Chapter 1No Longer Your Silent Knight

Noah was silent. By a twist of fate and a decade of shared history, I was the only one who truly knew how to read his hands.

When Noah said he wanted peace and preferred to sit alone, I was the one who told the teachers, “He says he can’t handle the back of the room; he needs to be right next to me.”

When Noah wanted his bedroom painted black with the curtains drawn tight, I told his mom, “He wants a floor-to-ceiling window with sheer pink curtains. He says he’s tired of living in the dark.”

And when Noah told me—with a sharp, jagged flick of his wrists—that he hated me?

I chose to believe he was just being stubborn. I’d shove a piece of cake into his mouth and laugh. “I don’t believe you. If you don’t like me, who do you like? The new transfer girl?”

He would look at me, his gaze flickering away, and sign with lightning speed: “Of course not. She’s not my type.”

I’d breathe a sigh of relief and go back to being Noah’s shadow, his protector, his voice.

Until the day I stayed late for hall duty and found a crumpled note tucked into the back of a locker. It was addressed to Serena, the new girl.

“I only said that because I was afraid she’d sabotage the translation. Please don't be mad.”

“I like you more than anyone. Let’s try to get into the same university, okay?”

That was when I realized that leaving a boy who doesn’t speak is the easiest thing in the world.

All I had to do was close my eyes. Or simply stop listening.

The broom slipped from my hand, clattering against the linoleum. I smoothed out the paper, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure, cold dread.

Noah’s handwriting was unmistakable—clean, architectural, and deliberate. I could almost see the small, triumphant smile he wore when he wrote. But realizing these words were for Serena felt like a physical blow to the stomach.

Only an hour ago, I had cornered him in the empty classroom.

“Why is the new girl following you around like a lost puppy?” I’d asked, trying to sound casual. “It’s like she has a crush on you or something.”

Noah hadn’t looked at me. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. I turned to see Serena struggling to reach the top of the whiteboard. Without a word, Noah stood up, walked over, and took the eraser from her hand, his movements fluid and gentle as he finished the job for her.

When he sat back down, I fumbled with an X-Acto knife, pretending to be focused on my art project. “Do you like her?”

Noah’s lashes were thick and dark, the kind of fringe girls would kill for. There was a flicker of what looked like weary frustration in his clear eyes.

“I don’t like her,” he signed. “She isn't my type at all.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my grip on the knife loosening. The blade slipped, slicing clean through my index finger. I hissed in pain as blood began to well up.

Noah’s face transformed instantly. His brows knitted together in genuine worry as he grabbed my hand, his touch light and familiar as he blotted the blood. The heat of his skin, the scent of his laundry detergent—it always had a way of grounding me.

I watched him and told myself: See? Noah loves me.

And now, the note in my pocket screamed otherwise.

“I’m afraid she’ll start trouble again. I’m afraid she’ll target you.”

“Don’t listen to her. I only want to be with you.”