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The campus didn't forget overnight.
If anything, it remembered louder.
Kiera felt it the next morning in the subtle ways first—the silence that followed her steps, the way conversations paused rather than whispered. People no longer speculated freely. Shane's words from the night before had drawn an invisible boundary, and no one was eager to cross it.
But silence had its own weight.
She sat in the lecture hall, notebook open, pen unmoving. The professor's voice drifted past her without meaning. Her mind kept circling back to the moment Shane had stepped forward—how sure he'd sounded, how unhesitating. How he'd chosen visibility when she had spent her whole life learning how to endure quietly.
Across the aisle, a girl Kiera vaguely recognized—Nadia, from one of her electives—glanced at her, then quickly looked away. Not hostile. Not kind. Just uncertain. That uncertainty followed Kiera everywhere now.
When class ended, Lisa slipped into step beside her.
"You okay?" Lisa asked gently.
Kiera nodded, though it was only half true. "I think so. Just… adjusting."
Lucas joined them near the stairs, his expression serious. "People are talking less. That's a win."
"Or they're just thinking more carefully," Kiera replied.
They walked together toward the café, the familiar comfort of the place grounding her. Inside, the usual rhythm of the morning buzz continued—cups clinking, the low hum of conversation. Yet even here, eyes lingered longer than before.
A regular named Mr. Hollis—an older man who always ordered the same espresso—gave her a small nod of respect. A quiet gesture. It meant more than the loud defenses ever could.
Still, something felt off.
Shane hadn't texted.
Not that morning. Not the night before.
Kiera told herself it was intentional. He'd said she could take time. He was giving her space. It was the right thing to do.
That didn't stop the faint ache in her chest.
She spent the afternoon in the library, surrounded by books but unable to focus. At one point, she caught herself rereading the same paragraph five times. Eventually, she closed the book altogether.
She wasn't avoiding Shane—but she wasn't ready to face what his defense had changed either.
Across campus, Shane sat in his father's office, hands folded tightly in his lap.
"That was reckless," Richard Benson said flatly.
Shane didn't flinch. "It was necessary."
"You escalated a situation that could have been managed quietly."
"No," Shane replied. "I stopped it from becoming cruel."
Eleanor watched silently, her gaze thoughtful rather than sharp.
"You made it public," Richard continued. "You tied your reputation to hers."
Shane met his father's eyes. "I chose integrity."
Eleanor finally spoke. "And how is Kiera taking all of this?"
Shane hesitated. "She's strong. But she didn't ask for the spotlight."
Eleanor nodded slowly. "Then remember that strength doesn't mean invulnerability."
Those words stayed with him long after the meeting ended.
By evening, clouds rolled in, the sky dimming into a soft gray. Kiera walked alone along the campus path near the old oak trees, her jacket pulled close. She needed air. Space. Somewhere to think without being watched.
She didn't hear Shane's footsteps until he spoke.
"I didn't mean to surprise you."
She turned. He stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, posture careful—like someone approaching something fragile.
"It's okay," she said softly. "I knew I'd see you eventually."
Silence settled between them—not awkward, but heavy with everything unsaid.
"I didn't text," Shane said. "I wasn't sure if you wanted—"
"I noticed," Kiera admitted. "And I understand."
They walked side by side without touching, the distance deliberate.
"What you did…" Kiera began, then stopped. "It changed things."
"I know."
"For everyone."
"And for you," he added quietly.
She nodded. "I've spent my life proving I didn't need saving. Last night, it felt like the world decided I did."
Shane stopped walking. "That wasn't my intention."
"I know." She looked at him then, really looked at him. "But intention doesn't erase impact."
He absorbed that without defense. "I won't do it again without asking."
Her shoulders eased slightly. "Thank you."
They stood beneath the oak trees, leaves whispering above them. The moment felt suspended—intimate without being physical, charged without crossing lines.
"I don't regret standing up for you," Shane said finally. "But I don't want to overshadow you either."
Kiera smiled faintly. "You didn't. You stood beside me. That's different."
His breath hitched, just slightly.
"I don't know what we're becoming," she continued. "But I need to walk into it at my own pace."
"I'll match it," he said immediately. "Whatever pace you choose."
That sincerity—the absence of pressure—settled something in her.
As they parted that night, Kiera felt something shift again. The storm hadn't passed. The attention hadn't vanished. But beneath it all, a quieter truth was forming:
This wasn't a rescue story.
It was a partnership being tested in real time.
And for the first time, Kiera wondered—not with fear, but with cautious hope—what might happen if she stopped bracing for impact and allowed herself to lean, just a little.
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