Wicked Academy

9

The day started like any other, but for Jason, it felt like he was running on empty. He shuffled his way to breakfast, his head pounding with the remnants of his hangover, each step a little slower than the last. The dull ache in his skull seemed to throb with every beat of his heart, and no matter how much he tried to focus on the task at hand–getting through breakfast, sitting through lectures–he couldn't escape the weight pressing down on him.

By the time he reached the dining hall, the noise hit him like a sledgehammer. His friends were already seated, loud and obnoxious as always. The laughter, the chatter, the clinking of utensils—it was unbearable. But he couldn't show it. He slumped into his seat, keeping his posture relaxed, even as every sound made his head throb.

Across the room, Stella sat with her blonde friend, focused entirely on her food. She didn't acknowledge him, didn't spare him a glance.

It was deliberate, and he knew it.

She ignored him. This time, she was determined to do it right.

Jason dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. The medicine she had given him should have helped, but the aftermath still clung to him. His body felt sluggish, his thoughts hazy, but what unsettled him most was the memory of her touch.

The way she had taken care of him.

It made no sense. No one had ever done that for him before. Not in a way that felt real. And he couldn't decide whether he hated it or wanted more of it.

He sat at the table, his eyes bleary as he tried to push the exhaustion away. His usual sharpness was dulled, his thoughts sluggish. But he couldn't let anyone see it. He couldn't let them know how much it was costing him just to keep his eyes open, how the pressure of the hangover was gnawing at him. So he pushed it down, buried it under the usual mask of indifference, the facade of being okay.

Jason could feel the weight of her ignoring him. It wasn't a rejection, per se, but more like she was keeping her distance for reasons he couldn't quite understand.

Lectures were just as hard. Every time he tried to focus on what was being taught, it felt like his head was spinning. The words on the board blurred, the sounds of the professor's voice felt muffled. He had to keep his act up, to pretend like everything was fine when he felt like he was falling apart from the inside.

Stella, though, was always there in the back of his mind. Her avoidance, the way she wouldn't meet his eyes, the way she held herself at arm's length–it gnawed at him. He couldn't make sense of it, and the more he tried to push it out of his head, the more it stuck. But that wasn't the worst part.

No, the worst part was how much her care had stayed with him. How her touch in the morning had felt like a lifeline. The way her fingers had gently massaged his temple, offering a moment of peace in the midst of his agony. He hadn't expected it, and he sure as hell hadn't wanted to need it, but he did.

It had been a punch of energy, starting the day with something real, something grounding. He couldn't shake off how it had felt–how he had relaxed under her touch, how he hadn't been able to stop himself from leaning into it, even as his mind fought against the comfort she was offering.

He had been avoiding it all day–the feeling, the thoughts, the connection that had formed without either of them saying a word–but it was there, always there, simmering beneath the surface.

He couldn't stop himself from feeling like something was shifting between them. And no matter how much he pretended to be fine, his thoughts always circled back to the morning, to her fingers on his skin, to that moment of unexpected care.

When lunch ended, he knew what was coming.

He stood up, pushing the remnants of his meal aside, and made his way toward her. Stella barely reacted when he approached. She was already standing, as if she had expected this, as if she had been preparing herself. Without a word, she turned and walked toward the library, expecting him to follow.