Chapter 5 – Cracks in the Armor

Chapter 5 – Cracks in the Armor

(Eli POV)

I wasn’t expecting him to actually show up.

Dante Cruz didn’t strike me as the type to honor appointments unless they came with a whistle, a playbook, or the promise of something measurable yards gained, pounds lifted, seconds shaved off a sprint. Library study sessions ranked somewhere between “optional dental cleaning” and “watching paint dry” on his list of preferred activities. So when I glanced up from my sprawl of color-coded notes and saw him leaning against the far wall near the philosophy stacks, I nearly sent the entire stack fluttering to the carpet.

He looked absurdly out of place in the best possible way. Broad shoulders stretching the faded black hoodie to its limits, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the corded muscles of his forearms. Dark hair curling at the ends from the humidity outside, still slightly damp like he’d come straight from practice and hadn’t bothered with a full dry. His eyes scanned the rows of books the way he probably scanned a defensive line assessing, calculating, unimpressed. Then those eyes found me, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

“You’re on time,” I blurted. The words came out louder than intended; a freshman two tables over shot me a dirty look.

Dante’s brow lifted in slow, deliberate surprise. “You sound shocked.”

“Because I am.” I tried to recover with something resembling nonchalance. “Athletes usually treat clocks like suggestions. Optional. Decorative, even.”

He pushed off the wall with one shoulder, crossed the carpet in long, easy strides, and dropped into the chair across from me. The metal legs scraped against the floor loud enough that two more freshmen hissed shushes from the next aisle over. Dante didn’t even blink. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t care. Of course he didn’t.

I busied myself spreading my notes across the table like I was laying out a battle map. Highlighters in every neon shade, sticky tabs protruding like battle flags, margins crammed with annotations in three different colors of ink. “So,” I said, aiming for breezy professionalism, “today we’re tackling metaphor.”

He gave me the look he usually reserved for coaches who asked him to run gassers after a win. “Metaphor.”

“Yes. Metaphor. You know ” I gestured vaguely, searching for a safe example. My gaze snagged on him again. Bad idea. Terrible idea. “When something stands in for something else. Like… like how your hoodie is armor. You wear it like it’ll keep people out. Like if the hood’s up and the sleeves are long enough, no one can get close enough to see anything you don’t want them to see.”

The silence that followed was sudden and thick.

His jaw ticked. Just once. A tiny, almost imperceptible flex of muscle under the skin. Blink and you’d miss it. I didn’t miss it.

I felt heat rush into my cheeks so fast it hurt. “Too much?” I asked quickly, flipping through my notebook like it might contain an escape hatch. “I can uh find a different example. Trees. Rivers. The moon. Classic stuff.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms crossing over his chest, the movement slow and deliberate. His gaze stayed locked on mine steady, unreadable, unnerving. For one long, breathless beat I was convinced he was going to shut down completely. Retreat behind that cool, distant mask he wore like second skin. Walk out and never mention this hour again.

But then he spoke, voice so low I almost didn’t catch it over the hum of the overhead lights. “Not wrong.”

Two words. Barely more than a breath.

They hit me like a fist to the sternum.

I swallowed hard, forced a shaky grin. “See? Progress already. You didn’t even throw a book at me.”

The corner of his mouth lifted just the faintest curve. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count as one. Small victories. I was collecting them like loose change.

After that, we settled into something resembling a rhythm. I explained tenor and vehicle, vehicle and ground, the difference between metaphor and simile like my life depended on it. He pretended not to listen staring out the window at the darkening quad, tapping his pen in restless Morse code against the edge of the table but every time I paused, he’d mutter the correct answer a beat later, like he’d been turning the concept over in his head the whole time.

Still, every so often his focus slipped. His hands would clench into loose fists on the tabletop. His eyes would cloud, go distant, like he’d been pulled somewhere else entirely somewhere louder, brighter, more punishing than this quiet third-floor corner. Somewhere with floodlights and screaming crowds and the weight of everyone’s expectations pressing down on him like a second gravity.

I wanted to ask. God, I wanted to ask so badly my tongue ached with it. What’s wrong? What happened today? What are you carrying that makes your shoulders look like they’re holding up the sky?

But I didn’t. I wasn’t stupid enough or maybe brave enough to pry open doors that had clearly been padlocked for a reason.

So instead I tapped my pen against the table in a nervous little rhythm and said, light as I could manage, “For homework, you’re going to write three metaphors. About anything. Football, life, whatever. Surprise me.”

He groaned, long and theatrical. “Homework?”

“Yes. You’re officially my student now. Deal with it.”

His glare was half-hearted at best. His fingers drummed three sharp beats against the wood quick, deliberate, like a tell I hadn’t deciphered yet. “Fine. But if I do this, you’re coming with me Saturday night.”

“Saturday?”

“Party. My team’s throwing one off-campus. You said you wanted me to make you less…” He paused, smirk flickering back to life. “Weird.”

My stomach executed a perfect swoop, the kind you feel right before free-falling off a cliff. “Right. Yeah. Totally. Party. Love those.” My voice cracked on the last syllable like a teenager’s. Dignity had officially left the building.

Dante’s smirk widened, slow and dangerous. “Can’t wait.”

And for one stupid, suspended second as the fluorescent light caught the edge of his smile, turning it almost soft I forgot every metaphor I’d ever learned. Forgot simile, forgot personification, forgot every literary device designed to say one thing and mean another.

Because right then, looking at him across the scarred library table, there was nothing symbolic about the way my heart slammed against my ribs.

It was just the truth, plain and terrifying.