Chapter 7: The Advice Problem

Friday came with the same problem as every other school morning.

Cyrus Calder reached St. Alder Academy with sleep still dragging at his bones, slipped into the back corner of the classroom, and dropped into his seat before anyone could decide he looked interesting. His bangs hung low. His uniform sat neatly enough to pass inspection. His face had the flat, harmless look of a student who had no secrets worth digging up, which was exactly the kind of lie he needed people to believe.

He yawned into the bend of his arm.

There was nothing to do about it. Freedom had a price, and lately that price looked a lot like sleep deprivation.

Still, losing a few hours on his own terms was better than losing every hour because someone else had decided when he could wake, eat, move, breathe, or sit near a window. Cyrus would take a half-dead school morning over that future without hesitation.

He folded his arms on the desk and lowered his head, planning to catch whatever sleep he could before the first bell forced him upright. Around him, the classroom filled in its usual way. Chairs scraped. Lockers clanged outside in the hall. Someone complained about a quiz. Someone else laughed too loudly over a video on her phone until a teacher passing the door told her to turn it off.

Cyrus kept his eyes closed.

Then Owen Keats came in.

Usually, Owen’s morning routine was painfully predictable. He sat down, pulled out his phone, adjusted his glasses, and started typing a long chain of messages to the mysterious person Cyrus had mentally filed away as his online girlfriend. Owen texted with the focus of a monk copying scripture, except the scripture apparently involved hearts, apologies, and whatever emotional crisis had appeared between midnight and breakfast.

Today, though, Owen did not take out his phone.

He sat down beside Cyrus, put his backpack under the desk, and looked over.

Cyrus felt it.

At first, he ignored it. People glanced at other people all the time. Classrooms were traps full of bored teenagers, and boredom made everyone nosy. That did not mean anything by itself.

The second glance lasted longer.

The third one landed somewhere near Cyrus’s hand.

By the time the bell rang and Cyrus slowly pushed himself upright, Owen had looked at him enough times that even a dead man would have noticed.

Cyrus kept his expression dull and turned his hand slightly.

The ring sat where it always sat, impossible to remove, faintly cold against his finger. Under the classroom lights, it did not look dramatic. It was just a ring, quiet and smooth and inconveniently permanent.

Was Owen staring at that?

Cyrus could not tell. Owen’s attention moved from the ring to his face, or more accurately to the shadow under his bangs. It was not the hungry stare Cyrus sometimes got at the lounge, and it was not Audra Sloane’s cool, careful observation either. Owen looked like he was trying to solve a math problem without enough information.

That was annoying in a completely different way.

Cyrus did not ask. Owen did not speak.

For the rest of the morning, Owen watched him like a student waiting for the right moment to raise his hand. He did not interrupt class. He did not pass a note. He did not open with some awkward question in front of everyone. He simply kept stealing glances, then looking away whenever Cyrus shifted.

By lunch break, half the class had already emptied into the hall. The louder students headed for the cafeteria, the snack bar, or whatever corner of campus gave them enough privacy to pretend they were not being monitored by teachers.

Cyrus waited until the room thinned out before he stood.

He had planned to buy something cheap, edible, and large enough to convince his stomach that it had not been betrayed. His wallet had opinions about lunch, and those opinions were not generous.

He had barely stepped into the hallway when Owen followed.

"Cyrus," Owen called, lowering his voice as soon as Cyrus looked back. "Can I ask you something?"

Cyrus was not surprised.

If anything, there was a small, unpleasant sense of confirmation. Owen had definitely noticed something. The question was whether he had noticed the ring, the cold, the earring Cyrus usually kept hidden under his hair, or some other loose thread Cyrus had failed to tuck away.

Their classroom sat near the quieter end of the hall. Even so, Owen did not speak right away. He glanced at the passing students, waited until a couple of girls moved out of earshot, and then pushed his glasses higher on his nose.

"This is going to sound sudden," Owen said, "but could I ask you for advice about talking to girls?"

Cyrus stared at him.

Owen stared back with the serious, hopeful expression of a person who had just chosen the worst possible consultant and did not know it.

