The line between us

The silence Jace left behind was louder than any slap shot.

I stood at the edge of the ice long after the tunnel door slammed shut. My phone was still warm from his grip. His voice still echoed in my head—you'll be safer than anyone who ever loved me—and I couldn't decide if I wanted to scream at him or chase after him. The emergency lights buzzed overhead. The ice stretched out like a frozen wound. Somewhere in the distance, the Zamboni hummed to life, a low mechanical growl that meant my cleaning shift was starting without me.

I didn't care. I couldn't move. Gregory Kingston had called me on speakerphone while his son held my phone, and Jace had threatened to expose everything, and now the boy who swore he'd never let anyone close had just pushed me away harder than ever.

I should have felt relieved. I should have felt safe. Instead, I felt gutted.

The walk home was a blur of black ice and paranoia. Every car that passed too slowly made my heart stutter. Every shadow in a doorway was Gregory with a bottle in one hand and my throat in the other.

I kept my phone clutched in my pocket, waiting for the next message. The next threat. The next proof that I was a mouse and he was a cat who enjoyed playing with his food. But no message came. The silence was worse than the texts. It meant he was planning something.

My apartment building rose up against the night sky like a tombstone. The windows were dark except for one on the third floor—mine. I never left lights on. I couldn't afford the electric bill. I stopped on the sidewalk, my breath fogging in the frozen air, and stared up at that single yellow square. Someone was inside.

I should have run. I should have called the police. I should have done any of the things a smart pre-law student would do when she knew a violent stalker was targeting her. But I was broke and exhausted and so tired of being afraid. So I climbed the stairs to the third floor, my heart beating in my throat, and I pushed open my apartment door.

Mr. Calloway was sitting at my kitchen table.

He was a lumpy man with stained teeth and eyes like a dead fish. He never visited tenants in person. He sent eviction notices by mail and threatening voicemails after midnight and once, memorably, a sheriff's deputy who looked almost as embarrassed as I did. But here he was, in my kitchen, flipping through my stack of unpaid medical bills like they were a magazine.

"You're late," he said without looking up.

"I know. I get paid Friday."

"Friday isn't good enough anymore."

"I'll have the money. I always do."

He finally raised his head. His smile was slow and greasy. "Funny thing, Miss Hart. Somebody called my office today. Asked a lot of questions about you. How long you've been renting. What kind of trouble you've caused. Whether you've ever been late before." He tossed the bills back on the table. "Seems you've made some enemies."

My blood turned to ice. Gregory. Gregory had called my landlord. He wasn't just threatening me anymore—he was dismantling my life piece by piece.

"Who called?" I asked, even though I already knew.

"Didn't leave a name. Just said he was a concerned citizen. Said you were a liability. Said I should check on my property before something bad happened." Calloway leaned back in my chair like he owned it. Like he owned me. "So here I am. Checking."

"You can't just break into my apartment."

"Didn't break anything. Used the master key. It's in your lease." He stood up, and suddenly he was too close, his belly nearly touching my chest. "Here's the thing, sweetheart. I don't care about your drama. I don't care who you've pissed off. I care about my rent. You're two weeks behind, and I've got a waiting list of students who don't have mysterious strangers calling about them."

"Friday," I repeated. "I'll have it Friday."

"That's what you said last week."

"Last week my bike chain didn't snap. Last week I didn't have to choose between groceries and the electric bill. Last week—" My voice cracked. I clamped my jaw shut. I wouldn't cry in front of this man. I wouldn't give him that.

Calloway studied me like I was a math problem he couldn't solve. Then he pulled a folded paper from his coat and dropped it on the table. The eviction notice. It looked exactly like I'd imagined it would—cold black letters on cheap white paper, a signature at the bottom that could ruin my entire future.

"You've got three days," he said. "Pay up, or I'll have the sheriff remove you. No extensions. No excuses. And if that concerned citizen calls again, I'll tell him exactly where to find you."

He walked out. The door clicked shut. I stood there in my freezing apartment with an eviction notice in one hand and a stack of medical bills in the other, and for the first time since my mother died, I wanted to give up.

I didn't cry. Crying was a luxury I couldn't afford. Instead, I pulled out my phone and did the math. Rent was six hundred dollars. The tutoring bonus was five hundred. My cleaning shift paid minimum wage, and my library job was barely covering groceries. If I skipped meals for two weeks. If I sold my textbooks. If I begged Diane for an advance. None of it added up. I was going to be evicted.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I nearly hurled it across the room. But when I looked at the screen, the message wasn't from Gregory. It was from Jace.

Jace: I know I said I'd stay away. I'm trying. But I need to know you got home safe. Please just answer.

I stared at his name. The boy who had caged me against his desk and confessed he couldn't stop thinking about me. The boy whose father was methodically destroying my life because I'd gotten too close. I should have ignored him. I should have deleted the message and blocked his number and never looked back.

Instead, I typed: I'm home. Your father called my landlord. I'm being evicted.

I hit send before I could talk myself out of it. The response came in seconds.

Jace: He WHAT?

Me: Three days. I have three days to come up with six hundred dollars or I'm out.

Jace: Don't move. I'm coming over.

Me: You said you'd stay away.

Jace: I lied.

I dropped my phone on the table and pressed my palms against my eyes. This was exactly what I didn't want. Jace rushing in to save me. Jace putting himself between me and his father.

Jace proving, yet again, that I couldn't survive on my own. Every lesson my mother's death had taught me was screaming at me to push him away. But another voice—quieter, hungrier—was whispering something else. Maybe you don't have to do this alone. Maybe letting someone in isn't the same as giving up.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at my door. I opened it expecting Jace—bruised and furious and ready to fight the whole world. But it wasn't Jace. It was Marcus, standing in my hallway with a bag of takeout and a worried smile that faded the second he saw my face.

"Sophie? What's wrong?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Jace texted me. Said you were in trouble. Said I should check on you because he was handling something and couldn't get here fast enough." Marcus stepped inside, his eyes scanning my bare apartment, the eviction notice on the table, the fear I couldn't hide. "What's going on? What trouble?"

I opened my mouth to explain. But before I could get a single word out, my phone rang. Not a text this time. A call. Unknown number.

I answered with trembling fingers. "What do you want?"

Gregory's voice was calm. Too calm. "I gave you three warnings, Sophie. You didn't listen. You told my son about the eviction. You let him come running. So now I'm going to teach you a lesson you won't forget."

The line went dead. And somewhere in the distance, I heard sirens.

Marcus grabbed my arm. "Sophie, what's happening?"

But I couldn't answer. Because my phone buzzed one more time—not a call, not a text, but a news alert. Breaking: Fire reported at 612 The Forge luxury apartments. Emergency crews responding.

Apartment 612. Jace's apartment.

The sirens weren't distant anymore. They were screaming toward the only person who had ever tried to protect me.