People rush past, but they're standing at the edge of the lockers.
Csepel shifted his backpack over one shoulder, glancing at the calendar on his phone. "We're not gonna finish this by Friday unless we meet up outside school."
Ciro didn't respond right away. He hated being cornered, even when he knows it's right.
"I guess," he said finally.
Csepel looked at him. "Cool. Your place or mine?"
Ciro stiffened. "Yours."
The answer came too fast.
Csepel blinked. "You sure? I mean, you live closer—"
"I said yours."
It wasn't rude, exactly. But it had that edge again. The one Csepel had started to notice only appeared when things got personal.
Csepel tried to joke his way through it. "Wow. Didn't know you liked me that much."
Ciro didn't smile. "Text me your address."
A pause stretched between them. The hallway noise faded under it.
Csepel could've pushed Why not your place? What are you hiding?
But something in Ciro's eyes told him not to.
Instead, he just nodded.
"Fine," he said. "But I'm making snacks. If you're showing up to my house, you're not allowed to sit in brooding silence without at least eating something."
Ciro almost smirked.
Almost.
The air outside smelled like wet pavement and cold metal. School was over, but Ciro didn't slow down.
His hands were buried in his sleeves, hood pulled up.
Csepel's address buzzed in his phone so he headed that way.
Ciro walked with his hands deep in his hoodie pockets, hood up, eyes down.
The houses on Csepel's street looked like something out of a catalog—fresh paint, porch lights glowing, yards with trimmed hedge,s and bikes left on the lawn like nobody worried about them getting stolen.
It made his skin itch.
He wasn't used to this kind of quiet. Not the safe kind. Not the kind where nothing exploded when the door opened.
Every step closer, his heart beat faster. Not in fear—more like anticipation mixed with something sour. He wasn't scared of people. He was scared of being seen.
He'd lied about being fine. About it not mattering where they met. But he couldn't risk his house. Not even for a project. Not even for Csepel.
He adjusted the sleeve over his tattoo, tugging it down. The wind bit through the fabric, but it felt better than the heat rising in his throat.
Csepel's house was just ahead lights on, curtains open.
Warmth spilled onto the front steps.
Ciro took a breath.
Then knocked.