"You want advice from me?" Cyrus asked.

The words came out flatter than he meant them to, but honestly, what else was there to say?

Owen had seen Cyrus at school. Everyone at school saw the same version of Cyrus, a quiet guy with hair in his eyes, average grades, a talent for disappearing, and the general social energy of a locked filing cabinet. If someone needed romantic advice, asking Cyrus made less sense than reading two badly translated dating games and trusting the results.

Cyrus opened his mouth to correct the misunderstanding before it got any worse.

Owen beat him to it.

"I’m sorry about yesterday," he said, then dipped his head in an awkward little bow that looked like something he had learned from being earnest rather than from knowing what to do with his hands. "I really wasn’t trying to follow you to that lounge."

Cyrus went still in a way he hoped looked casual.

Owen continued quickly, as if he had rehearsed the apology and feared he would lose the nerve if he stopped. "I ran into you after school by accident. I was going to ask you then, but you went into that side street, and after that I wasn’t sure what was happening."

Before he could finish explaining, a familiar voice came from behind them.

"Cyrus."

Cyrus turned.

Audra Sloane had appeared in the hallway with a notebook tucked against her chest. She must have stayed behind to finish a problem set, because most of her usual crowd had already gone ahead without her. Her hair was smooth over one shoulder, her uniform looked effortless, and her expression carried that calm distance that made other students hesitate before approaching her.

Cyrus had learned very quickly that calm did not mean harmless.

Audra lifted a hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her gaze rested on him for a second too long, then shifted briefly to Owen before returning.

"You’re really not going to let me buy you lunch as an apology?" she asked.

Cyrus could feel Owen’s attention snap into focus beside him.

He shook his head. "I appreciate the thought, but you really don’t need to buy me anything."

Audra studied him as if refusal itself were an answer she wanted to take apart. "I see. Then I’ll think of another way to apologize."

She said it like a promise, not a polite exit.

Then she walked away down the hall, composed as ever, leaving only the faint trail of expensive shampoo and social pressure behind her.

Cyrus watched her go with a tired kind of resignation.

That woman was much more stubborn than he had expected.

When he turned back to Owen, he found something worse than suspicion waiting for him.

Owen looked impressed.

Not mildly impressed either. His eyes had taken on the open, unfortunate admiration of someone who had just witnessed a miracle.

Cyrus frowned. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Owen seemed to realize he had been staring. "Sorry. I just saw the way you handled that."

"The way I handled what?"

"Her," Owen said, then caught himself and lowered his voice again. "Yesterday at lunch, and just now too. You can talk to Audra Sloane without getting nervous, and you can turn her down like it’s normal. I don’t know many guys who could do that."

Cyrus had no answer ready.

Owen, unfortunately, had more.

"If it were another guy, or if it were me, I don’t think I could stay that calm," he said with complete sincerity. "She’s Audra Sloane."

Cyrus looked down the hallway where Audra had disappeared.

Yes, that was exactly the problem. She was Audra Sloane, which meant she was beautiful, noticeable, socially admired, and already far too interested in him for comfort. Those were not reasons to accept lunch. Those were reasons to keep both hands visible, guard his secrets, and avoid owing her anything that could later grow teeth.

Apparently, Owen had interpreted basic survival as romantic mastery.

That was tragic.

Cyrus decided to return to the part that actually mattered. "What did you see yesterday after school?"

Owen straightened, grateful for the question. "I saw you from behind at first. I thought it might be you, but I wasn’t completely sure. Then you went into that darker side street."

Cyrus remembered the route. He had taken it because it was faster, quieter, and less likely to put him in front of anyone from school. In other words, the route had failed at its one job.

"I couldn’t really see your face when you came out," Owen went on. "Your hair was different, and the light was bad. Then I saw the stud in your ear catch the light, and that was when I knew it had to be you."

Cyrus resisted the urge to touch his ear.

The small stud was usually hidden well enough. He had not thought anyone at school noticed it. Then again, Owen sat beside him every day. Cyrus sometimes slept with his head turned, and his hair did not always cover everything.

That was not good.

