(Don't Break Yourself to Be Heard)
That afternoon, Aria walked in with a new book tucked under her arm and an expression that screamed, *I have a plan, and you're going to suffer through it.*
Rowan was already sitting upright on the bed. Waiting. Always waiting. It did something uncomfortable to her chest, so she ignored it with the efficiency of a professional.
"Alright," she said, dropping into the chair beside him. "Pop quiz before we level up. Three words. Show me what you've got."
He nodded immediately. Too quickly.
Obedience was stitched into his bones, and Aria hated that she was the one who had put it there. She noticed it, of course—she noticed everything—but she kept her mouth shut.
He opened his mouth slowly, his throat moving as he forced the shape of the sounds.
"I… don't… hurt."
Clear. Careful. Perfect.
Aria blinked, then blinked again. Well, damn. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes as if inspecting a magic trick. "Excuse me? Since when did you unlock clear pronunciation like it's a game achievement?"
Rowan froze, unsure if he was being praised or scrutinized. She reached out and flicked his forehead, just a light tap. "Relax. That was impressive."
A pause. Then, softer: "Really impressive."
Something flickered in his eyes—small, fragile, but undeniably there. Aria's gaze drifted to the thin, jagged scar along his hairline. Her fingers moved before she could stop them, brushing gently over the pale tissue. It was three centimeters of ugly history, neatly carved into his skin. Her jaw tightened.
He didn't flinch. He just held her gaze and said, slower this time: "…doesn't… hurt."
Aria exhaled through her nose. "Yeah," she muttered. "That's not the point."
She didn't push. She just snapped the book open. "Alright. Since you're showing off, we're upgrading. Four words."
He stiffened. Good. At least his survival instincts were still working.
"Repeat after me," she said. "Lights. And. Streamers."
Rowan tried. "…li…ghts…"
He stuck. His brows furrowed, his shoulders coiled tight. "…st…rea…"
Nothing. The sound caught in his throat like he was choking on invisible glass. Aria watched quietly. No interruptions. No pressure. Just observation. After a few agonizing attempts, she closed the book with a soft, final thud.
"Alright, that's enough."
His head snapped up, panic written across his face like a tragedy script. Aria raised a brow. "What? Relax. This isn't a battlefield. We go back to three words. No drama."
He sagged, the tension leaving his frame.
Crisis averted, barely. She reopened yesterday's fairy tale and began to read, her voice steady and unhurried. Rowan relaxed into the sound, the way he always did. Aria filed the pattern away—*useful*—and when she finished, she stood.
"Training's over. Rest."
She turned to leave, but stopped when a sound cut through the quiet.
"Len…gth… co…lor…"
She froze. Slowly, she turned back.
Rowan sat there, his fists clenched so tight the veins stood out against his skin, as if he'd just fought a war inside his own throat. The pronunciation was broken, messy, and wrong—but he'd said it. All of it.
Aria stared. Then, a slow grin spread across her face. "Well, look at you. Overachiever."
She stepped back to the bed and flicked his forehead, lighter this time. "At this rate, you'll be arguing with me in full sentences within a month."
He didn't react to the tease. He just watched her, his expression holding the weight of a realization he couldn't put into words. *Yeah,* she thought, *that's going to be a problem.*
"Sleep," she ordered, pulling the blanket up.
He nodded instantly. Of course he did.
Outside the room, a familiar, unpleasant figure was waiting: Victor Shaw. A walking red flag with shifty eyes and a slimy, rehearsed smile. Aria didn't even slow down.
"Speak," she said, her voice a flat line.
He hurried forward. "Miss Aria, I just wanted to clarify—about that boy. His injuries weren't caused by me, I only—"
She let out a soft, sharp laugh. "Victor, if you're going to lie, at least make it creative. This is boring."
His face stiffened. "I—"
"You think I don't know what happens under my own roof?" She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. Then, she smiled—which was somehow worse. "There is something you can do for me."
Relief flooded his face, the idiot.
"Prepare clothes," she said casually. "Proper ones. For Rowan. Everything. Daily wear, formal, accessories. If it exists, I want options."
Victor blinked. "…For him?"
"Do I stutter?"
"No, but—should we arrange a separate room?"
Aria considered it for a heartbeat. "No. He stays in my room."
Victor's brain visibly malfunctioned. She looked at him, just looked, until he shut his mouth. "Problem?" she asked sweetly.
"…None."
"Good. Move."
He practically fled. Aria watched him go, feeling absolutely zero pity. She flipped him off behind his back, which was immature, and she didn't care.
Later that day, Aria stood before her mirror, adjusting a pair of gold-rimmed glasses she didn't actually need.
"Students," she practiced to her reflection, dropping her voice an octave, "class dismissed."
*You've changed outfits three times,* the System remarked, unbothered.
"It's called preparation," she shot back. "Presentation matters."
*You're teaching one person.*
"And he deserves a visually appealing instructor."
*You're insufferable.*
"Yet unforgettable." She smirked and stepped out.
Halfway down the corridor, the family doctor intercepted her, looking hesitant. Annoying. "Yes?" she asked.
"…Miss Aria, I just wanted to advise—don't rush his recovery."
She frowned. "I'm not."
He hesitated, then sighed. "Maybe… go check on him."
Suspicion sparked. Aria didn't reply; she just turned and walked back. She didn't make a sound. When she reached the door, she paused.
Inside, she heard the rhythm of his struggle: *"…li…ght… str…eam…"*
Again. And again. And again. Then, a strange, grinding sound.
Aria's eyes narrowed. She pushed the door open fast. Rowan barely had time to react before she was in front of him, her hand gripping his chin, forcing his mouth open.
Two small stones lay on his tongue. Blood—bright, fresh, vivid—stained his lips.
Her vision went cold. "What the hell is this?"
She plucked the stones out and tossed them aside. Rowan froze, panic flooding his face.
He'd been caught. Abandoned. He lowered his head, waiting for the blow.
Aria's chest tightened so hard it hurt. "You promised me," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "What do you think you're doing?"
He tried to speak. He failed. Nothing came out, and his frustration twisted his features.
Then, he hit his own head—hard.
"No—use…! No—!"
Aria's anger shattered into something else. "Hey! HEY—stop!"
She grabbed his wrists, pulling him forward into her arms to stop him from hurting himself. *Idiot. Absolute idiot.* Oh, right.
Because no one had ever told him he didn't have to bleed to be worth something.
She held him tight as his breathing hitched, his frame shaking in her arms. "Useless…" he wheezed.
She closed her eyes, regret hitting her like a freight train. "Look at me," she commanded.
He didn't. She tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. That's on me. But you don't get to destroy yourself like this. That is not happening again. Ever."
He stared at her, his eyes wet and terrified.
She softened, her voice dropping to a steady, rhythmic cadence. "Listen carefully. I don't care how fast you recover. I don't care if you mess up every word."
She held his gaze, anchoring him. "You don't get to decide you're worthless. Not in front of me."
His breath hitched.
"You speak slow? Fine. You stutter? Fine. You stay silent? Also fine. Whatever you say—I'll listen."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy or uncomfortable; it was real. Tears finally slipped down his face, but they didn't look like despair anymore. They looked like something fragile, finally finding the light to grow.
For the first time since she'd met him, Rowan didn't look like he was trying to disappear. He just looked at her, and for once, he stayed right where he was.