-Vaughn Blackmore:
He doesn't look at me again after that.
That realization sits in my head longer than it should, not because it matters in any meaningful way, but because of how deliberately normal he makes it feel. Ryland Grayson sits there like nothing about this situation requires attention. Like sitting next to someone isn't an action that carries weight, consequences, or even basic acknowledgement. It's just… placement. Like he chose a spot and decided everything else in the world should adjust around it without question.
I keep my movements controlled. My fork hovers over the tray for a second longer than necessary before I force myself to continue eating. Slow. Measured. Normal. The kind of normal that doesn't invite observation. That's important here. It always has been.
Around us, the cafeteria noise continues in its usual disorganized rhythm. Metal scraping against metal, chairs shifting too roughly against the floor, conversations overlapping until they become indistinct noise rather than actual dialogue. It should feel familiar by now. It does, technically. But something about sitting next to him changes how all of it registers. Like the background noise is still there, but my awareness is no longer filtering it the same way.
I take a bite.
Barely taste it.
That's when it starts to feel wrong.
Not suddenly. Not sharply. Slowly, in a way that builds without announcing itself. The noise around us doesn't stop, but it changes shape. Conversations that should continue don't recover their rhythm properly. Laughter fades too quickly. A chair shifts, then doesn't shift again. The kind of collective hesitation that people don't admit they're part of.
And then I notice it.
Eyes.
Not just one direction. Not just one table. It's scattered, inconsistent, but still unmistakable. People looking. Not openly staring, not bold enough for that, but watching in fragments—quick glances that linger half a second too long before snapping away again. The kind of attention that pretends it isn't attention at all.
My jaw tightens slightly.
I set my fork down.
The metal touches the tray a little harder than I intend.
I don't like that feeling. Not the attention itself—I've dealt with that since the moment I stepped into this place—but the way it feels different now. Like it's not just me being watched anymore. It's this table. This arrangement. This proximity I didn't agree to.
Enough.
I push my chair back.
The legs scrape against the floor in a clean, sharp sound that cuts through everything else around us for half a second. It's small, but it's mine. Controlled. Intentional. I don't hesitate as I start to rise, already done with this moment before it even fully completes.
A hand closes around my wrist.
Fast.
Firm.
Not painful, but absolute.
Ryland.
He still hasn't looked at me.
That's the part that registers first, even before the contact fully settles. His attention stays forward, fixed somewhere on his tray, like stopping me mid-movement is something he can do without breaking focus. Like it doesn't require acknowledgment.
"Sit down," he says.
Two words. Flat. Even. Quiet enough that it doesn't reach anyone else, but close enough that it doesn't need to.
It lands like a command that assumes compliance.
I stop.
For half a second, I don't move at all.
My eyes drop to his hand around my wrist. Not tight enough to hurt. Not loose enough to ignore. Just enough to make it clear that he intended this moment to end exactly where he decided it should.
Something sharp builds in my chest, immediate and controlled, the kind of reaction that doesn't come from surprise but from refusal. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just the simple, instinctive irritation of being physically interrupted without permission.
I look at him properly.
He still isn't looking at me.
That's what makes it worse.
Still eating. Still calm. Still fully detached from the fact that I'm currently standing mid-decision, mid-action, mid-anything-that-doesn't-involve-him-allowing-it.
That disconnect snaps something cleanly.
I pull my wrist back sharply.
Not violent. Not messy.
Just decisive.
A clean break in contact that removes his hand entirely from the situation like it was never meant to be there. His fingers release immediately, but I don't wait to see anything more than that. I don't stay long enough to interpret whatever reaction might have crossed his face in that fraction of a second.
Instead, I grab my tray.
The metal rattles slightly as I lift it, the sound sharper than it should be in the surrounding noise. Around us, I can feel the shift fully now—attention tightening, more visible this time. Chairs angled subtly in our direction, conversations slowing again, people pretending they're not watching while clearly doing exactly that.
It presses in from every side of the room at once.
But I don't look at any of it.
Darian's voice reaches me as I turn away, closer now, sharper with confusion.
"Vaughn—hey, where are you—"
I don't stop.
I don't answer.
I walk.
Each step away from the table feels heavier than it should, not physically, but in the way it carries unfinished tension behind me. Like I'm leaving something unresolved on purpose, even though I didn't ask for it in the first place.
The cafeteria noise slowly returns as I move further away from the center, but it doesn't fully reconnect with me. It stays behind, trapped near that table, near him, like whatever just happened doesn't fully belong in the same space as everything else anymore.
Ryland.
Still sitting there.
Still unchanged.
Still somehow the center of something I didn't agree to be part of.
The doors to the hallway slide open as I push through them, the sound dull compared to the cafeteria behind me. The air outside is quieter, cooler, but it doesn't feel like relief. Not really. My grip tightens slightly on the tray as I walk, footsteps steady but sharper than usual against the floor.
And still, the same thought keeps looping in my head, refusing to settle, refusing to simplify into anything useful.
What the fuck does he want from me?
Not attention.
Not conversation.
Not dominance.
Something else.
Something I haven't figured out yet.
And that's what makes it worse than everything else.