Chapter 10 In Quiet corners

Chapter 10 In Quiet corners
(Samarra – Pov)

Friday. Finally.

I stand in front of my mirror having a quiet argument with my reflection.
The light blue skinny jeans are undeniably cute. Casey picked them out with the confidence of someone who has never once questioned her life choices. I pair them with a soft cream sweater and cream boots that feel suspiciously like comfort disguised as fashion.
I barely recognize myself.
I pull my hair into a high ponytail and attempt a casual hair flip, channeling all the Casey energy I can muster.
It looks unnaturally wrong.
Like someone with the charisma of a troll is impersonating someone who invented lip gloss and optimism
I immediately undo it and let my hair fall back into place. Too much change at once is how people spiral. I settle for subtle and call it progress.
The necklace rests warm against my skin. A steady, familiar warmth pulsing through it. As if it approves of my compromise.
In the kitchen, Catherine is scrolling through something work related and Derrick is leaning against the counter pretending he is looking me up and down like I arrived from another planet.

I have been talking about Juniper and Ink nonstop. Last night. This morning. Casually. Subtly. Not at all desperately.
"So Warren says open mic nights are really chill," I say again, stirring my coffee. "Low lights. Poetry. People who overshare creatively."
Catherine hums. "Sounds crowded."
"Emotionally," I say. "Not physically. I mean how many people really go to these poetry readings, right?"
"I'll take her," Derrick says, casual as breathing.
A tiny gasp escapes before I can stop it. "Really?"
Catherine looks at him, almost as surprised as I am "Really?"
Derrick finally looks up to meet my eyes and freezes, just for a second before I look away, rubbing the back of his neck.
"You-," he says. "You look really nice today, Mouse." His cheeks change to the lightest shade of pink as he focuses on something only he can see on the counter.
My stomach flutters and a wave of dizziness hits me as I replay his words in my head. "Oh, Uhm, thank you." I finally manage to say.
A strange awkwardness falls over the kitchen as Catherine looks between Derrick and I.
"Casey has some very strong opinions during our shopping trip yesterday. If it was up to her Samarra's closet would consist entirely of pink." Catherine breaks the awkwardness and I am incredibly grateful for it.
Derrick just hums but doesn't look up at me again. He swallows down his last bit of coffee and mumbles that he'll be waiting in the truck for me.

On the drive to school, he mentions it like it is no big thing.
"The pep rally is today," he says. "Casey asked if I would come."
I stare out the window at the passing trees. "Of course she did." I don't mean for it to sound bitter, but it does all the same.
"She was.. persuasive," he adds.
"That tracks." I huff again. I don't know if I'm annoyed with how comfortable Casey is getting with Derrick or if I'm annoyed that it feels like I'm being left out.

The mist hangs low over the road and the school comes into view far too quickly. My stomach tightens. The thought of seeing Jesse again already has my heart pounding against my ribs. The added stress of having to attend the pep rally also claws at my throat. Pep rally from lunch through the end of the day. Which means loud music, screaming, flashing lights, and my personal nightmare wrapped in school spirit. I instantly regret wearing something other than black today. How am I supposed to fade into the shadows now.
Fantastic.

Derrick pulls into the drop off lane and glances at me. "I'll be there if it gets too much." Derrick says randomly as if reading my thoughts. "We could sneak out the back." That playful smile tugging at his lips.
I nod, but it doesn't loosen the grip on my throat. "I might fake a sudden interest in the bathroom."

He reaches out and ruffles my hair, then lifts my chin to him with such gentleness it makes my breath catch.
"If it's too much we can skip it." His smile is genuine but there is something in his eyes I don't quite know what to name.
"Thanks," I say, then pause. "For agreeing to take me tonight. I'll see you at the pep rally."
"Of course," he says evenly and gets out to open my door.

I get out of the truck and head toward the school doors, already bracing myself for a double history period before lunch all before the real chaos even begins.
Satans spawn most likely awaits me.
But tonight there will coffee and art and quiet corners with poetry. And I will finally get to breathe.

The day starts off horribly.
Math, for one, Mr. Larkin decides this is the perfect morning to unleash a tidal wave of new material like we are all secretly gifted mathematicians who thrive under pressure. I copy things down without absorbing any of it, my brain buffering somewhere around the third equation.

Then, the dreaded double history.
Because the universe has jokes.
Ironically, today's topic is one of my favorites.
Holy wars.
Specifically the Crusades.

