Slammed him.The word echoes. Violence.
About me.
The two thoughts collide. He saw me at the bar. He heard Rylan talking about me. And he… he snapped.
He dented a locker for me.
In my head, I line it up like evidence on a board, trying to make it make sense.
Fact: he put his hand on another player’s throat.
Fact: it happened because my name was in Rylan’s mouth.
None of it feels good.
The thought isn’t comforting. It’s terrifying. It’s a claim. A dark, possessive, violent claim.
Heat flickers low in my stomach—traitorous and wrong—twining with the fear until I can’t distinguish where one ends and the other begins.
I thought I left that behind. I thought Briarcliff was a safe haven.
Violence follows me. Even here.
I tilt my head back against the cinderblock and stare at a water stain on the ceiling tile, breathing slow, counting my pulse in my throat.
He protected you,the treacherous part of my brain whispers.
No,the survivor screams back.Violence is violence.
My ex used his hands to take. To pin. To coerce. Declan used his hands to… stop Rylan from speaking. To stop him from taking.
The logic is there, a thin, razor-sharp line distinguishing the two. One was predation; one was defense.
But in the dark, fear doesn’t know the difference. It just sees the rage. It just sees the size of him and the damage he can do.
Staying would be easier. It would also be surrender.
By the time the overhead lamps flicker on, casting long shadows across the rows, my muscles are cramped and my eyes burn. The quiet isn’t a blanket now; it’s a cage.
I pack my bag, skin crawling, and push back out into the cold.
The freezing air hits my face, a welcome slap. My breath fogs in thick white plumes. I tuck my chin into my scarf and round the corner onto the main quad—right into a wall-sized poster for the next Titans game.
A slick, corporate-blue promo shot. The team in full gear, helmets off, eyes hard. The goalie crouched low in front, mask in hand. Him. Declan. The camera caught him mid-glare, eyes sharp, jaw clenched.
My father’s name is at the bottom, underCOACH. It glows like a warning label.
I stop, breath catching in the cold. That look. That glare. It splinters a flash-image across my vision—hands gripping my wrist, pinning it too tight.
You owe me for this room, baby. You owe me for the drinks.
My heart stammers. That was taking.
Then another voice overlays it. Low. Dangerous.Lock your doors.
That was giving.
I shake my head hard, a violent jerk to clear it.Stop. You’re not there. You’re here. You’re safe.
