Stay away

"I told you to leave."

Jace hasn't moved from the hallway. Blood drips down his cheek and onto his ripped t-shirt. His hands are still shaking, but his voice is ice now. Cold and hard. A door slamming shut.

I'm standing in his bathroom doorway with the first aid kit in my hands. My heart is pounding. My feet refuse to move.

"I heard you," I say. "But you're bleeding."

"That's not your problem."

"You're right. It's not."

I walk toward him anyway. He flinches when I get close. Actually flinches, like I'm the one who might hit him. The reaction sends something sharp through my chest. Guilt or recognition or both.

"Sit down," I say.

"Get out."

"Sit. Down."

The air between us crackles. His blue eyes are wild and furious and terrified all at once. I don't back down. I've stared down landlords and debt collectors and professors who told me I'd never make it. Jace Kingston is just another wall.

He sits.

Not because he wants to. Because he's too exhausted to keep fighting me.

I kneel in front of the couch and tear open the antiseptic wipe. He doesn't look at me. He stares at the wall, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.

"You saw that," he says flatly. "What happened with my father."

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Enough."

He laughs. It's hollow and ugly. "So now you know. Jace Kingston, big bad hockey star, can't even keep his drunk father from breaking into his apartment."

I press the wipe to his cheek. He doesn't react. No flinch. No hiss of pain. Just that dead stare at the wall.

"How often does he come here?" I ask.

"None of your business."

"You made it my business when I walked into the middle of it."

"That's on you. I told you to leave."

"And I didn't. So here we are."

He finally looks at me. There's nothing soft in his expression. No vulnerability, no cracked-open honesty. Just anger. Hot and defensive and aimed directly at me.

"What do you want, Sophie? A sob story? A tragic backstory to make you feel better about your own miserable life?" His voice drips venom. "I'm not your project. I'm not your charity case. I'm a tutoring assignment. That's it."

I press the bandage harder than necessary. He winces. Good.

"I don't want your sob story," I say. "I want to get through this semester without you failing English and costing me five hundred dollars."

"The bonus. Right." He smirks, but there's no humor in it. "So you're not here because you care. You're here because I'm a paycheck."

"That's what you wanted, isn't it? For me to be just like everyone else?"

His smirk fades. I hit something real. I can see it in the way his eyes darken.

"You don't know what I want," he says quietly.

"You're right. I don't."

I finish the bandage and sit back on my heels. The silence stretches between us like a wound that won't close.

"Your father," I say. "Is he always like that?"

Jace's expression shuts down completely. "We're done here."

"I'm just asking—"

"And I'm just telling you to leave."

He stands up. Walks to the door. Holds it open.

I gather my things slowly. The first aid kit. My backpack. My pride, which is in tatters on his very expensive floor.

"Thursday," I say. "Same time. Don't be late."

"I won't be."

"And read chapters seven through nine."

"Whatever."

I walk to the door. He doesn't move out of my way. I have to squeeze past him, my shoulder brushing his chest, and the contact sends a stupid, unwanted shiver down my spine.

I hate it. I hate him.

"Sophie."

His voice stops me in the hallway. I turn around.

"You can't fix me," he says. "Whatever you're thinking—whatever you saw tonight—you can't fix it. So don't try."

The words land like a slap.

"I'm not trying to fix you," I say. "I'm just your tutor."

"Good. Keep it that way."

He slams the door.

I stand in the hallway for a solid ten seconds. My face is hot. My hands are fists.

Jerk. Absolute jerk. I should have let him bleed.

I'm halfway to the elevator when my phone buzzes.

Marcus: Hey! Study group at The Den tonight. You in?

Marcus. The sweet defenseman who holds doors open and remembers my coffee order. The complete opposite of the boy I just left bleeding in his apartment.

I'm typing my reply when the door behind me opens.

"Forgot something?" Jace's voice is sharp.

"No."

"Then why are you still standing in my hallway?"

I spin around. He's leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The bandage on his cheek is already spotting red.

"None of your business," I say.

"Who's Marcus?"

My phone is still in my hand. The screen is still lit. He must have read the name from behind me.

"That's definitely none of your business."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

The question comes out fast. Too fast. There's something underneath it—something sharp and hungry that he's trying to hide.

I should say yes. It would be so easy. Yes, I have a boyfriend, now back off and let me do my job without the mind games.

