We don't talk about Adrian

Third period was dragging, the kind that made the walls feel closer and the air go stale. Kit was leaning back in his chair, only half-listening to the teacher drone on about post-war reconstruction. Delorah was mid-doodle in the margin of her notebook — some abstract loop of lines she swore helped her concentrate — when the intercom crackled to life above the whiteboard.

"Adrian Scott Honey. Please report to the dean's office."

The pen slipped from her hand.

For a second, the whole classroom paused — as if no one knew how to react. The name didn't register to anyone else, just some formal-sounding kid they'd never heard of.

But Delorah knew.

She saw Kit's shoulders go rigid in the row ahead of her, his spine locking up like a pulled wire.

The room went still.

Someone snickered. A girl whispered, "Who the hell is that?"

Kit stood slowly, not saying a word. No sarcasm, no flair. Just quiet dread. His hand gripped the strap of his bag, knuckles slightly white, eyes lowered like the tiles on the floor had insulted him .His jaw was tight, like someone had just slapped him in front of the whole room. He didn't speak as he walked out, back stiff, hands in fists.

Delorah's stomach turned as she watched him leave.

Adrian Scott Honey.

She whispered it to herself in her head.

She'd seen him angry before, flirtatious, even cold — but this was different. This was like watching someone be exposed without even touching them.

The door clicked closed behind him, and the tension didn't fade with him.

Kit's POV

The hallway felt too bright.

Kit walked like a ghost, each step heavier than the last, even though his legs moved on muscle memory. The name still rang in his ears like a slap — Adrian Scott Honey. He could feel it echoing, burned into the overhead lights, the cheap linoleum, the glances of every student who might've heard.

He hated it.

He hated him.

He knocked once on the dean's office door before pushing it open.

Dean Hargrave was already at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He was an older man who always looked like he wanted to be somewhere else, which Kit respected.

"Adrian," Hargrave said flatly, looking up over his glasses. "Or do you still go by Kit?"

Kit forced a smirk. "You called me in, didn't you?"

Hargrave sighed and gestured for him to sit.

"Don't worry," the dean said, lacing his fingers together. "This isn't about the incident earlier this week. I've already spoken to the security team — James brought a weapon on school grounds. There's no question who was in the wrong."

"Then why am I here?" Kit asked, tension still pulling his shoulders tight.

Hargrave looked at him for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair.

"Because I've seen this story before. Smart kid, starts disappearing behind a persona, building walls. People say you're trouble, but I don't think that's the full picture. I think you're trying to disappear."

Kit's jaw clenched. He said nothing.

Hargrave continued, voice quieter now. "I'm not here to break down those walls. I just want to make sure you know you don't have to carry whatever it is alone."

Kit stared at the floor.

For a second, he thought he might actually say something — anything — but the weight in his chest held it down like concrete.

"I'll take the hall pass now," Kit said instead, voice low.

The dean nodded and handed it over without another word.

As Kit left the office, the door clicking shut behind him, he didn't head straight back to class. He stood by the lockers, knuckles pressing into the cold metal, trying to push down the wildfire rising in his chest.

Adrian Scott Honey.

Ash in his lungs.

He took a slow, shaky breath and whispered, just for himself:

"Kit. My name is Kit."

The bell rang, but Delorah didn't move.

Students shuffled past her in noisy groups, complaining about tests and teachers, already pulling out their phones. None of them noticed that Kit hadn't come back. Or if they had, they didn't care.

Adrian Scott Honey.

She still couldn't shake the name. It didn't fit him, not the way "Kit" did. Kit was sharp edges, smirks, shadows and storms. 

"Adrian" sounded like it belonged to a violinist in a string quartet or someone whose shoes were always polished. A boy with soft hair and a softer smile. A boy who hadn't learned to bury his pain in fire.

Her fingers tightened on her phone, even though she wasn't sure who she meant to text.

She'd seen the way his body changed the second that name hit the air — like it had knocked the wind out of him. Like someone had spoken something sacred aloud and ruined it.

And still, despite herself… she wanted to know more.

Who had he been before he became Kit?

