Don't say her name

I didn't sleep.

Not a single minute. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Gregory Kingston's face twisted with rage in that hallway. I heard his voice slurring my name. I felt my phone buzz with another message that never came but always felt one second away.

By the time Thursday afternoon arrived, I was running on caffeine and adrenaline and the desperate hope that Jace wouldn't notice the dark circles under my eyes.

The walk to The Forge felt different now. Every parked car was a potential threat. Every man in a dark coat was Gregory. The winter wind cut through my thin jacket, and I kept my phone clutched in my pocket, fingers wrapped around it like a weapon.

The doorman buzzed me in without a word. He was starting to recognize me. I hated that. The elevator ride to the sixth floor took forever. I caught my reflection in the polished metal doors—pale skin, tired eyes, a girl who looked like she was barely holding it together.

I straightened my spine and rolled my shoulders back. By the time I knocked on apartment 612, I had rebuilt every wall I'd let crack on Tuesday.

Jace opened the door.

He looked worse than I did. The bandage on his cheek was fresh, but the bruise underneath had darkened to a deep purple. His eyes were bloodshot. He was wearing a gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, and I could see fresh tape wrapped around his right wrist. Hockey injury or something else, I couldn't tell.

"You're early," he said.

"You're observant."

"Didn't think you'd show."

"Didn't think I had a choice."

He stepped aside to let me in. His apartment was exactly the same—cold and clean and empty—but something felt different. The air was heavier. Charged. Like he'd been pacing before I arrived, working himself into something.

"Did you read the chapters?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

"I'm not here to waste my time, Kingston."

He closed the door behind me. The click of the lock was too loud in the silence. "Neither am I."

I walked to his bedroom without waiting for an invitation. The desk was still by the window. The photograph of his mother was still face-down on the nightstand. But there was something new—a hockey bag dumped in the corner, spilling tape and jerseys and a half-empty water bottle. The first sign of actual human life I'd ever seen in this apartment.

I sat down and pulled out my notes. "Today we're working on your outline. I need to see the structure of your argument before you start writing the body."

"Fine."

He sat beside me. Too close, the same way he did in the tutoring center. His knee was inches from mine. I could smell his soap and the faint metallic tang of ice that seemed permanently embedded in his skin.

"Why did you leave the bar so fast?"

The question came out of nowhere. My hand froze on my notebook.

"What?"

"Tuesday night. The Den. You were there with Marcus, and then you just bolted. He said you looked scared."

"I wasn't scared."

"Then why did you run?"

I turned to face him. Bad idea. His eyes were too blue. Too focused. He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he'd been turning over in his head for two days.

"I didn't run," I said. "I had a shift."

"At midnight?"

"At the rink. Cleaning crew."

"You clean the rink at midnight?"

"I clean the rink whenever they tell me to clean it. Some of us don't have NHL draft picks to fall back on."

The insult landed. I saw it flicker across his face—a flash of something wounded—but he didn't look away. "Marcus was worried about you. He texted me."

"Marcus texted you about me?"

"He wanted to know if you'd made it home okay. Said you were shaking when you left."

My chest tightened. Marcus. Sweet, oblivious Marcus who had no idea he was stepping into the middle of something dangerous. I made a mental note to thank him and also to tell him to stay out of my business.

"I was cold," I said. "It was snowing. I was underdressed. That's all."

"You're lying."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Jace leaned closer. His knee bumped mine, and neither of us moved away. "Something happened that night. Something that scared you. And I want to know what it was."

"Why do you care?"

The question hung between us like a grenade.

Jace's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists on his thighs. He stared at me for a long, loaded moment, and then he said, "I don't know."

That should have been the end of it. He should have dropped it. I should have let him.

But I was tired and scared and so sick of carrying everything alone. And Jace Kingston, with his bruised face and his busted knuckles and his photograph hidden in a drawer, was the last person on earth who should have been asking me if I was okay.

"Let's focus on the outline," I said. "Thesis first. What's your central argument?"

"Sophie."

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Too bad. We're having it."

I slammed my notebook shut. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to slam the door in my face one night and then demand I spill my secrets the next. That's not how this works."

"Then tell me how it works."

"You show up. You do the work. You pass English. I get my five hundred dollars. That's it."

"That's not it."

"It has to be."

He stood up. Paced to the window and back. His shoulders were tense, his breathing uneven. When he turned to face me, there was something desperate in his expression. Something that looked a lot like fear.

"Something happened," he said. "I don't know what, but something happened between you leaving my apartment and you showing up at that bar. You were different. Harder. Scared in a way you weren't before."

"You don't know me well enough to know when I'm scared."

"I know scared, Sophie. I've been scared my whole life."

The words hit me like a body check. I opened my mouth to fire back, but nothing came out. Because he wasn't wrong. He did know scared. I'd seen it in his eyes when his father was in the hallway. I'd seen it in the way he flinched when I reached for his face.

"I can handle myself," I said quietly.

