Burn me slowly

Chapter11:Midnight Glow

Faye

The New Orleans night presses heavy against my dorm window, thick with humidity and the faint wail of a saxophone drifting from a Frenchmen Street club. Past midnight, sleep is a lost cause, my mind snagged on today’s jagged edges.

The anonymous note—Back off, or you’ll pay—slipped from my backpack like a shard of ice, its threat echoing Vivienne’s Stay gone scrawled in the library trash. Her cheating rumor, Khloe’s smirking loyalty, Jude’s possessive hand on my shoulder, and Ezra’s silence in the lecture hall churn like a storm, each a reminder of the game I’m trapped in.

Standing up to Vivienne sparked something fierce in me, but the note and Ezra’s inaction leave me unsteady, anger tangled with a maddening pull toward the boy who once broke me.

I tug on a faded hoodie, its hem brushing my pajama shorts, and slip into the hallway, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The dorm lounge might quiet my head—a neutral space away from the note’s shadow. The campus sleeps, cicadas humming faintly beyond the walls.

The lounge glows softly under streetlights streaming through tall windows, casting shadows across mismatched couches, a scuffed coffee table, and a vending machine’s low hum. The air smells of coffee grounds and old books, a comfort that steadies me as I curl into a corner sofa, legs tucked beneath me.

A soft scratching pulls my gaze across the room. Ezra Locke sits at a small table, dark hair falling over his forehead, a sketchbook open under a table lamp’s warm glow. The light catches his sharp jaw, full lips, and green eyes, narrowed in focus as his pencil moves in quick strokes.

My breath hitches, surprise and an unwanted warmth sparking through me. He’s the last person I expected, the last I should want after his silence, but my pulse quickens, the library’s almost-kiss flaring in my memory.

He hasn’t noticed me, shoulders hunched, lost in his work. I should leave, slip away before anger and longing pull me deeper. But my feet stay rooted, curiosity and that pull holding me, watching the boy who was my nightmare, now a puzzle.

His library confession—his controlling father, Vivienne’s blackmail video—cracked my defenses, his plea clashing with the hurt of his high school cruelty. Today’s silence, though, cut deeper, his clenched jaw in class the only sign he cared.

I shift, and the couch creaks.

Ezra’s head snaps up, eyes locking on mine, surprise flickering before a half-smile curves his lips. “Faye,” he says, voice low, rough from the late hour, sending a shiver down my spine. “Didn’t think you were a night owl.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I mutter, hugging my knees, the note’s threat heavy. “What are you doing here?”

He leans back, tapping his pencil against the sketchbook, drawing my eyes to his long fingers. “Same. Head’s too loud.”

His gaze lingers, intense, like a touch, stirring the mild heat from the library, a tension thrilling and unnerving. “You okay? After today?”

The question ignites my anger.

“You didn’t say anything,” I blurt, voice sharp. “In class, when Vivienne and Khloe spread that cheating rumor, when everyone whispered cheater. You just sat there, Ezra.”

His smile fades, guilt shadowing his face. He sets the pencil down, running a hand through his messy hair, boyish and vulnerable.

“I froze, Faye. I’m sorry.” His voice is raw, and he leans forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance. “You were incredible, standing up to her. I didn’t know how to step in without making it worse, or if you wanted me to. I’m not good at fixing things I broke.”

His words echo the library, his father’s control, his high school cowardice. The anger softens, dulled by his sincerity, the way he looks at me like I’m all that exists.

“You could’ve tried,” I say, quieter, twisting my hoodie’s hem, the note pulsing in my thoughts.

“I know.” He meets my eyes, unguarded. “I’m trying now.”

Silence stretches, fragile, charged, the saxophone fading outside.

I nod toward his sketchbook, needing a shift. “What’s that?”

He hesitates, a flush creeping up his neck, then slides it toward me. “Just… messing around.”

I pull it closer, fingers brushing the worn leather, and open it, my breath catching.

It’s me—my curls tumbling over one shoulder, hazel eyes wide, lips parted mid-thought. The lines are careful, tender, capturing my cheek’s curve, my chin’s tilt, a softness I don’t see in mirrors.

He’s drawn me with intimacy that steals my air, my chest tightening with awe and raw vulnerability.

“You drew this?” I whisper, glancing up.

His gaze is intense, the flush deeper, eyes tracing my face.

“Yeah,” he admits, voice rough. “Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

The words land heavy, sending mild heat from my chest to my fingertips, the slow-burn tension igniting. My body hums, a subtle reaction, teasing and low.

I swallow, closing the sketchbook, but my eyes catch initials inside the cover—V.D. Vivienne Dupree.

