The rumor didn't start loudly.
It began as whispers.
Phones buzzed softly during lunch. Screens were tilted just enough to share, just enough to hide. By the time she noticed the glances—quick, curious, judgmental—it was already too late.
She sat with her usual calm expression, flipping a page of her notebook.
But Lucien Cross felt it immediately.
"Something's wrong," he said under his breath.
She looked up. "What makes you say that?"
"Everyone's staring."
She followed his gaze. Across the room, a group of girls huddled together, eyes flicking toward them before bursting into hushed laughter. A boy near the window pretended not to look—failed.
She exhaled slowly.
"So it's started."
Lucien frowned. "What has?"
She hesitated, then turned her phone toward him.
A blurry photo filled the screen.
It was from yesterday evening—just the two of them walking side by side near the school gates. No touching. No closeness. Just familiarity.
The caption, however, was cruel.
"Is the transfer student climbing her way up using the school's golden boy?"
Lucien's jaw tightened.
"Give me that," he said calmly—but there was steel beneath his voice.
She shook her head. "No. If you react, it'll get worse."
"They're dragging your name into this."
"They always do," she replied softly. "I'm used to it."
That was what unsettled him most.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, eyes dark. "You shouldn't have to be."
By the afternoon, the atmosphere in class had shifted.
The teacher droned on, unaware—or unwilling—to acknowledge the tension. Notes were taken. Chalk scraped the board.
She focused on her work, refusing to look around.
Then someone spoke.
"Must be nice," a girl said casually from two rows back. "Getting attention without trying."
The room went quiet.
Lucien stood up.
"Sit down," she whispered urgently.
He ignored her.
"If you have something to say," Lucien said evenly, "say it clearly."
The girl faltered. "I—I was just joking."
"Jokes are supposed to be funny," he replied. "Not disrespectful."
Silence.
No one challenged him. No one ever did.
Lucien sat back down, but his hand clenched briefly on the desk.
She stared straight ahead, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the weight of being seen.
After school, she didn't go home immediately.
Instead, she slipped into the quiet music room—a place few people visited anymore. The piano sat untouched, dust gathering on its surface.
She traced a finger along the keys.
"You ran off again."
She turned. Lucien stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"I needed quiet," she said.
He stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him.
"You don't have to disappear every time things get hard."
She laughed softly. "It's not disappearing. It's surviving."
Lucien studied her face—strong, composed, tired in ways most people couldn't see.
"I don't care what they say," he said. "But I care how it affects you."
She met his gaze. "Then don't let it change how you see me."
"It won't," he answered without hesitation.
That certainty wrapped around her like a shield.
She smiled—small, genuine.
"Then we'll be fine."
Outside the room, footsteps passed. More whispers. More eyes.
But inside, for that moment, the noise couldn't reach them.
Because rumors could spread.
Scandals could rise.
But trust—
Trust was something they were choosing, quietly, together.
And that choice would be tested soon.