"I never said you couldn't."

"Then stop asking."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

He crossed the room in three strides. Planted his hands on the desk on either side of me, caging me in without touching me. His face was inches from mine. Close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Close enough that his breath warmed my cheek.

"Because I keep thinking about it," he said. "You walking home alone. You looking over your shoulder. You lying to Marcus about why you ran." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I keep thinking about you, Sophie. And I hate it."

My heart was a drumroll. My lungs had stopped working. Jace Kingston was everywhere—his hands on the desk, his body blocking my exit, his eyes burning into mine.

"I don't need you to think about me," I said.

"Too late."

"I'm not one of your puck bunnies."

"I know."

"I'm not going to fall into your bed just because you're looking at me like that."

"I know."

"Then what do you want?"

The question cracked something open between us. Jace's breath hitched. His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second—just half a second—and then he pushed off the desk and stepped back. Ran his hands through his hair. Turned away from me like he couldn't stand to look.

"I don't know what I want," he said. "That's the problem. I've always known. Hockey. Girls. Draft. Easy. And then you showed up with your glare and your protein bar and your 'I don't need anyone' attitude, and now I don't know anything."

I stood up. My legs were shaking, but my voice was steady. "That sounds like a you problem."

"It is a me problem."

"Then solve it."

He turned back around. His expression was raw. Unguarded. The King was gone, and all that was left was a boy who didn't know how to want something without destroying it.

"I can't," he said. "Every time I try to solve it, I make it worse."

"That's because you push everyone away."

"Because I'm trying to protect them."

"From what?"

He didn't answer. But his eyes flicked to his phone on the nightstand, and I knew. I knew he was thinking about his father. About the violence. About the monster he was so terrified of becoming.

"From me," he said finally. "I'm trying to protect them from me."

The words landed in my chest and shattered.

I should have told him. Right then, right there—I should have pulled out my phone and shown him the texts. Stay away from my son. You broke little whore. Smart girl. Now keep walking. He deserved to know. He needed to know that the person he was trying to protect me from wasn't himself at all.

But I didn't tell him.

Because if I told him, he'd do something. He'd confront his father. He'd get himself hurt, or arrested, or worse. And I couldn't be responsible for that. I couldn't be the reason his life fell apart.

"Your father," I said carefully. "You said he's the worst thing you've ever been afraid of becoming."

Jace's expression shuttered. "Don't."

"I'm not asking about him. I'm asking about you." I stepped closer. "You're so afraid of being a monster that you won't let anyone get close. But monsters don't worry about being monsters, Jace. The fact that you're terrified means you're already better than him."

"You don't know that."

"I know you didn't hit him back."

"That's not enough."

"It's a start."

He stared at me. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Somewhere outside, a car horn blared. The wind rattled the window.

Then Jace's phone buzzed.

He glanced at it. His face went pale. Every muscle in his body locked up, and when he looked back at me, the fear in his eyes was absolute.

"What?" I asked. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Jace—"

"I said it's nothing."

But his hand was shaking as he shoved the phone into his pocket. And when he turned away, I caught the name on the screen before it disappeared.

Gregory Kingston.

I grabbed my bag. "We're done for today."

"Sophie—"

"Read chapter ten. Outline due next session."

I was at the bedroom door when his hand caught my wrist. Lightly. Barely a touch. But it stopped me cold.

"Wait," he said.

I turned. He was right there. Too close. His hand was warm and rough around my wrist, and his eyes were desperate in a way that made my chest ache.

"Whatever my father said to you—"

"He didn't say anything."

"I saw your face when I said his name. Tuesday night. In the hallway." His grip tightened just slightly. "Did he do something? Did he threaten you?"

My heart stopped.

"No," I lied. "He didn't."

"You're lying again."

"I'm not."

Jace searched my face. I don't know what he found there, but he let go of my wrist. Stepped back. His expression closed off like a door slamming shut.

"If he ever contacts you," he said, "tell me. Immediately."

"Why would he contact me?"

"Just promise me."

"I'm not promising anything."

"Sophie."

The way he said my name made my knees weak. It was a plea. A prayer. A warning.

"Fine," I said. "I promise."

Another lie. They were piling up now, stacking one on top of the other like bricks in the wall I was rebuilding.

I walked out of his apartment. Down the hallway. Into the elevator.

And when the doors closed, I pulled out my phone.

One new message. Unknown number.

Unknown: You didn't tell him. Smart girl. Maybe you'll survive this after all.

Then a second message arrived before I could breathe.

Unknown: But if you kiss him again—if you even touch him—I'll make sure you regret it.

The elevator doors opened. I stumbled into the lobby, gasping, my phone clutched in my shaking hands.

He was watching. Right now. He knew I hadn't told Jace. He knew about the almost-kiss. He knew everything.

I spun around, scanning the lobby, the street outside, the dark corners. Nothing. No one.

But somewhere in the shadows, Gregory Kingston was smiling.