The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled like wet pavement—damp, metallic, heavy. Mabelle stood at the academy's east balcony, her blazer clutched tight around her shoulders, watching the blurred city lights below. They flickered against the mist, almost like broken stars.
She wanted to believe the world could pause here, in this breathless silence, but the storm was only shifting inward.
Behind her, the door creaked.
"Mabelle," a voice called—steady, lower than usual.
Kevin.
She didn't turn immediately, because she already knew what this meant. He wouldn't have followed her unless he was about to cross another line.
"Why are you here?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended.
Kevin stepped closer, the faint scuff of his shoes against the tiles making her chest tighten. "Because I'm done pretending," he said. "Done acting like I don't feel what I feel."
Mabelle finally turned. His face was sharper in the dim light, his jaw tense, his eyes burning with the kind of determination that scared her because it felt unstoppable.
"Kevin—"
"No, listen to me," he cut in. "I don't care about Zion's feelings anymore. I don't care about the drama, the whispers, any of it. I like you, Mabelle. And I know you like me too, no matter how much you try to bury it."
Her chest squeezed. "You don't understand—"
"I do." He stepped closer, closing the distance, his voice lowering like a secret. "I've seen the way you look at me. Like you're afraid of yourself when you do. You think I don't notice? You think I don't feel it too?"
Her heart hammered so loudly she thought he could hear it. She wanted to deny it, to push him away, but her silence betrayed her.
Kevin leaned in—not touching her, but close enough for the air to thicken. "Tell me I'm wrong," he whispered.
Mabelle's lips parted, but no words came.
And that was enough.
Kevin kissed her.
It was quick at first, hesitant, like he was testing the weight of her silence. But when she didn't pull back—when her body froze instead of resisting—it deepened, pulling her into a storm she'd sworn she'd never let herself fall into.
When they broke apart, her chest rose and fell unevenly.
"This is wrong," she muttered, though her voice cracked.
"Then why didn't you stop me?" Kevin asked. His eyes didn't waver. "Why do you look at me like that right now?"
Mabelle felt her throat tighten. She had no answer.
The door banged open.
Zion.
His hoodie was damp, his eyes rimmed red, like he hadn't slept in days. He froze at the sight, his jaw locking, every muscle in his body stiffening.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Mabelle stepped back from Kevin, her face pale. "Zion—"
"Don't." His voice was hollow, but shaking. "Don't you dare."
Kevin didn't move, didn't even flinch. He just looked at Zion with a calmness that was almost cruel.
"You knew," Zion said, his voice rising. "You knew how I felt, Kevin. And you—" His chest heaved, words breaking into fragments. "You betrayed me. Both of you."
"It's not betrayal if it was never yours to begin with," Kevin said flatly.
The words hit like a blade. Zion staggered back, his fists trembling. His voice broke into a bitter laugh. "You think you've won, Kev? You think this is love? No. This is just you proving you can take what I had. That's all it's ever been."
Mabelle's eyes burned. "Stop it—both of you."
But neither of them heard her.
The fracture had been waiting for this moment. And now it cracked.
By the next morning, the whispers spread like wildfire. Someone had seen. Someone had heard. By lunch, the entire branch knew Mabelle and Kevin had kissed, and Zion's silence at the table only made it worse.
Mikey tried to joke, tried to keep the group from combusting, but even he couldn't stop the tension that hung like barbed wire. Every glance was sharp, every word double-edged.
And then Lucian leaned in, his voice low but clear enough for all of them to hear. "You know this was always going to happen. Kevin doesn't share. He takes."
Kevin's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."
Lucian smirked, unbothered. "What? Afraid the truth will sting more than Zion's heartbreak?"
Zion slammed his tray onto the table, the sound cutting through the cafeteria's hum. "I don't need your pity," he snapped. His voice wavered, but his glare didn't. "And I don't need any of you pretending this is normal."
The table went silent.
For the first time, their group didn't feel like a group at all. It felt like shards of glass—sharp, broken, and dangerous to touch.
That night, Mabelle lay in her dorm bed, staring at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed again and again—messages from Kevin, from Zion, even from Mikey trying to smooth things over. But she couldn't bring herself to answer any of them.
Because the truth was, she didn't know what she wanted anymore.
When she finally closed her eyes, one thought kept echoing, louder than all the noise:
This isn't the end. This is just the beginning of the break.