Chapter 87: What Tension Can’t Take
Monday morning arrived wrapped in nerves, the kind that didn’t quite let go even after I’d washed my face and double-checked my bag for the tenth time. Test week. Normally, that would’ve been the only thing on my mind—numbers, formulas, words I’d memorized, all floating at the front of my brain. But not today.
Today felt heavier.
Val was the reason I wasn’t drowning in panic. She’d sat up with me all through last night, refusing to let me quit until I’d filled page after page, worked through problem after problem. I’d groaned, I’d complained, I’d tried to argue—but she’d leaned forward with that stubborn glint in her eyes and told me flatly: No sleep until you’re ready.
And damn it, she was right. Because by the time she let me collapse against her shoulder, my head foggy from exhaustion, I wasn’t just prepared. I was over-prepared.
But the air outside the lecture hall was thick with something else entirely.
We walked side by side through the hallway, her hand brushing against mine, Duchess probably still asleep at home. The usual chatter of students echoed around us, but it all blurred the moment we turned a corner.
Because they were there.
Trent. And Marina.
The two of them stood just ahead, their heads bent in quiet conversation. Trent noticed us first—his jaw tightening for a second before he schooled his expression into something more neutral. Marina’s gaze flicked up next.
And for the first time in days, our eyes met.
"Morning," Marina said softly.
Her voice wasn’t the Marina I remembered. Not the sharp, teasing edge she usually carried. Not the warmth she used to aim at Val. Just... something muted. Careful.
Beside me, Val stiffened. I felt it instantly—the way her fingers curled tighter around my arm, like she needed to anchor herself to something solid. Her lips parted, but no words came right away.
That silence—those few seconds of silence—were louder than anything in the hallway.
Finally, she whispered back, "Morning."
Her tone was flat, stripped of its usual color.
Marina’s lips parted, like she wanted to add something, maybe I’m sorry, maybe can we talk—I’ll never know. Because Val cut through the pause before it could form. She tugged at me, eyes set forward, and her voice came out sharper, steadier than the fragile way she’d said hello.
> "Let’s go, husband. We’ll be late for class."
She didn’t even look at Marina when she said it. Just clung tighter to my arm, her nails pressing faintly through the fabric of my sleeve.
I nodded without a word, letting her lead me past.
And if Marina’s face flickered with hurt, if Trent’s gaze dropped to the floor in quiet frustration—I didn’t linger on it. I couldn’t. Because in that moment, I understood something I should’ve known all along:
Val wouldn’t share. Not me. Not with anyone.
Even if it meant losing the first real friend she’d ever had.
Her steps were quick, almost too quick, like if she slowed down even a little, her composure would crack. And all I could do was keep pace, my heart aching for reasons I couldn’t put into words.
Because this wasn’t a fight she wanted. It wasn’t a victory. It was... survival.
And the worst part?
No matter how much it hurt the three of us—Marina, Val, me—it was the only choice she could live with.
So I followed her into class, the weight of silence trailing behind us.
---
We slid into our seats, the scrape of chair legs against the tiled floor echoing louder in my ears than it should have. The test papers weren’t even handed out yet, but already the classroom felt like a cage, the hum of whispered last-minute revisions and nervous laughs bouncing around.
I set my bag down and leaned back, letting out a breath. But my eyes—of course—drifted sideways.
She sat there beside me, posture perfect, hair falling slightly forward as she pulled her pen and notebook from her bag. Her lips pressed into the faintest line, her lashes lowered, and yet—her whole body hummed with something I could read like a book.
The tension. The hurt. The effort she was putting into pretending otherwise.
I kept staring. Long enough that she must have felt it, because finally, without even lifting her gaze from the desk, she spoke softly.
"I’m fine, really." She glanced at me then, her smile practiced, too quick, like she’d rehearsed it in the mirror.
Before I even thought about it, my hand moved. Fingers brushing over her hair, smoothing a strand back from her face. Gentle, slower than I meant.
She blinked at me, startled. I blinked back, equally surprised at myself. I hadn’t even realized I’d done it. Guess I was starting to act freely around her, without calculating every step.
For just a heartbeat—just one—I saw it in her eyes. The mask slipping, the vulnerability spilling through. The part of her that wanted to fold, to admit how much it stung, how much she was carrying. But then she blinked again, lashes lowering, and the moment was gone.
Her lips curved up into a teasing grin. "You should worry about the test husband, not me."
I huffed, shaking my head, though my chest still ached from what I’d glimpsed. "Pretty bold, considering who did all the nagging last night."
