Chemistry was Declan's favorite class for reasons that had nothing to do with chemistry.

It was third period, right after lunch, which meant he was awake but not exhausted. Mrs. Donald taught it, and she was the kind of teacher who didn't waste time on performative discipline—she just expected you to show up and try. The lab tables were arranged in pairs, and Declan sat with Micky Weston, who talked through most of the lecture but always managed to get his work done anyway.

It was easy. Comfortable.

Declan liked easy.

"—so then I told him, like, dude, if you're gonna chirp me about my backcheck, at least make sure yours isn't complete shit—"

"Micky," Declan said mildly, not looking up from his notes.

"What?"

"She's literally talking."

"She's writing on the board. That's different."

Declan glanced up. Mrs. Donald was writing on the board—something about ionic compounds and electron transfer—but she was also definitely still talking. Micky just had selective hearing.

"You're gonna fail," Declan said.

"I'm not gonna fail. You're gonna let me copy your notes."

"I'm not gonna let you copy my notes."

"You're gonna let me copy your notes," Micky said again, grinning, "because you're a good person and you love me."

Declan didn't dignify that with a response. He went back to writing, his pen moving in clean, even lines across the page. Mrs. Donald's voice was loud in the background, and the classroom had that particular kind of quiet focus that Declan found calming—people working, the scratch of pens, the occasional shuffle of paper.

He liked this. The structure. The predictability.

Then the door opened.

Declan didn't look up immediately. Someone late, probably. It happened.

But then Mrs. Donald paused mid-sentence, and Declan's eyes flicked toward the front of the room.

Mateusz Kowalczyk stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like he'd just walked in from somewhere much more interesting than third-period Chemistry.

"Mr. Kowalczyk," Mrs. Donald said, and her tone was warm but firm. "Nice of you to join us."

"Sorry," Mateusz said. His voice was lower than Declan remembered from practice, and the accent was there—audible, unavoidable. "I—uh—got lost. The building is... big."

A few people laughed. Not meanly, exactly. Just—laughing.

Mrs. Donald smiled. "It is big. You'll get used to it. There's a seat in the back, next to Mr. Fletcher."

Mateusz nodded and started walking.

Declan watched him move through the rows. He walked like he was on the ice—confident, a little too fast, taking up space without apologizing for it. His hair was still damp, probably from a shower after morning practice, and he was wearing a hoodie that looked expensive and well-worn at the same time.

He dropped into the seat two rows behind Declan, diagonal to the left.

Close enough that Declan could feel it.

He turned back to his notes.

Mrs. Donald picked up where she'd left off, explaining how ionic bonds formed through the transfer of electrons. Declan wrote it down automatically, his hand moving without much input from his brain. He'd already read this chapter. He knew this.

Beside him, Micky was doodling something that looked like a very detailed hockey stick.

"Are you listening?" Declan murmured.

"Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"Liar."

Declan didn't argue. Micky wasn't wrong.

He was listening—sort of. But he was also aware, in a way that felt too specific to be accidental, of the person sitting two rows back.

He didn't turn around. He didn't need to.

He could hear Mateusz shifting in his seat. The quiet rustle of a notebook being opened. The click of a pen.

Mrs. Donald moved on to covalent bonds, and Declan forced himself to focus.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Donald stopped writing and turned to face the class.

"All right," she said. "Let's do a quick check for understanding. I'm going to ask a few questions, and I want you to discuss them with your partner for two minutes. Then we'll share out."

Declan glanced at Micky, who immediately said, "You're doing the talking."

"Obviously."

Mrs. Donald smiled. "First question: What's the key difference between ionic and covalent bonds? Go."

The room filled with the low hum of conversation. Declan leaned toward Micky, keeping his voice quiet.

"Ionic bonds transfer electrons. Covalent bonds share them."

"Cool. Got it."

"Do you actually got it, or are you just saying that?"

"I actually got it. I'm not an idiot, Dawson."

Declan raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, I'm sometimes an idiot. But not about this."

Behind them, Declan heard Mrs. Donald's voice, a little louder now.

