It was getting harder to pretend nothing was happening.
Not because Keifer changed—
but because everything else did.
People stopped whispering and started watching. Every time I walked into a room, I felt eyes flicker toward us. Toward him. Toward the space he always left open beside me without claiming it.
Someone moved into that space one afternoon.
A girl from another class—pretty, confident, loud in a way I wasn't. She leaned against Keifer's desk like she belonged there, twirling her pen.
"So," she smiled, "are you always this quiet, or is it just with her?"
The room went still.
I didn't look at Keifer. I focused on my notebook, my heartbeat thudding too loudly in my ears.
Keifer didn't shift. Didn't smile.
"I'm quiet when I don't need to speak," he said calmly.
The girl laughed. "Wow. Cold."
"Honest," he corrected.
Her smile faltered. She glanced at me, then back at him. "People say you're following her around."
Keifer finally looked at me then—not to check my reaction, not to ask permission.
Just to make sure I was okay.
"I walk with her," he said. "She's free to walk away."
I swallowed.
The girl straightened, suddenly uncomfortable. "Right. Sure."
She left.
I exhaled slowly, not realizing I'd been holding my breath.
"You didn't have to say that," I murmured.
"I know," Keifer replied.
There it was again—that word that somehow meant everything and nothing at once.
After class, I slowed my steps on purpose.
So did he.
"Keifer," I said quietly.
He stopped immediately.
I turned to face him. "Do you… feel like this is too much?"
His expression didn't change—but something in his eyes sharpened, like he was choosing every word with care.
"Do you?" he asked.
I hesitated.
"No," I admitted. "I just—people talk."
"They always will," he said softly. "About anything they don't understand."
"And this?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His gaze didn't waver. "Is something they don't get to define."
That answer sat with me the rest of the day.
Later, as we walked past the campus gate, I noticed someone standing across the street. A guy I didn't recognize. He wasn't staring openly—just watching, pretending to scroll through his phone.
I slowed.
Keifer noticed instantly.
"Do you know him?" he asked, quiet but alert.
"No," I said, uneasy.
Keifer shifted—just slightly—putting himself between me and the stranger. Not aggressively. Not obviously.
Protectively.
The guy glanced up, met Keifer's eyes, and looked away.
Only when he left did Keifer relax.
"You didn't have to do that," I said.
"I know."
I looked at him then—really looked.
"How do you always know when something's wrong?"
He met my gaze, and for a split second, the restraint cracked.
"Because I pay attention," he said. "Because you matter."
My chest tightened.
He didn't touch me. Didn't step closer. Didn't say anything else.
And somehow, that restraint felt louder than any confession ever could.
That night, lying in bed, I realized something terrifying.
Keifer wasn't slowly becoming part of my life.
He already was.
And I didn't know when it happened.