"I guess I’m the only one who noticed it," Owen added, as if trying to be reassuring. "I sit close enough, so it makes sense."

That was slightly better. It was not good, but it was better.

"And then?" Cyrus asked.

"Then I saw you go into The Full Moon Lounge."

Cyrus kept his face still. "You waited outside until I left?"

Owen nodded. "I was worried at first. If you never came back out, I was going to report it or call someone. Then I saw you get into a car."

The car.

Cyrus remembered that too. The angle must have been bad if Owen had not seen clearly who was inside. That was lucky, because explaining Helena Baird would have been even more annoying than explaining the lounge.

Owen hesitated. "I couldn’t see the driver that well, but I could tell she was really beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful than Audra."

Cyrus felt the beginning of a headache.

So Owen had seen him enter the lounge, waited until late, noticed a beautiful woman pick him up, and somehow turned that into evidence that Cyrus knew how to interact with women.

This was not a misunderstanding anymore. This was an academic disaster.

"Why didn’t you just come inside?" Cyrus asked.

Owen looked genuinely uncomfortable with the idea. "It was a lounge. I’m not twenty-one, and they check IDs at places like that."

Cyrus paused.

That was correct. Painfully correct.

Owen had followed him to a bar, decided not to enter because rules existed, waited outside out of concern, and apparently considered calling for help if Cyrus vanished. The entire thing was absurd, but the motive was not cruel.

Cyrus did not know what expression to make.

Owen seemed to take his silence as judgment, because he hurried to add, "I’m not trying to interfere with your life outside school. I just wanted to ask you something."

"I really don’t think I can teach you much," Cyrus said.

That was not false modesty. Owen helped him with notes, reminders, and the occasional question Cyrus had failed to understand because he had been asleep when it was explained. Owen was better at being a normal student, which already put him ahead in an area Cyrus actually valued.

Owen brightened anyway, because apparently he had heard only the part where Cyrus had not refused outright.

"It doesn’t have to be teaching," he said. "I guess I want to know what you would do in certain situations."

Cyrus understood then.

Owen did not want a lecture. He wanted a reference point. He had seen Cyrus refuse Audra without combusting and had mistaken that for a transferable life skill.

Fine. Cyrus could answer hypothetical questions. Hypothetical questions were safer than questions about rings, ears, women in cars, and why the air sometimes cooled around him.

He turned toward the snack bar at the end of the hall. "I’m getting lunch."

Owen fell into step beside him at once.

Cyrus did not tell him to leave. Owen had already seen too much, but not enough to be dangerous. Keeping him close for a few minutes might be better than letting him wander off with half a theory and a full imagination.

Besides, Cyrus was hungry.

The hallway opened into the busier part of campus, where students moved in clusters toward food. The smell of fries and reheated pizza drifted from the cafeteria doors. Someone’s backpack swung too close to Cyrus’s side, and he shifted away before it brushed his ring. Owen noticed the movement but did not comment.

Small mercy.

"So what kind of situation are we talking about?" Cyrus asked.

Owen looked as if he had been waiting for permission to begin. "It’s about my friend."

Cyrus did not look at him. "Naturally."

Owen cleared his throat. "My friend is dating someone, but after school started, that person started messaging him a lot less than before. If you were my friend, what would you do?"

Cyrus slowed slightly.

There it was.

He remembered the green reflection he had once seen flickering across Owen’s glasses, the long message chains, the anxious checking, and the way Owen’s face could brighten or fall because of one phone notification.

"Your friend is in an online relationship?" Cyrus asked.

Owen nodded with the solemnity of a person defending a legal deposition. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

Cyrus was, despite himself, a little surprised.

Owen was not some impossible case. He was not model-level handsome, but he had a clean, sincere look, decent manners, and the kind of steady personality that teachers trusted automatically. If he wanted to date someone at school, Cyrus had to assume he had a chance.

So why choose an online relationship, where every unread message could become a psychological injury and every late reply could ruin lunch?

That seemed like voluntarily paying rent on a haunted apartment.

Cyrus glanced at him. "Your friend likes this person that much?"

Owen answered without hesitation.

"He likes her very much."