Chapter 61: Darcy’s Gift

- Georgia

I find him waiting outside the dining hall after my afternoon session, leaning against the stone wall with the kind of easy, unhurried posture that seems to come naturally to him, like standing around waiting for someone is simply a pleasant way to spend an afternoon rather than an inconvenience. The late sun catches the gold in his hair, and for a second he looks like something out of a painting, all careless elegance and patience.

"There she is," he says, warm amusement coloring his voice as he pushes off the wall. "I was starting to think you’d found a way to avoid me."

"Long practice," I say, hoisting my bag higher on my shoulder. "Coach had opinions about my spins."

"Coaches always do," he says, wry and fond, falling into step beside me.

We walk together, easy as always, our footsteps falling into an unconscious rhythm against the cobblestones. Somewhere behind us, a group of underclassmen laughs too loudly at something, the sound bouncing off the old stone buildings. It’s only after we’ve walked half the length of the courtyard that I notice he’s holding something: a small box wrapped in dark paper, no bow, nothing flashy, the kind of understated wrapping that somehow manages to look more expensive than something loud and ribboned ever could.

"What’s that?" I ask, curious despite myself.

"This," he says, holding it out to me, gentle certainty in his tone, "is for you."

I stop walking. "Darcy, you don’t need to get me things."

"I know I don’t need to." His smile doesn’t waver. "I wanted to. There’s a difference," he says, soft and matter-of-fact, like he’s stating something as simple as the weather.

I take the box because refusing it outright feels rude, and rudeness has never been something I’ve been good at, even when some instinct underneath my ribs is quietly telling me to hand it back unopened. My fingers hesitate on the paper for a moment before I make myself peel it away. It comes off easily, and underneath is a small, dark velvet box.

Inside: a delicate silver chain with a small pendant hanging from it, an elegant, abstract shape I can’t quite name, wolf or bird or something in between, catching the afternoon light in a way that makes it look more like art than jewelry. I turn it slightly, watching the metal shift and gleam.

Then I see the engraving on the back. Small, careful letters: *G.S.*

"Darcy, you had this engraved?"

"It’s not that much," he says, breezy and unbothered, like the words don’t mean what they clearly mean. "I saw it and thought of you. That’s all," he adds, easy as anything.

I look up at him, and his expression is warm, open, nothing in it that should make me uneasy. And yet something does. It’s not the gift itself, exactly. It’s the engraving, my initials pressed permanently into metal before he’d even given it to me, like there was never any real question of whether I’d accept it. Like the decision had already been made somewhere else, before I was ever given the chance to make it myself. My thumb brushes over the letters once, twice, like I might be able to rub them away and reset something that already feels fixed in place.

"Thank you," I say, quiet and a little unsteady, because it’s the only thing there is to say, because he’s looking at me with an expression that expects gratitude and I don’t have a good enough reason to withhold it. "It’s beautiful."

"Put it on," he says, low and coaxing. "I want to see it on you."

I hesitate for half a second too long before I do it, fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp until he steps in, gently turning me by the shoulder to fasten it at the back of my neck himself. His fingers are warm against my skin, careful, deliberate, brushing the fine hairs at my nape in a way that makes goosebumps rise along my arms. When he steps back to look at his work, his smile widens into something that looks almost satisfied, the way you’d look at a job well done.

"There," he says, pleased, admiring. "Perfect."

It doesn’t feel perfect. It feels heavier than a small silver pendant has any right to feel, a small, cool weight resting right at the base of my throat, and I can’t articulate why it makes something in my chest tighten instead of warm. It should feel like a nice gesture. It should feel like the kind of thing you’d expect from someone who’s been kind and easy and uncomplicated for weeks now, exactly the opposite of everything confusing about Puck.

Instead it feels like something being staked into place.

"I should get back," I say, my fingers drifting self-consciously to the pendant. "Homework."

"Of course," he says, unbothered, easy. He doesn’t push, the way he never pushes, just smiles and steps back to let me pass. "I’ll see you soon, Georgia," he adds, warm and certain, like there was never any doubt.

I walk the rest of the way to my dorm with my fingers occasionally drifting up to touch the necklace, unable to quite settle on what I’m feeling about it, gratitude and unease tangled together in a knot I don’t know how to pick apart. The metal warms slowly against my skin, but the strange weight of it doesn’t lift.

Mandi’s sprawled across her bed when I get back, phone in hand, thumb scrolling lazily, the blue light of the screen washing over her face. She doesn’t look up right away, too absorbed in whatever she’s scrolling through, legs kicked up against the wall, sock-clad feet tapping idly to some rhythm only she can hear. I drop my bag by the door, the thud loud in the quiet room, and she glances over, already mid-sentence about something that happened at practice.

Then her voice just stops.

I follow her eyes down to my throat.

"Where’d you get that?" she asks, her tone flat, stripped of its usual sing-song lilt.

There’s something different in her voice, flat in a way Mandi’s voice never gets, all the usual brightness drained clean out of it. I’ve never heard her sound like this before, not once, not in all the weeks I’ve known her.

"Darcy gave it to me," I say, my hand rising instinctively to touch the pendant again. "Is it too much? I felt weird taking it but he insisted."

She doesn’t answer right away. She sits up slowly, her movements careful, deliberate, like she’s testing the weight of the air in the room before she disturbs it. Her eyes stay fixed on the pendant at my throat like it’s something she recognizes, something that means more to her than a piece of jewelry reasonably should. The color has gone out of her face, leaving her looking paler than the string lights above her bed should allow.

"Mandi?" I ask, uncertain now, my stomach tightening.

Her face does something complicated, several expressions passing through in quick succession: surprise, then something that looks almost like fear, before it smooths itself back into careful neutrality, the mask sliding into place like she’s had practice at it. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, controlled, entirely unlike her usual chaos.

"Don’t wear it around Puck," she says, low, urgent, every word deliberate.

"Why?" I press, my heart picking up speed. "What does he do?"

Mandi’s mouth opens, then closes again. She looks at the necklace like it’s something venomous, then back at my face, and whatever she was about to say, she swallows it instead.

"I can’t," she says, quieter now. "Not yet. Just trust me."

The silence afterward stretches long and heavy, filled only with the faint hum of the radiator and the sound of my own heartbeat picking up speed beneath the cold press of silver at my throat.