"You mean who did all the teaching?" she corrected, smirk tugging at her mouth.
I chuckled under my breath, and for a second, it almost felt normal again.
Then she slid a slim jotter out of her bag. The corners were frayed from her scribbling, filled with cramped notes and underlined sections.
She flipped it open with a little flourish and set it between us. "Here," she said. "I wrote down all the important stuff."
I raised a brow. "So that’s what you were scribbling while you pretended to be listening to me?"
Her nose wrinkled in mock offense. "I was listening. But I also knew you’d probably forget half of what you read, so—" she tapped the page, "—you’re welcome."
I leaned closer, scanning her handwriting. The notes were sharp, efficient. Of course they were. "Val..." I shook my head. "You’re a genius, you know that?"
"I know," she said lightly, as if it was obvious, then pointed her pen at me. "Come on. Let’s start."
She started quizzing me again, her tone brisk but her eyes soft, softer than she probably realized. I answered each question, sometimes rolling my eyes, sometimes smirking when she tried to trip me up with the trickier ones.
And then the door opened.
I noticed first.
Marina walked in, her bag slung over one shoulder, her hair falling in that perfect wave she never had to try for. Her eyes scanned the room absently—until they landed on us.
On Val, leaning just close enough that our shoulders brushed as she read the next question. On me, smiling faintly despite myself.
Marina’s gaze lingered for a second. Just one second. Then she moved toward her seat without a word.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even twitch.
Because Val didn’t notice.
She was too focused, brow furrowed, lips moving as she read the next question aloud, waiting for my answer like the world depended on it.
And I let her keep that focus.
I leaned in a little more, my voice steady as I replied, like I hadn’t just felt the sting of another layer of tension weave into the air.
Because right now, she needed this more.
---
The test started, the shuffling of papers filling the room like static. Pens scratched almost immediately, and the lecturer’s shoes tapped steadily against the tiled floor as he made his rounds.
I bent over the sheet, scanning the questions. Most of them looked familiar, thanks to last night’s marathon session. But halfway down, I hit one that stared back at me like it was written in another language.
I frowned. Read it again. Still nonsense.
Out of habit—without even meaning to—I glanced sideways.
Val sat straight-backed, pen dancing across the page like this whole exam was a warm-up exercise. Her hair brushed against her cheek as she bent lower, lips faintly pursed in concentration. No hesitation. No pauses. She was flying.
I caught myself smiling, barely a twitch at the corner of my mouth. Of course she made this look easy. She might be chaos ninety-nine percent of the time, but under it all... she was a genius.
She must’ve felt my stare, because her eyes flicked toward me, sharp and quick. She whispered, "What?"
I shook my head, equally soft. "Nothing."
She gave me a look like she didn’t believe me but turned back to her paper anyway, already scribbling another line.
I hesitated. My pride nagged. But then again, pride and Val had never been on speaking terms. Being around her this long had taught me—she didn’t care about any of that. Not with me.
So, finally, I leaned a little closer and whispered, "What’s number eight’s answer?"
She didn’t blink. No teasing, no smirk, not even a second’s delay. She just tilted her paper the slightest bit my way and whispered the answer like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I bit back a chuckle. Of course.
By the time the lecturer called for us to drop our pens, the room was heavy with sighs of relief. Papers shuffled, chairs squeaked, and the man finally strode out with his stack of scripts.
The second he left, Val twisted toward me, eyes wide and bright. "So? How was it?"
Her voice was low but urgent, like my reply might save her entire afternoon.
I stretched, leaning back. "Easier than expected, actually."
Her shoulders dropped with an audible sigh, relief flooding her face.
I frowned. "What? What’s wrong?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, too quickly.
But I saw it. The flicker in her eyes. The way her lips pressed tight for a second.
She’d been worried. Worried I’d crash, that last night had ruined me for today. Worried I’d be angry if the test didn’t go well.
"Do you always worry so much?" I asked quietly.
Her eyes softened, but only for a second. Then she puffed out her cheeks and pouted instead. "I’m hungry. Let’s go eat something."
I raised a brow. "You didn’t answer."
She tilted her head, still pouting. "I can’t hear clearly when I’m hungry."
I groaned under my breath. She grinned, delighted. And when she laughed—light, triumphant, like she’d just won something—I couldn’t help laughing too.
And in that moment, in the middle of all the tension, all the noise, all the things unsaid—her laughter was the only answer I needed. Because as long as she could still laugh like that, I believed we could survive anything.
---
To be continued...