Page 17 of Jayson
Ihear footsteps. Heavy. Angry. Each step is a stomp, echoing off the stone. The sound of someone too used to people obeying him and too close to snapping when they don’t.
It must be Jayson.
I sit up straighter without realizing it.
His eyes cut toward me—sharp, unreadable, dark as a blade before it’s unsheathed. I force myself not to shrink beneath the weight of his stare. The silence between us thickens. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me. His jaw flexes. His hands stay at his sides, clenched like he’s resisting the urge to hit something. Or someone.
Then, finally?—
“Tell me what you were doing there.”
His voice is low, measured. But there’s something behind it. It’s not accusation; it’s like he’s trying to line up facts in his head and doesn’t know where I fit in the pattern.
“I live there,” I murmur, brows drawn together. “Why would that even be a question?”
“You live on campus,” Jayson says, his voice tight, probing. “You weren’t supposed to be home. Why did you come home this weekend?”
I drop my gaze. He seems to know alot about my routine if he knows I wasn’t supposed to be home. Does he know I haven’t been back in almost two years?
The blanket shifts slightly on my shoulders as I tense, the silence between us thickening like a fog. I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to—but because I can’t. Because how do you explain that sometimes, going home isn’t a choice? That sometimes it’s just the last square left on the board, and you land there bruised and breathless, not because it’s safe—but because everywhere else felt worse?
I hadn’t planned on it. God knows I didn’t want to come back. But I was tired. Confused. Out of options. I was running. Not toward anything—but away from something else. And the only place I could crash without raising questions was the one place that never really felt like mine.
Home.
I swallow hard, keeping my eyes on the floor. I feel his stare, sharp and waiting, like he’s trying to pry the answer out of me with silence alone. But I keep quiet. Because the truth? It would only open more doors I’m not ready to walk through. Not with this stranger.
“No one was supposed to be home,” he snaps, when the silence stretches too thin. “Why did you come home?”
I swallow hard. The water I drank earlier didn’t do much. My throat still feels like it’s lined with gravel.
“I missed home, so I came to spend the weekend.” I shrug under the blanket.
“Who else knew you were there?”
“No-one but my father.”
He studies me with that same unnerving focus that makes itfeel like he’s peeling me open from the inside out, trying to figure out how honest I’m being.
“What time did you arrive?”
“Late afternoon. I took a bus, not that it matters.”
“It matters,” he says. “Did you speak to him?”
I hesitate. His eyes narrow.
“Yes,” I say. “Briefly. He was surprised to see me. Told me to stay in my room, said he had work to do.”
“And you listened?”
I laugh under my breath. “Do Ilooklike someone who follows instructions?”
That cracks something in his expression—just a flicker. I think it may be amusement, but the emotion vanishes before I can place it.
“Why were you wandering around last night?”
“I wanted water. My father’s door was open.”