"Mr. Kowalczyk? Do you have a partner?"

A pause.

Then: "No. Uh—Fletcher is absent."

"All right. Why don't you work with Mr. Petrov and Mr. Linwood? They're just in front of you."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Okay."

Declan didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He could hear the scrape of a chair being pulled closer, the murmur of voices as Mateusz joined the other group.

He told himself it didn't matter.

It didn't.

Mrs. Donald let them talk for another minute, then clapped her hands once.

"All right, let's hear it. Someone give me the difference between ionic and covalent bonds."

Hands went up. Declan's didn't—he never raised his hand unless he had to—but Micky's did, just to be obnoxious.

Mrs. Donald pointed at him. "Mr. Weston."

"Ionic bonds transfer electrons. Covalent bonds share them."

"Good. Can you give me an example of each?"

Micky opened his mouth, then closed it.

Mrs. Donald waited.

"Uh..."

"Mr. Dawson?" she said, without missing a beat.

Declan didn't hesitate. "Sodium chloride for ionic. Water for covalent."

"Perfect. Thank you." She turned back to the board. "Now, let's talk about why that matters for molecular structure—"

"Wait," someone said.

Declan's pen stilled.

The voice came from behind him. Not Mateusz. Someone else.

Sebastian Linwood.

"Sorry, Mrs. Donald, but—uh—Kowalczyk's asking what 'covalent' means."

The room went quiet.

Not the good kind of quiet. The kind that felt like everyone had just taken a breath at the same time and forgotten to let it out.

Declan's hand tightened around his pen.

"It's just—" Sebastian continued, and his tone was light, almost apologetic, but not quite. "He's asking how to spell it. I think he didn't catch it when you said it."

A few people laughed. Quiet, but there.

Mrs. Donald's expression didn't change. "That's fine. I'll write it on the board."

She did. Neat, clear letters: COVALENT.

"There you go, Mr. Kowalczyk. Does that help?"

"Yes." Mateusz's voice was flat. "Thank you."

Mrs. Donald nodded and kept talking.

Declan didn't move.

He could feel it, though—the tension in the air, the way the room had shifted just slightly. The way people were still smiling, just a little, like something funny had happened.

It wasn't funny.

But it also wasn't—

It wasn't that bad.

Mateusz had asked a question. Sebastian had answered. Mrs. Donald had clarified. That was it.

That was all.

Declan turned the page in his notebook and kept writing.

The rest of class passed without incident.

Mrs. Donald assigned a problem set for homework, and everyone started packing up a few minutes before the bell. Declan slid his notebook into his bag, methodical, unhurried.

Beside him, Micky was shoving papers in at random.

"You're a disaster," Declan said.

"You're a control freak."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

Micky grinned. "True."

The bell rang.

Declan stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder. He didn't look back. He didn't need to.

But as he walked toward the door, he was aware—again, too specifically—of Mateusz a few steps behind him.

He could hear him talking to someone. Yolanda Morales, maybe. Her voice was distinct, sharp and warm at the same time.

"—it's fine," Mateusz was saying. "I just didn't hear her. It's not a big deal."

"It's not," Yolanda agreed. "But Linwood's a dick."

"Yeah, well. What else is new?"

They laughed, and the sound was easy, unbothered.

Declan stepped into the hallway and let the crowd swallow him.

Later, walking to his next class, Declan replayed the moment in his head.

Sebastian's voice. The laughter. Mrs. Donald writing the word on the board.

Mateusz's flat thank you.

It hadn't been that bad.

Sebastian hadn't been trying to be cruel. He'd just been—clarifying. Helping, even.

And Mateusz had handled it. He'd laughed about it after. He was fine.

Declan didn't need to do anything.

He shouldn't do anything. Getting involved would've just made it worse—drawn more attention, made it into a thing when it wasn't a thing.

Staying quiet had been the right call.

Obviously.

He adjusted the strap of his bag and kept walking.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still hear it: the way the room had gone quiet. The way people had laughed.

Declan told himself it didn't matter.

He told himself he'd made the right choice.

He almost believed it.