Mate on thin ice

WAKING UP TO RAGE ~MABLE POV~ I woke up choking on the smell of rain and the sound of a flatlining heart. One second, I am flat on my back in the street, headlights blinding me, the taste of blood filling my throat. Next, I am sitting straight up in my dorm bed at Blackridge U, the sheets tangled around my feet like they’re trying to keep me from escaping. Third time. Third fucking time. My heart is trying to punch a hole through my sternum. I press both hands to my chest, gasping, but the pain isn't just in my ribs. It’s lower. A sharp, stabbing cramp in my abdomen that feels like a ghost trying to claw its way back to life. I doubled over, squeezing my stomach. The phantom pain. I shouldn’t feel this. In this life—this "reset"—I am supposed to be eighteen. I am supposed to be "whole." But my body remembers what my mind is trying to process. It remembers the second heartbeat that stopped right along with mine when that car hit me in Life Two. I reached for my backpa

THE LIE THAT BINDS ~MABLE POV~ The door swings open, and there he is. No shirt. Just low-slung gray sweats hanging off his hips like they’re barely trying. Black hair still wet from a shower, falling into those stupid, piercing ice-blue eyes. He’s bigger up close—taller, broader, the kind of build that makes you feel small even when you’re not. But as my eyes scan the hard lines of his abs, that phantom ache in my lower stomach flares up again. It’s a sharp, stabbing heat, a physical memory of the heartbeat I lost in Life Two. My hand instinctively twitches toward my stomach before I force it to my side. I swallow. Hard. “Hi,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’m Mable. The… escort? Except I’m not. I mean, I’m not here for that. Obviously.” He doesn’t move. He just leans one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed over a chest that looks like it was carved from granite. He’s watching me with an intensity that feels like he’s trying to read my DNA. “Obvio

FIRST FAKE SPARK ~MABLE POV~ The campus cafe is packed—Friday afternoon crowd, hockey guys laughing too loud, the smell of burnt espresso and wet jackets hanging thick in the air. I get there early, hoodie up, nursing a black coffee that’s gone cold. My stomach is in knots, but it’s not just nerves. It’s the phantom ache. It’s been a slow, pulsing burn ever since I woke up in this life. Every time I think about the ceremony, or Aiden, or the ultrasound glitch tucked in my bag, it stabs at me. A reminder that I’m playing for more than just my own pride. Darin walks in at exactly 7:02. He doesn't just enter a room; he commands it. Hood up, dark jeans, a black hoodie that makes his shoulders look like they could hold up the ceiling. Heads turn. Phones lift. He doesn’t notice—or he’s lived through enough lives to stop caring. His eyes find me in the corner booth instantly, like he’s got a radar tuned to my specific frequency. He slides in across from me without asking. “

TESTING BOUNDARIES~MABLE POV~I told myself I came for the noise.The rink was loud on practice days, blades scraping ice, pucks cracking against boards, coaches barking from the bench in that specific tone that sat somewhere between disappointed and done. I had a Media Ethics paper due Thursday and the library felt too quiet, too still, too full of my own thoughts. The rink was better. The rink had enough chaos that my brain could pretend it was focused.That was the story I was telling myself, anyway.I was tucked into the upper stands with my hood pulled up and my laptop open, highlighter in hand, three pages deep into a case study I had not memorized a single word of. Because Darin was on the ice.I watched him from behind the safety of my screen.He skated like he was angry at the ground underneath him, crossovers fast and sharp, each turn accurate and aggressive in a way that looked almost effortless until you watched his legs and realized how much force he was actually puttin

JEALOUS WHISPERS~LOLA POV~I had a system.It was not complicated. It did not need to be. The right words dropped into the right group chats at the right time moved faster than any headline, faster than any official statement, faster than the truth. The truth was slow and boring and required proof. A rumor just needed to sound like something people already suspected.I was good at this. I had always been good at this.I was cross-legged on my bed in the sorority house with my phone in my lap, the room dim except for my ring light still glowing from earlier, when I typed it out. Casual. Light. The kind of thing that sounded like concern if you blinked at it.'Saw Mable with Darin Salvator again last night. Genuinely hope she's okay. Girl went from scholarship crisis to pro-athlete sugar daddy real fast. Prayers.' I added a small emoji at the end, the one with the folded hands, and sent it to four group chats simultaneously. Then I set my phone face-down and counted to thirty.By