I almost laugh when Mr. Devario launches into it, voice monotone, lights dimmed, slides clicking forward like he is narrating a funeral. Knights. God. Bloodshed justified by belief.
It makes me think of the story Derrick used to tell me when I was little. About the soldier and the healer.
A soldier bound by duty and a girl bound by mercy. Their love blooming where it should not have survived. How they chose each other anyway. How, like Romeo and Juliet, they both died for love in the end.
I used to fall asleep to that story.
Now, seeing these slides the reality of it sits heavy in my chest.

Beside me, Mr. Grumpy Gills is staring at the board like he might be able to set it on fire with sheer irritation alone. Jesse is slumped forward, forearms resting on the table. His shoulders are tense under his black hoodie and from the corner of my eye I can see his jaw tick every now and then. He has not spoken a word since he sat down, which should be comforting but somehow is not.

I decided to completely ignore his irritated huffs and flip through the textbook absently.
Photocopied images blur together. Soldiers in armor. Banners. Smoke. Swords raised mid strike. Faces grainy and indistinct.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
I stop. Something about the image pulls at me.
A black and white photo of a crusader illustration. Older than the others. The face partially shadowed beneath hair falling into eyes.
My pulse stutters and the necklace at my throat warms slightly.
Flip back.
There he is again, with a group of soldiers behind him.
Strong jaw. Familiar eyes. Even blurred and distorted by age, there is something unmistakable about him.
He looks like Derrick.

Jesse leans closer unnoticed "He looks like your brother."
I jump so hard I squeak.
My heart slams against my ribs, and the necklace at my throat flares with sudden heat, sharp enough that I gasp and press my fingers to it instinctively.
Jesse watches me too closely. His dark eyes flicking up to meet mine.
I swallow and force myself to look back down at the page.
He's right. The resemblance is undeniable. The same bone structure. The same steady, unyielding presence captured mid moment. Like the artist knew him. Like they had seen him stand his ground against something terrible.
There is no name beneath the image.
No caption. Just an anonymous soldier frozen in time. Maybe it's a far off ancestor?
"That's stupid," I whisper just loud enough for Jesse to hear. "Everyone looked like that back then."

He's still looking at me, eyes studying my face like someone would study a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit right.
"Not like that," he says quietly.
The room feels like its slowly becoming smaller.

The lights start to hum. The projector clicks forward. Mr. Devario keeps talking about dates and battles and casualties like none of this matters. But my heart is beating too loudly and I feel like I'm breathing underwater. Sounds that do not belong to this room start echoing in my head. People screaming, swords slashing. Somewhere a horse neighs fearfully.

Jesse's hand closes over mine, clutching the book so tightly I'm crumpling the paper.
The moment his skin meets mine, sound evaporates. The lights flicker once and then dim, the buzzing sound, gone. I look from his hand to his face. Shock and confusion written all over him.

I shut the book far too aggressively, blinking quickly.
"Mind your own textbook," I say, not looking back at Jesse. "And stop commenting on my family."

I keep my hands firmly in my lap for the rest of the class, toying with my hoody sleeve.
Sound and colour had slowly returned to their usual unbearable self the further his hand stayed from mine.

By the time lunch rolls around, my brain feels like overcooked pasta.
Two hours in the presence of Jesse Carter would do that to you. Especially when he decided to casually imply my brother might have been alive during the Crusades. No big deal. Totally normal academic experience.

The cafeteria hits me like a wall of noise and perfume and school spirit.
Casey spots me immediately.
"Oh my god," she says, grabbing my arm and spinning me just enough to make me dizzy. "You wore the jeans."
"I had no choice," I deadpan. "They followed me home."
She giggles absolutely beaming. "See? I told you. You look adorable. You're welcome, by the way."
"Of course," I say. "All personal growth will now be credited to you."
She doesn't even hear the sarcasm.
Her friends are already seated, all of them dressed in matching cheer uniforms. Red and white. Bright. Loud. Confident. They look like they belong here in a way I never quite manage.
I slide into the seat beside Casey, suddenly very aware of my cream sweater and quiet posture and general lack of coordinated enthusiasm.
Next to them, I look like I wandered in from a different genre.
"This is just the beginning," Casey continues excitedly. "Next we'll get you to try makeup."
I choke slightly on my drink. "Hard pass."
"Not like a lot," she says quickly. "Just enough to enhance what you already have. Like mascara. Maybe lip gloss."
"My lips are already big enough," I point out, pouting.
She laughs like that's charming instead of concerning.

