Chapter Four
1113 Words
The lecture hall filled the way it always did. Loud at first. Then settling. Scarlet slipped into a seat near the back, hoodie zipped high, sunglasses still on long enough to feel conspicuous. She waited until the professor cleared his throat before taking them off. Her movements were careful. Controlled. She lowered herself into the chair as if testing it, shoulders tight, spine rigid.
When she adjusted her sleeve, a bruise flashed at her wrist. She pulled the fabric down immediately.
Henry noticed. Not because he was watching her, but because he noticed everything that changed. He did not stare. He simply registered it, the way one does when a detail refuses to fit.
Two rows ahead, Ward looked up from his notes. His gaze lingered on Scarlet, but there was nothing curious or soft in it. His eyes moved the way they did in the hospital, cataloging. Concerned. Already measuring what was missing.
Pierce entered with Cade, both still flushed from practice, shoulders loose with leftover adrenaline. They slowed when they saw her.
“She always sit back there?” Cade asked quietly.
“Nah,” Pierce said.
Scarlet felt the weight of attention even without turning. Her shoulders drew in. She fixed her eyes forward.
The professor began to lecture. Later, the room had gone still in that focused, collective way.
Pens moved. Pages turned.
Scarlet’s hand trembled as she wrote. Just enough to matter. Her pen slipped, clattered against the floor. She froze.
Before she could bend, Henry was already beside her, kneeling. “I got it,” he said quietly.
He handed it back. Their fingers brushed. Scarlet flinched. It was small. Involuntary. Gone almost as soon as it happened. Henry noticed. He said nothing. Just gave a small nod and returned to his seat.
Ward watched the entire exchange. His jaw tightened.
Outside, sunlight spilled across the quad, bright and careless. Students streamed out in loose clusters, already moving on. Scarlet walked quickly, head down, trying to fold herself back into anonymity.
Pierce and Cade followed at a distance.
Scarlet shifted her bag. The strap pulled across her shoulder. She winced before she could stop herself.
Pierce slowed. Then stopped.
Scarlet glanced up by accident. Their eyes met.
There was no pity in his expression. No judgment. Just recognition.
She looked away first.
Cade noticed Pierce noticing. He did not comment. He remembered.
That afternoon, the beach smelled like salt and sun-warmed kelp. The Pacific rolled in clean sets, steady and patient. Quinn jogged barefoot across the sand, surfboard under his arm, alive in a way that seemed effortless. Soren followed more slowly, shoes still on, cigarette tucked behind his ear like an afterthought.
Quinn dropped his board and started pulling off his shirt. “You see that set?” he said, pointing. “That’s a gift.”
Soren squinted at the horizon. “Looks like water.”
Quinn laughed and started waxing his board. “That’s because you don’t trust good things.”
Soren lit his cigarette. “No. I just don’t pretend they last.”
Quinn worked the wax in smooth circles. “You ever notice how happy you’d be if you stopped being miserable?”
Soren exhaled smoke. “You ever notice how loud you are when you’re scared?”
Quinn paused. Just a beat. Then he grinned. “Fair.”
They sat, watching surfers jog past them, laughing, boards balanced on their hips.
“You don’t get tired of it?” Soren asked.
“Of what?”
“Being up all the time.”
Quinn thought about it. “It’s not up. It’s moving.”
Soren nodded slowly. “And if you stop?”
Quinn shrugged. “Then it catches me.”
That landed.
“You don’t have to outrun everything,” Soren said.
Quinn looked at him, serious now. “You don’t have to sit in it either.”
They held each other’s gaze. Opposites. Best friends. Neither winning.
Quinn stood. “You coming in or just judging from shore?”
“I’ll watch.”
Quinn jogged toward the water. Soren stayed where he was, cigarette burning low, a barely-there smile crossing his face as Quinn paddled out.
That evening, Henry’s house felt smaller. Not claustrophobic. Just close. Scarlet sat on the bed, knees pulled in. Henry handed her a soda and sat on the floor instead of beside her. He always chose the distance that did not pressure.
“You don’t ask questions,” she said.
“I do,” he replied. “Just not out loud.”
A muffled argument broke through the wall. A woman’s voice, slurred and sharp.
Henry stiffened.
Scarlet noticed. “Your mom?”
He nodded. “Some days are better.”
She hesitated. “Do you ever feel like you’re just waiting?”
He looked at her. “Yeah. For it to get worse. Or quiet.”
That sat between them.
They did not try to fill the silence. It did not need filling.
Ward’s bedroom was neat to the point of control. He sat at his desk, laptop open, scrolling through page after page.
California patient confidentiality.
When to intervene without consent.
Signs of ongoing abuse in adult patients.
He read. Scrolled. Read again.
His phone buzzed.
A text from Pierce: You good?
Ward didn't answer. Scarlet’s bruises replayed in his mind. The flinch. The way she held herself like she was braced for impact.
“She didn’t ask,” he said quietly to the empty room.
He leaned back, conflicted.
The following morning, the campus health center smelled faintly of disinfectant and paper. Scarlet sat on the exam table, hands folded in her lap. Ward checked her vitals carefully. Professionally. He adjusted her sleeve gently. The bruising was worse.
Scarlet noticed his pause. Their eyes met.
“Scarlet,” Ward said quietly. “I need to ask you something.” She tensed. “You don’t owe me an answer,” he continued. “But is someone hurting you?”
For a moment, her mask slipped. Just enough to see the fear underneath. Then it was back.
“So that’s why you asked me to come here?” she snapped. “Not because you’re practicing for your clinical. I told you. I’m fine.”
Ward nodded. But his hands were shaking.
That night, Ward sat on his bed, phone in his hand.
The ethics page glowed on his laptop. He closed it.
Opened his messages. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Then stopped.
He stared at the screen, caught between doing the right thing and being the first person who didn't take control away from her.
He set the phone down without sending anything.
And lay awake.
- Writer