My stomach twists, cold cutting the warmth.

“This was hers?” I ask, voice tight, pushing it back.

Ezra’s eyes darken, catching the initials. “A gift,” he says quickly. “From high school, when we were together. I kept it for the paper, not her. I swear, Faye.”

His voice is earnest, but Vivienne’s shadow lingers, her possessiveness a ghost, amplified by the note’s threat.

I nod, unsure, the note—Back off, or you’ll pay—and Vivienne’s initials tangling.

“Why me?” I ask, voice cracking. “Why draw me?”

He leans closer, the table smaller. “Because you’re real, Faye. You stood up today, scared but fierce. You’re not invisible, no matter what Vivienne says. I see you, even if you think no one does.”

His words unravel me, touching my fear of being nothing, a ghost erased by Vivienne’s cruelty, Jude’s smirks, Ezra’s old silence.

My throat tightens, tears pricking.

“I thought I was nothing,” I admit, a whisper, raw. “Back then, when you and Vivienne and Jude… you made me feel like I didn’t exist.”

Memories flood—Vivienne’s taunts, Jude’s laughter, Ezra’s averted eyes. My hands tremble, hugging my knees.

Ezra’s face crumples, guilt raw. “I’m so sorry, Faye,” he says, voice breaking. “I was a coward, trapped by my dad’s rules, Vivienne’s games. I felt inadequate, like I’d never be enough—not for him, her, or myself.” He leans closer, hand twitching. “I’m trying to be better.”

His confession cracks me open, empathy battling hurt. The air shifts, intimate, electric, the lounge’s glow a cocoon.

My eyes drop to his hand, and I nod, permitting. He reaches out, fingers brushing my wrist, warm, steady, sending a shiver.

My pulse races, tension low but teasing, my body reacting—a mild warmth pooling, a spark.

“Faye,” he murmurs, leaning closer, breath warm on my cheek. My eyes flutter shut, his hand sliding to my neck, thumb grazing my jaw.

Our lips brush—a barely-there kiss, soft, fleeting, his lips grazing mine, a spark setting my heart racing. My body tingles, a mild sensual weight settling, my skin alive.

The kiss fades, his forehead against mine, both breathing hard.

“We should stop,” he whispers, voice rough, hand lingering.

I nod, dazed, the kiss thrilling but terrifying, my vulnerability bare. The note, Vivienne’s initials, Jude’s intensity hover, but Ezra’s touch holds them at bay.

I pull back, fingers touching my lips, his kiss lingering. “I need to think,” I say, standing, legs shaky.

He nods, green eyes searching, a promise unspoken. “Take your time,” he says, steady, hand flexing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I head to my room, the lounge’s glow fading. The hallway’s colder, the saxophone gone.

In my dorm, I sink onto my bed, heart racing, Ezra’s sketch and kiss replaying. Vivienne’s initials sting, her note a shadow, but his words—I see you—anchor me, a spark amidst fear.

I clutch the note under my pillow, its threat a weight for tomorrow, and drift into uneasy sleep.

The next morning, sunlight spills through my window, the New Orleans air heavy with chicory and magnolia. I’m groggy, Ezra’s kiss and the note stealing my rest.

My room feels too small, the note’s threat and Vivienne’s initials crowding my thoughts. I need grounding, something to tether me amidst the chaos.

Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I grab my phone and call Dad. His voice, warm and familiar, answers on the second ring.

“Hey, kiddo. Early for you.”

“Morning, Dad,” I say, a smile breaking through the ache. “Just… needed you.”

“You sound off,” he says, concern soft. “Everything okay at school?”

I hesitate, the note, rumor, and kiss swirling. “I’m figuring it out,” I say, voice steadier. “Stood up to someone yesterday. Scared, but I did it. And last night… something happened. It’s complicated.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, pride clear. “Brave and complicated—college in a nutshell. Want to tell me more?”

I laugh softly, the sound easing my tension. “Not yet. Tell me something from home.”

He chuckles, spinning a tale of Mom’s tomato plants staging a backyard coup and his charred bread disaster, the kitchen still reeking of failure. “Your mom’s threatening to ban me from cooking,” he adds, mock-serious.

His voice pulls me back, grounding me against Vivienne’s threats, Jude’s intensity, and Ezra’s pull.

We talk longer, his stories of home wrapping me in warmth, his pride a spark for my own strength.

“Keep shining, Faye,” he says before we hang. “You’re tougher than you know.”

I set the phone down, his words lingering, the note still under my pillow.

I’m not a ghost, and I’m starting to glow, even in this storm.