Across the table, Brooklyn tilts her head, studying me like I'm a project. "You do look different," she says. "In a good way."
"Thank you," I reply politely. "I am trying not to scare people today."
They laugh. I'm not sure why.
Then Brooklyn leans forward, eyes lighting up with interest. "So," she says casually, "is Derrick coming to the pep rally?"
Casey perks up immediately. "I invited him."
"Really?" another girl asks. "We'd all love to meet him."
I feel my shoulders tense again.
"I think so," I say carefully. "He said he might.
Casey nudges me. "He's kind of a mystery, isn't he."
"That's one word for him," I mutter.
The conversation shifts to chants and routines and how the basketball team is definitely going to crush it this season. I nod in the appropriate places and focus on not dissolving into the table.
I don't belong here.
Not in cheer uniforms and pep rallies and loud optimism.
But I sit anyway.
Because this is where my friends are.
Even if sometimes it feels like I'm borrowing the seat rather than owning it.
And somewhere between bites of pizza and forced smiles, I can't shake the feeling that when Derrick walks into that gym later everything is going to change.

\------

Derrick p.o.v
I should not still be looking at the photo Casey sent.
I tell myself that as I sit at the kitchen table, phone face down, then face up again, like flipping it might somehow change what it shows me. Casey, smiling wide and bright, eyes lit like she's meant to be seen. And Sam beside her, smaller somehow, shoulders slightly drawn in, looking straight at the camera like it's an endurance test rather than an innocent teenage moment.
If Casey is the sun, then Sam is the moon.
And though the sun shines brightly, warming everything it touches. My head has always been turned toward the moon.
I study the image again, my thumb hovering just above the screen, never touching her face, even through glass. Sam looks tired. Not weak. Just worn thin, like she's carrying more than she lets on.
The instinct to go to her, to pull her out of whatever noise the day has wrapped around her, presses hard against my ribs.

Then it hits.
A sharp, sudden, violent tug of energy.
The air leaves my lungs as pain bursts through my chest, white hot and spreading fast. I gasp and brace myself against the table as the ward flares, pulling too much power all at once. The room tilts. My vision blurs.
I barely hear myself hit the floor.
Catherine is there instantly, swearing under her breath as she hauls me upright with more strength than she should have. She gets me to the couch and forces me down, pressing a glass of water into my hand, I do not notice her pouring.
"You are pushing too hard," she says flatly.
"It was nothing," I manage.
She gives me a look that says she has buried better men than me for saying less.
"We need to seek out the ruins, Derrick," she says. "You are running dangerously low on resources. And you are looking worse by the day."

I lean back, closing my eyes. Breathing in through my nose and slowly out through my mouth until the pain recedes to something manageable. When I open my eyes again, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror.
My face looks pale, drawn. I look so much older than I should look.
A soldier running on fumes.

The pep rally crosses my mind unbidden. The noise. The lights. Sam trapped in the middle of it all, pretending she is fine because she knows everyone expects her to. I told her I'd save her from it.
"I will be back later," I say, already pushing myself to my feet.
Catherine opens her mouth to argue, but I simply raise my hand to stop her. Nothing she says can stop me from going to get my girl.

I go to Sam's room and pack an extra set of clothes without thinking too hard about it. Dark jeans. A black top with some metal band logo I recognize only because she hums it sometimes while drawing. I stare at her closet for a moment. I can clearly see where Casey's influence was allowed and where it was not. A neat pile of coloured top, sweaters and blouses are hiding in the back corner of the closet. While all the black sits pristinely folded in the front.
I pull out what could pass as a soft brown trench coat, but grab a black hoodie as well for good measure.
This is nice, I think. Something that feels like her.
Something she can disappear into if she needs to.

I grab my keys and head for the door, the familiar pull of duty settling into place.
Whatever the pep rally brings, whatever attention the day demands, I will be there, by her side.

The gym is already too loud when I step inside.
Noise ricochets off the walls, layered and sharp. Music thunders through cheap speakers. The air smells like sweat, polish, and anticipation. I scan the space automatically, old habit rising without permission. I clock the exits, the dark shadows under the bleachers, the amount of bodies moving around.

