When I looked up again, there was a faint, satisfied amusement in Oliver's eyes that I hadn't noticed arrive.
He reached out and mussed my hair.
"Usually the more I wipe, the harder you cry."
"Finally come to your senses?"
"It's just playing along… men flirt with women, that's how it works. You'd better get used to it fast. You fall apart this easily, what makes you think you're fit to stand next to me?"
Every word was like a soft thorn pressing into my chest.
I lifted my face to meet those eyes—gentle, lingering, deceptively warm.
Searching desperately for the smallest trace of guilt.
There was nothing. Only ease and indifference.
I opened my mouth, but my throat was so tight it ached.
What he called flirting, what he called playing along—that was real feeling wearing a convenient mask.
And I was the one who'd wanted nothing more than to stand beside him.
In the end, the only person trapped was me.
Oliver's brow lifted, a flicker of triumph crossing his gaze, and he aimed the camera straight at my face.
"What are you staring at me for?"
"Look at the lens. Apologize. Mean it."
"I'll put in a word with Instructor Henson for you—get her to go a little easier next time."