But I hesitate. And in that hesitation, Jace sees the truth.

"He's not," Jace says.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

The arrogance is back. The smirk. The King persona sliding into place like armor. I want to slap it off his face.

"Jealous?" I ask.

The word hits him like a body check. His expression flickers—surprise, then anger, then something darker.

"Jealous?" He laughs, but it's forced. "Of some guy named Marcus? Please."

"Then stop asking about him."

"I'm not—"

"You've asked twice in five minutes."

We stare at each other. The air is thick with everything we're not saying. He's not jealous, I tell myself. He's controlling. He's used to girls falling at his feet, and I'm not falling, and it bothers him.

That's all.

"You're my tutor," he says finally. "I don't care who you date."

"Great. Then I'll see you Thursday."

I turn toward the elevator.

"He's not good enough for you."

I freeze.

Jace's voice is quieter now. Almost reluctant. Like the words escaped without permission.

"What did you say?"

He pushes off the doorframe. Takes a step toward me. Then stops, like he's caught himself doing something he shouldn't.

"Marcus," he says. "I know him. He's on the team. He's a nice guy." He pauses. "You deserve more than nice."

My heart does something stupid. Flutters. Skips. Betrays me entirely.

"You don't know what I deserve," I say.

"Maybe not. But I know what you don't deserve."

"And what's that?"

He looks at me. Really looks at me. And for one breathless moment, the armor is gone again. The King is nowhere in sight.

"Someone like me," he says.

The words hang in the air between us.

I should say something. I should laugh it off or roll my eyes or make a sharp comment about hockey players with hero complexes. But my mouth is dry and my pulse is pounding and I can't think of a single thing to say.

Jace doesn't wait for an answer. He turns around and walks back into his apartment. The door clicks shut. Soft this time. Not a slam.

I'm left alone in the hallway with my phone in my hand and my heart in my throat.

This is bad. This is the kind of bad I promised myself I'd never fall into. Boys with pain in their eyes and destruction in their blood. Boys who tell me I deserve better while looking at me like I'm the only good thing they've ever seen.

My mother fell for a boy like that.

She spent her whole life waiting for him to change. And he never did. He drained her bank account and broke her heart and left her to die in a hospital bed while the bills piled up.

I won't make the same mistake.

I pull out my phone. I type a reply to Marcus.

Me: Change of plans. I'll be there. What time?

His response comes in seconds.

Marcus: 8pm! I'll save you a seat. :) Best part of my day just got better.

I smile. It's small, but it's real. Marcus is safe. Marcus is kind. Marcus doesn't have fathers who break down doors or mothers hidden in photographs or eyes that look at me like I'm something precious.

Marcus is exactly what I need.

The elevator arrives. I step inside.

And then my phone buzzes again.

A different number. Unknown.

I open the message.

Unknown: Stay away from my son, you broke little whore. He doesn't need trash like you dragging him down. This is your only warning.

The elevator doors slide shut. My reflection stares back at me from the polished metal—pale face, wide eyes, a girl who suddenly understands exactly what kind of monster lives inside Jace Kingston's world.

I read the message again. Then again. Each word is a fist.

His father. The man who shoved past me in the hallway, reeking of whiskey, eyes like broken glass. He looked at me for maybe ten seconds. That was all it took.

Now he has my number. He knows who I am. He's warning me off like I'm a threat, like I'm the dangerous one.

The elevator descends. My ears pop. My heart is a drumline.

I should tell someone. Jace. Diane. The police. Someone who can do something about a drunk ex-hockey player threatening a college student.

But I don't call anyone.

Because here's the truth: I'm not scared of Gregory Kingston. I've faced worse. I've buried my mother and worked three jobs and fought for every inch of ground I've ever stood on. A threatening text from a bitter old man isn't going to break me.

What scares me is the voice in my head that whispered, when I read the message, He's right. You're no good for his son.

The elevator opens into the lobby. Cold air hits my face. I step out into the night.

And I don't delete the message.

I save it. Like proof. Like a reminder. Like the first brick in a wall I should have never let crack.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Jace: Thursday. Don't be late.

I stare at his name on my screen. The boy with bruises on his ribs and a monster for a father. The boy who told me I deserved better than nice. The boy who said I can't fix him.

I don't reply.

But I don't delete his message either.