 Who was Adrian? Why did he hate him enough to kill him?

Del grabbed her things and stepped into the hallway, letting the crowd move around her like a river split by stone. She wasn't going to follow him — not yet. But she felt it in her chest like a splinter: the need to understand him. To earn the truth.

Whatever had made him burn the past down to become someone new… she had a feeling she was already standing too close to the flames.

Delorah had barely touched her tea. It sat on the windowsill, lukewarm now, its soft steam long since faded.

She watched the wind play with the edge of the curtains, letting the breeze cool her skin and the silence wrap around her like a blanket she wasn't sure she wanted. For once, Kit wasn't texting. No heart-pounding chaos. No whispered jokes passed in class. Just stillness.

But her thoughts weren't still.

Adrian Scott Honey.

The name had been clawing at the back of her mind all week. Not because it was embarrassing — it wasn't. It was actually... sweet, in a sad kind of way. Delicate. Real.

And maybe that was the problem.

She liked Kit. She liked how wild he was, how alive he made things feel. But she couldn't stop thinking about that moment in class — the way he froze. The way it looked like someone had called out the ghost he thought he'd buried.

She'd tried to bring it up in a text, typing and deleting the message at least five times.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Was that your name in class?"

"You okay?"

None of it felt right.

She sipped the tea — now bitter from sitting — and turned away from the window just as headlights splashed across the front of the house.

Her heart gave a little jolt.

They were early.

She crossed the front hall in a few careful steps, smoothing down the front of her oversized cardigan, barely remembering what she was wearing.

The front door clicked open, and her mother stepped inside with the practiced grace of someone who made first impressions for a living. "Darling!" she called, dropping her designer suitcase with a soft thud. "Oh, I missed you. Look how grown you look!"

Delorah barely had time to reply before being folded into a careful embrace — all perfume and silk and well-manicured affection. Her father followed next, phone still in hand, murmuring something about customs and delayed luggage.

"We were hoping to catch you for dinner," her mother added. "But I imagine you've been eating takeout all week, hmm?"

Del forced a smile. "Something like that."

As they chatted — her parents breezing through stories about Europe and business and people she'd never met — she nodded in the right places, said the right things.

But her mind was still elsewhere.

With a boy who didn't want to be called by his real name.

With the flicker of something she hadn't dared ask about yet.

And with the quiet, stubborn voice in her head whispering:

Kit didn't just choose that name. He needed it.

The house was quiet again. Her parents had gone off to their separate ends of the mansion — her dad to his office, her mom to draw a bath — and Delorah finally had a moment to breathe.

She laid on her bed with the lights dimmed, her phone resting on her chest, half-expecting it to stay still all night.

But then, it buzzed.

Kit

📞 Calling…

She answered before it could ring twice.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey," his voice came through, a little rough, a little tired — or maybe just soft for her. "I didn't wanna let the day end without hearing you."

Del smiled before she could stop herself. "Smooth."

"I try," he said. Then silence for a beat.

"You okay? After… you know. All of it?"

"I think so. I just needed a quiet day. You?"

"I'm fine. Just sore and moody and still better looking than James."

She laughed quietly. "That's a low bar."

"True," Kit agreed, amused. "Hey, I was calling for a reason. There's a party tomorrow night. Not a big one, but some of the same people'll be there — minus psychos with knives. I kinda want you to come."

Delorah hesitated.

"Tomorrow?" she asked. "I think my mom has something planned… some dinner thing. I don't know the details yet."

A pause.

"Well," Kit said, trying to sound casual but not quite pulling it off. "If you can, I'd like to see you. No pressure. Just think about it?"

"I will," she said, already knowing she'd find a way.

Another silence — not awkward, just full.

"I liked hearing your voice tonight," he added.

"Me too," she murmured, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. "Goodnight, Kit."

"Night, Del."

The call ended, but the flutter it left in her chest didn't.

Downstairs, her mother's voice floated faintly up the stairs — something about the dinner tomorrow, and Sebastian coming by to meet someone special.

Delorah didn't hear it clearly.

But she would soon.