The person splashing paint was that same girl.

Her eyes were filled with venom as she clutched the empty paint bucket. The commotion had drawn a crowd, and a few people were now holding her back..

When I'd been trying to call Julian earlier, the girl had disappeared.

I thought she'd decided to ignore me—turned out she'd gone to grab a bucket of paint left near a sign for touch-ups.

I stayed in my seat, turned on the wipers to clear the paint off the windshield, and locked eyes with the girl.

What kind of students was Julian teaching these days?

"Lily Evans, why did you splash paint on someone's car?"

Our commotion was starting to draw attention from other students.

One of the guys holding her back I recognized—he was Julian's first graduate student.

He probably recognized me too, because when I stepped out of the car, he looked terrified.

"M—Mrs. Wright."

His voice was shaking.

"Where's Julian?"

I asked him.

"Professor Wright should be here soon—"

Before he could finish, a cool, detached voice cut through.

"Lily Evans. Come here. Now."

It was Julian, calling for the girl who'd splashed paint on my car.

I rarely saw him reprimand students so sternly, though I'd heard rumors his teaching style was quite severe.

He stood on the steps, looking down, his words to the girl leaving no room for argument.

Within moments, the girl was crying, her head bowed.

"But—but I just thought she seemed like she was harassing you… She was scary…"

Her crying grew louder, as if she'd been deeply wronged.

And then Julian pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a heavy, resigned sigh.

I looked down, fiddling with my phone.

Until a shadow fell over me.

"I'm sorry."

It was Julian.

This was the eighth day of our silent treatment—the first thing he'd said to me.

I looked up at his face—still so classically handsome, the features that always made my heart flutter, the reason people called us the perfect couple.

"Don't call the police."

His gaze fell on the 911 dial screen on my phone.

"Why not?"

I tried to keep my voice steady.

"No one's hurt. No need to trouble the police."

"Julian, your student just splashed paint on my car."

I emphasized each word.

"She didn't even apologize?"

I looked past him at his student, being led away by a few others, the little bear charm still swaying.

"I'll apologize on her behalf, okay?"

I heard his tone soften. He was yielding to me now—for his student. After all these days of silence, not a single word to comfort me.

"Julian."

I said his name. Maybe my tone was too cold—he paused.

Then sighed, rubbing his temples. He always did this around me, as if he were the one constantly indulging me.

"That student—she has bipolar disorder."

"She has… gone crazy sometimes. If you call the police and they get involved—"

"She could face disciplinary action."

"Can you just let it go this time?"

"So? What does her disciplinary action have to do with me?"

"What if I say I'm calling the police no matter what?"

A long moment passed,

Julian braced his hand against the car frame, leaning down to look at me.

"Claire."

"This car is under my name. Calling the police won't do anything."

…I'd forgotten. We had two cars—this time, I'd taken his.

But that sentence made his stance very clear.

He was protecting his student, right or wrong.

It just made me think of high school, when he'd fought off bullies to protect me.

Skipped school to take on those gang members outside.

He ended up in the hospital, but he just grinned and showed me his bandaged arm..

"I'm fine, really. Just blow on it for me, sweetheart."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What was there left to argue?

He seemed to think the matter was settled.

Reached out to ruffle my hair.

"Alright? Don't take it out on a kid."

"Have you eaten? Let me take you to get something."

I stood there for a long moment, sunlight fracturing at my feet.

A question I'd been turning over finally found its way out.

I looked at him, bewildered:

"Julian."

"But you said—"

"You'd never let me feel wronged."