Casey suddenly appears in front of me, bright as a spark.
"Derrick!" she says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You made it!"
"I said I would," I reply evenly.
She looks radiant, energy spilling out of her like the room was built for her. She's in her cheerleading uniform that shows far too much skin for me to feel comfortable. I give her a quick once over and the fix my eyes on her face.
"You look lovely, Casey." Hoping the words come out as sincere as I mean them.
Her smile grows even wider. Putting almost all her pearly white teeth on display. "Thank you." She coos, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "I'll be dancing for you today."
"And I, will watch," I say politely.
Before I can move toward the bleachers, she grabs my hand and pulls me a step forward.
"Guys," she calls, already turning. "This is him."
The swarm of cheerleaders descend like a wave.
They are friendly. Overly enthusiastic and entirely too close.
Hands brush my arm. Fingers press into my shoulder. Someone laughs and comments on how solid I am, how tall, how broad. It is not malicious, but it is overwhelming in a way that makes my skin prickle.
I feel like a slave on display, going to the highest bidder.
I nod. I smile when it feels expected. I keep my posture relaxed even as every instinct tells me to step back and reclaim space.
Casey slips her arm through mine possessively.
"This is mine," she says lightly, publicly, like a claim disguised as a joke.
I do not correct her.
It would embarrass her in front of her friends and that would be unkind.
Instead, I let her guide me toward the bleachers, my attention already searching for Sam. I find her immediately, seated a few rows up. Her posture is tight. Shoulders drawn inward. Lips pressed together in a thin line. Her eyes are wider than normal, glassy with too much input.
She's overstimulated.

Casey follows my gaze. "There she is," she says, pointing. "There's Sam."
I nod once.
"She's been… quiet," Casey adds, lowering her voice like it is an observation rather than a concern.
"She always is," I say.
But that's not true. She doesn't need to say a thousand words for you to know her.
The way she twists her sleeves around her finger tells me she anxious or nervous.
She bites the corner of her bottom lip when she's trying to figure something out.
She give these little sharp huff through her nose when she's frustrated.
And when she's happy, oh god when this beautiful, fierce, incredible girl is happy, the air around her vibrates, placing everything and everyone around her on an entirely different frequency. I breath out slowly as my chest threatens to allow my heart to escape.

When we reach the bleachers Casey releases my arm at last, but shocks the sense out of me when she plants a quick peck on my cheek before rushing back toward the floor as the music swells and the cheer routine begins. I move quickly now, slipping onto the bench beside Sam without announcement.
The moment my shoulder brushes hers, the tension in my body eases.
She is warm. Solid. Present.
Safe.

I do not crowd her. I simply exist beside her, letting my presence anchor what the noise threatens to scatter. Her breathing evens out slightly as she slowly starts to lean her weight against me a little more. This small contact has the nerves in my entire body buzzing.

The cheerleaders take the floor. Music spikes again. The crowd roars. Casey dances like she was born under spotlights, confident and joyful. Hair flipping, legs kicking, smiling even brighter than before. She waves at us, eyes bright.
Sam lifts her hand in a small wave back. A reserved, controlled acknowledgement
Across the court, someone else is not controlled at all.
I catch the stare immediately.

Tall. Dark hair. Lean build. The boy has not looked away once. Not when the music crescendos. Not when the crowd cheers. His attention is fixed entirely on the girl beside me.
The instinct is immediate and cuts through me sharp and cold.
Mine.
I lean closer to Sam, keeping my voice low.
"Who is that?" I murmur.
She blinks looking around confused. "Who?"
"Across the court," I say quietly. "Tall. Dark hair. Keeps looking at you like he's enchanted."
Her mouth twists into a scowl "Oh. That's the spawn of Satan." She does something completely out of character and flips him off.
I glance back at him, unimpressed.
"Jesse Carter," she continues. "School royalty. And a royal pain in the ass."
The boy's gaze flicks briefly to me.
And lingers. His face twists into what I'm assuming he thinks is a threatening look. But it's the flash of a shadow moving at his feet that has something heavy settling in my chest.
I shift just enough that my arm moves behind Sam's back, allowing her space to sit even closer to me. She shifts instinctively, pressing into my side like we are two halves of a whole. It's not a claim but a reassurance. A clear indication to anyone watching that she is not alone. The ward hums faintly at her throat, steady and strong.
I keep my eyes on him now.
And I do not look away.