the loud, protective barrier I had no right to breach directly.
I wasn't going to break my promise to stay away, but I also couldn't allow her to think my only communication with her was a beautiful, unnerving drawing. I needed to send a message of quiet support, something public enough to be acceptable, yet private enough to avoid triggering her anxiety.
I settled on the perfect location: her Literature 101 lecture hall.
I found the room half an hour before class. It was mostly empty, save for a few early-bird students hunched over books. I knew exactly where Hillary sat—the third row from the back, near the center aisle, close enough to the exit but away from the professor's direct line of sight.
I walked straight to the desk. I pulled out a simple, cream-colored note card, not my sketchpad. I kept the message brief, functional, and purely focused on her, not me.
Hillary,
I understand this environment can be overwhelming. I hope things are calm today. If you need a completely silent place to study on campus, the North Hall library annex on the 4th floor is always empty.
— J.G.
I placed the card face down, slightly under the corner of her desk, ensuring it would be the first thing she saw when she settled down. It was a gesture of solidarity, a reminder that another student saw her without demanding anything in return. I resisted the urge to draw anything. This needed to be purely text.
My heart was pounding. This was riskier than the initial sketch. If Chase saw it, he'd be waiting for me outside my 3 PM lecture again.
I left the hall, making my way to the library's graduate wing, the only place I could truly focus.
The Wait
I couldn't concentrate. Every thirty minutes, I had to physically restrain myself from checking the Literature hall. Instead, I pulled up Chase's student profile—Human Resource Management. A pointless degree, in my opinion, but functional, much like the man himself.
I thought about his voice, slightly strained but sincere, when he admitted she had a breakdown. He may be an abrasive i***t, but he was her shield. I respected the loyalty, if not the delivery.
My phone vibrated with a text, but it wasn't from Chase. It was a formal notification from the Dean's office, forwarded by my father's secretary:
[Email]: Mr. Grey, your attendance in the 8 AM review session has been noted as absent. As a graduate student receiving the Dean’s Fellowship, sustained participation is mandatory. Please confirm you will not allow this to happen again.
The message was signed by the Dean, but the cold, corporate language was all my father. The Fellowship wasn't a reward; it was a leash.
I pushed the phone away. My father was tracking me, every absence a mark against my record. But he wasn't here, and Hillary was. My priorities were clear.
I opened my briefcase and, on a fresh page of my sketchpad, I drew the scene Chase had described: Hillary, small and exhausted, being guarded by the aggressively confident, hoodie-clad figure of Chase. It wasn't accusatory; it was simply documentation of the new dynamic.
It was proof that the situation was now complicated, a triangle formed by trauma, protection, and observation.
The Interruption
At 1:00 PM, I packed up my books, needing to eat before my afternoon class. I walked through the main atrium.
There they were. Hillary and Chase.
They weren't just walking; they were moving in a bubble of their own. Chase was talking, but less aggressively loud than usual, and Hillary was laughing, a silent, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She was holding a large, steaming mug—not a Brownie mug, thankfully—and Chase was carrying her backpack.
They stopped near the café. I saw a woman approach them. She was vibrant, impeccably dressed, and impossibly bubbly. She immediately enveloped Chase in a hug that seemed to squeeze the air out of him.
That has to be her mother, I realized. Natasha Woods.
I stopped behind a pillar, pretending to scroll through a long document.
"Did you remember to take your temperature, sweetie? You're not burning up anymore, are you?" Natasha Woods asked Chase, her voice radiating maternal concern.
"I'm fine, Mum! Natasha!" Chase insisted, looking highly uncomfortable under the affection.
"He calls her Mum now," I muttered to myself. They are living together. The situation had escalated dramatically overnight. The protective barrier was now a complete household integration.
Hillary reached up and gently touched her mother's arm, then pointed at the overflowing backpack Chase was carrying.
"Oh, right! Baby girl needs her books! We're off to the library annex, darling, after lunch. You two have a nice day. And Chase, if you need anything—anything at all—call me, not your..." Natasha trailed off delicately, clearly referencing his disinterested mother.
Chase looked down at the floor, accepting the sudden flood of concern.
They walked toward the exit. As they passed my pillar, Hillary glanced toward my hiding spot. Her eyes lingered for a fraction of a second, and a small, almost imperceptible lift of her lips—a hint of a smile—appeared before she walked past.
She saw me. She knew I was watching. And she wasn't angry.
My heart lifted, only to sink again. She had that small, folded note card tucked into her hand, gripping it tightly. She hadn't thrown it away.
But she was heading to the library annex—the exact place I had suggested in the note.
I felt a surge of complex emotion: triumph that she'd accepted the silent invitation, and immediate, gut-wrenching worry that Chase was coming too, making the space less silent and safe.
My plan for quiet, respectful support was now facing a massive, loud, and maternally sanctioned obstacle.
- Writer
