Sharp edges and hidden flames

By the time the final bell rang, I felt like I’d been scraped raw. The hours had passed in a haze of whispers and sideways glances, each one sharp enough to nick at me like tiny blades. No one said anything to my face, but the air around me seemed to buzz with it—quiet laughter, the faint smell of cheap perfume mixed with contempt, the way lockers would slam a little too loudly when I walked by.

I kept my head down. That was the only way to survive. Eyes on the floor, backpack slung high, feet quick and silent.

I just wanted to make it to my locker, grab my homework, and disappear before anyone decided I was worth another round of torment.

But when I reached it and spun the dial, something immediately felt off.

A faint glint of light caught my eye, and I froze.

At first I thought maybe it was confetti—some cruel joke waiting to shower me. But when I reached in to grab my textbook, a sharp, hot pain seared up my palm.

I gasped and yanked my hand back.

Blood was already welling up in bright red drops. I stared in disbelief.

The bottom of my locker was lined with broken glass. Jagged, cruel pieces of what looked like a shattered bottle were spread carefully across the shelves like a trap waiting to be sprung.

A sharp laugh rang out behind me. “Oops,” someone murmured. Then footsteps, quick and light, fading down the hall.

I swallowed hard, forcing my breath to even out even though my heart was hammering. My hand throbbed, stinging. I could already feel the sticky warmth of blood dripping between my fingers.

Don’t cry, I told myself. Don’t you dare cry where they can see you.

I slammed the locker shut with my good hand and turned, clutching the bleeding one to my chest. My vision blurred as I walked, the faces around me indistinct shapes.

The nurse’s office was empty when I pushed the door open, which was good. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.

I sat down heavily in the chair by the counter, my whole body tight with tension.

I didn’t even hear the door open behind me.

But I felt him.

The air shifted. Warmth seemed to bloom at my back, and when I looked up, there he was.

Jaxon.

He filled the doorway, shoulders broad and posture sharp, his blue eyes blazing as they locked on me. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even acknowledge the nurse who was flipping through a chart at the counter.

He came straight to me.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

“Let me see,” he said, his voice low and controlled. But there was something under it—something rougher, darker, like a growl barely held back.

I hesitated, but he didn’t wait for me to decide. He reached down and gently but firmly took my hand in his. His fingers were warm and calloused, and they wrapped around mine like he had every right to touch me.

I shivered.

His thumb brushed along the edge of my palm, and the quiet sound that came from his chest then made my stomach clench. It was a growl, quiet but unmistakable, and it sent a strange shiver up my spine.

He dropped to one knee in front of me, his height still somehow intimidating even from down there, and dipped a cloth in antiseptic.

“This is going to sting,” he said, though his voice was softer now, almost coaxing.

I nodded mutely.

When he pressed the cloth to the cut, I hissed at the burn, but his fingers tightened slightly around mine as if to steady me. He worked slowly, methodically, cleaning away the blood, his movements almost too gentle for someone so big and imposing.

And yet… every time his thumb grazed the inside of my wrist, heat shot through me.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered, my voice breaking a little.

His gaze snapped up to meet mine, and the look there made it impossible to breathe.

“I hate watching you get hurt,” he said, his voice rougher now, lower.

That ache in my chest only deepened.

His hand moved higher, fingers brushing up my arm, then reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. But instead of pulling away, his thumb stayed there, tracing my cheek, lingering like he didn’t want to stop.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

That single word, "hot" and "dangerous," sank into me, and before I could even think, I felt myself leaning forward.

His lips met mine softly at first—hesitant, testing—but the second I responded, it changed. The kiss deepened, his other hand sliding to my hip, pulling me forward until my knees pressed against his chest.

His palm slid lower, gripping my thigh, then squeezing, and the small sound that escaped my throat made his breath hitch against my mouth.

He pressed closer, his body warm and solid and entirely too much, and still not enough. The kiss turned hungrier and rougher, and his free hand slid higher, fingers tangling in my hair as though he couldn’t get enough of me.

I gasped into his mouth when he gripped my hip hard enough to make me feel it, and his growl deepened in response, low and possessive.

It was dizzying, the way he kissed me—like I was something he’d been holding himself back from for too long.

For a moment, I didn’t care that we were in the nurse’s office. I didn’t care that anyone could walk in.

All I cared about was the way his lips moved against mine, the way his hands gripped me like he wanted to memorize every inch of me.

And then—footsteps.

I froze.

Jaxon stilled too, but his hands stayed where they were, his breath still hot against my skin as he slowly turned his head.

Ethan stood in the doorway.

His eyes darted between me, Jaxon, my bleeding hand, and the charged air between us.

For once, he didn’t look smug. Or angry. Just… confused. Almost uneasy.

Jaxon rose to his full height slowly, towering over both of us now, his shoulders rigid. His hand dropped from me reluctantly, but his jaw tightened, and his gaze on Ethan was like steel.

Something unspoken passed between them. Something sharp and dangerous.

Ethan’s brow furrowed, his golden-boy mask slipping further as he glanced at my hand again, at Jaxon’s dark expression. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Jaxon’s gaze softened slightly when he looked back at me, though his stormy eyes still held that wild edge, like something barely restrained.

And then he stepped back, his thumb brushing my hand one last time before he turned and walked out.

But even as he left, the heat of his presence lingered—in my flushed cheeks, in the rapid beat of my heart, in the way my skin still tingled everywhere he’d touched me.

For the first time, I wondered what it was he was holding back.

And why a part of me wanted him to stop holding back at all