003

~KAI~

The Jeep smells like him. Like cedar, dried sweat, and the warm leather seats from last night.

I woke up with my neck hurting, feeling gross. The sun was really bright. It was 6:47 in the morning. We were parked outside my house.

Jax doesn't speak. He doesn't look over. Just hands on the wheel, bruise under his eye gone dark purple.

I sit up slow. Everything hurts in a dull, used way. Thighs. Lips. The spot on my neck where his teeth sank in like he was marking property.

I reach for the door. His voice cuts the quiet, low and rough.

"You gonna run every time?"

My fingers freeze on the handle.

"I didn't run," I mutter. "I left."

"Same fucking thing."

He turns then. His eyes were tired but steady. Like he's been staring at me the whole drive and I just didn't notice.

I swallow. My throat raw. "Thanks for the ride."

He said nothing. Giving me just that look. I shove the door open. The cold rushes in. Legs shaky when I step out. I catch the frame before I fall.

His hand snaps out. Grabs my wrist. Not tight. Just enough to stop me.

"Kai."

I look back.

He lets go slow. Like it physically hurts him to do it.

"See you at school." He said not asking, but Telling.

I slam the door. Walk up the driveway fast. I don't look back. I hear the engine idle a second longer before it rolls away.

Inside, the house is empty. Mom at work. Dad sleeping off night shift. I lock my bedroom door and strip.

The shower is super hot. It hits skin like needles. I stand under it and let it burn.

My hands just do their thing. Soap. Scrub. My neck first—where the mark throbs like a heartbeat. I press fingers to it. Hard. I feel the bruise bloom under pressure.

Flash: 'his mouth there, sucking slow, intentional, while I arched and hated how good it felt.'

Fuck.

I scrub harder. Chest. Stomach. Thighs. Between them. Everywhere he touched. Everywhere I let him.

My dick cramps at the memory. Half-hard just thinking about his thigh pressing in, his groan when I bit his lip. I hate it. Hate the heat pooling low. Hate that my body remembers better than my brain wants to.

I slam my palm against the tile. Once. Twice. The water runs pink from where I split my knuckle.

'Stop being weak.'

I wrap a towel around my waist. The mirror is foggy. I wipe a line and look. My lips are puffy. My eyes look shiny.

My neck looks wrecked—purple thumbprint, bite mark like a signature. I touch it again, lighter this time. I feel the echo of his teeth.

The way I gasped his name without meaning to.

I look like someone who got fucked and liked it. I look like someone who's going to do it again.

My phone buzzes on the sink. Milo.

Milo: 'You okay?'

Milo: 'Just checking.'

Milo: 'I'm here if you need me.'

I stare. My thumb hovers. Why can't I just text back? Why does safe feel like a cage right now? I open a blank note instead.

'Captain Carter's highlight-reel goal came at the cost of two penalties and a near-fight. Talent doesn't excuse recklessness. The Ice Hawks keep winning despite their star forward, not because of him.'

I type faster. Quicker. I call him arrogant. Selfish. Say he plays like the puck belongs to him personally. Say he looks at the stands like every eye is his birthright.

Every word feels like a punch I am throwing at myself.

I hit publish. 7:32 a.m.

Nausea rolls in. And something else—quick, alive, almost like relief.

———

School is hell. The hallway is too loud. Lockers slamming. I keep my head down, hoodie up. Avoid the rink wing. Avoid Milo's locker. Avoid everywhere Jax might be.

At lunch. I hide in the newsroom with the door locked and my laptop open. I refreshed the article page, comments are rolling in.

"Kai's just jealous lol"

"Bro hates him so much it's sus"

"Someone's got a crush 👀"

I shut the tab, walk to my desk, and put my head down. The door rattles. I know who it is before he speaks.

"Kai."

Jax.

I don't move. He jiggles the knob. It's locked.

"I know you're in there." Quiet. "I read it," he says through the wood. "Good one. You spelled 'reckless' right this time."

I want to laugh. Or throw up. He keeps going. His voice is low, like we're sharing secrets.

"You're mad at me."

No shit.

"You're mad at yourself more."

Fuck him for seeing it.

There was silence. Then softer: "I didn't take you inside last night. I didn't want you waking up somewhere you didn't choose."

My chest caves.

"I wanted you to remember choosing to leave."

I press my forehead harder to the desk. Breathe through my mouth. Feel the mark on my neck pulse in time with my heart.

He waits.

I stand. Unlock. Open the door a crack. He's there. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Bruise ugly in daylight.

We stare.

"You shouldn't be here," I say.

"Neither should you." He steps forward.

The door swings wider. There was no touching, just close and the smell of soap and cold air.

"You ghosting me?"

"I'm trying."

"Won't work."

"I know."

His mouth quirks. Small. Sad almost. He reaches out. Slow. Tucks my hoodie string behind my shoulder. His fingers brush my collarbone....right over the mark.

I shiver. Hard.

He notices. He likes it.

"Good," he murmurs.

Then he turns and walks away. I watch him disappear down the hall. I shut the door, lock it, and slide to the floor.

My Back against the wall. Head in hands.

I feel his fingers still on my skin. I feel the mark throbbing. I feel my dick twitch again just thinking about it.

I'm so fucked.