Marco jolts upright, his body going stiff as the sharp chime cuts through the hush of the library. His shoulders bunch like he’s been caught mid-crime, scrambling for the phone in his pocket—clearly forgotten on silent mode.

Across the table, Quynten bites his bottom lip to stifle the laugh rising in his throat, especially when someone across the room hisses an aggressive “shhh!” in their direction.

Marco winces and shoots the offender an apologetic look, all wide eyes and sheepish grin, like a puppy caught chewing on a shoe. It’s adorable—ridiculously so—but also painfully awkward.

“Un momento, lo siento,” he mutters to Quynten, the apology spilling in a rush of smooth Spanish as he answers the phone just to quiet the ringtone. His accent thickens with the shift in language, and then he’s off—ducking toward a quiet corner at the far end of the library, away from glares and judging eyes.

Quynten watches him go, lips twitching. He still remembers the first time he heard Marco speak Spanish.

It had surprised him, back then. The cadence, the ease, the warmth in his tone. Eventually, Marco told him that Spanish was actually his first language. His parents had immigrated from Cuba while his mother was still pregnant with him, and Spanish remained the default in their household for years. English came later, picked up through school, friends, and the rhythm of life in a new country.

“My accent was thicker as a kid, I think,” Marco had said once, when Quynten asked about it, voice full of curiosity.

“You think?” Quynten had asked, genuinely puzzled. “Is that how accents work?”

Marco had just laughed and slung an arm over Quynten’s shoulders, tugging him close in that casual, affectionate way that always made Quynten’s heart trip up a little.

“Who knows,” Marco said. “Let’s just pretend it does.”

Quynten had rolled his eyes, lips twitching. “Whatever you say.”

But even then… he’d liked the way Marco said it.

.......

An hour passes before Marco finally returns—not that Quynten was keeping track.

He wasn’t.

But he noticed the light outside fading. The soft indigo of early evening had bled into something deeper, the shadows stretching longer across the library floor. And with that darkness came the creeping thought of him—his father—waiting at home with barely veiled fury, the kind that always simmered when Quynten came home later than expected.

He could’ve left. Should’ve, maybe. Shot Marco a quick text, packed up, headed out.

But he didn’t.

Something in him didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to miss Marco’s return. So he stayed.

Sat there. Waited.

To pass the time, he reached for the nearest book on the adjacent shelf—something from the YA section. Not his usual pick. He preferred stories with more substance, as he often told himself. But to his surprise, this one had pulled him in. Just a few chapters, and he was already turning pages faster than expected, the prose simple but sincere, the characters raw in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Then he noticed it—the sky outside, now almost black.

And Marco, finally reappearing.

Quynten’s breath caught.

From where he sat, Marco looked… furious. His nose was wrinkled in contempt, his jaw clenched so tightly it might snap, and his eyes—usually soft and warm—were sharp with something darker. Rage. Disgust. Whatever had just happened, it had hollowed him out and set something burning behind his expression.

Quynten blinked. He had never seen Marco like that.

His mind raced.

Who had he been talking to for so long?

It couldn’t have been Abby. No—Marco was never like that with her. Even when they fought, even when she was clearly in the wrong, he’d be the first to apologize. The first to wrap her in a hug and whisper that everything would be okay.

But whoever had just been on the other end of that call?

They’d lit a fire in him.

And Quynten suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted to know who.

From where he sits, Quynten watches Marco with quiet intensity. He thinks—no, he knows—he just saw Marco pinch the bridge of his nose with his free hand before letting it fall into a tight fist at his side. A breath later, Marco ends the call.

But instead of heading back, he leans against the wall, shoulders slumping slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head back. Eyes closed. Breathing steady. Like he’s trying to collect himself—like he needs to.

And Quynten... wants to go to him.

Wants to ask who was on the other end of that call, what made his eyes blaze like that. But he doesn’t. He stays seated, hands curled loosely in his lap.

Marco’s always given him space. Never pried where he wasn’t welcome. Didn’t he deserve the same respect?

Still, it feels wrong—unfair, even—to see Marco like this. Marco, who was usually the calm in everyone else’s chaos. The one who had his shit together. The one who always made others feel better, never worse.

But before Quynten can spiral further, Marco pushes himself off the wall and heads back, mask already in place.

“Sorry about that,” he says, lips tugging upward, smoothing out the tension from before. “Wanna get something to eat? My treat!”

Quynten stares.

What?

Just a second ago, Marco had looked like he could snap someone in half. Now, he’s smiling—soft eyes, dimples and all—as if none of that just happened.

What the fuck?

How could someone flip emotions like that? Just on—then off—and back on again? Was it a performance? A trick?

Was he the one being played?

“Hellooo?” Marco waves a hand in front of his face, snapping Quynten out of his spiral. “Earth to Quynten Emmett Summit.”

Quynten blinks, snorting before managing a half-laugh. He rises from his seat, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and heads to the YA section, standing on his toes to return the book to its shelf. “That’s not my middle name.”

Marco follows like a shadow, a smirk playing on one side of his mouth. “Then what is it? You’ve never told me.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Aren’t we friends?”

Quynten turns fully to face him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”

Marco groans dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

Quynten grins. “Never claimed to be.”

Marco slings an arm around his shoulders as they head toward the exit. “So,” he says, casual, “what’re we thinking for dinner?”

Quynten’s stomach clenches. He hesitates for only a beat before brushing it off.

“Not hungry,” he lies easily. “I had a big lunch.”

Marco raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Oh yeah? What’d you have?”

“Pasta,” Quynten replies, hand over his heart like he’s pledging allegiance. “From the cafeteria. Right before I met with Simmons. Want an X-ray to prove it?”

Marco snorts. “Happily.”

Quynten elbows him in the ribs, earning a laugh.

Of course it’s a lie.

But lying is easier than letting Marco see the truth.

If he can switch things on and off like that, Quynten thinks as he climbs into the passenger seat of Marco’s sleek black Mercedes-Benz—shiny and spotless like it belongs in a luxury car ad—then so can I.

And just like that, they drive off.

Two boys hiding pieces of themselves, pretending it’s all fine.