Like he meant it.
Like he’d do worse.
And maybe I should’ve been furious.
Maybe I was.
But under all the shock, the noise, the tension thick in the air?—
I wasn’t scared.
Not even a little.
Which, frankly, was probably the most terrifying part.
I found him just past the tunnel.
The concrete swallowed the noise of the field, replacing it with the dull hum of overhead lights and the sharp echo of my boots on the floor. Kieren stood near the locker room doors, hands on his hips, pacing in short, angry bursts. His helmet dangled from one hand, still clenched like he wanted something to throw.
He looked up the second I called his name.
I didn’t soften.
“What the hell was that?”
His jaw ticked. “He was touching you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Kieren didn’t flinch. “Didn’t like the way he was talking. Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
I stepped in closer, still holding my stupid empty coffee cup like it might somehow anchor me. “You don’t get to punch people because you’re having feelings.”
His eyes snapped to mine. “They weren’t feelings.”
I raised a brow.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and frustrated. “He was looking at you like you were nothing.” His voice dropped—quiet now. Low enough that I almost missed it. “You’re not nothing.”
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
The words sat between us, too big for the tunnel, too loud for the silence.
For once, Kieren Walker wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t being the storm-eyed golden boy or the cocky bastard I’d spent a week dissecting in article drafts.
He was just… raw.
Breathing hard.
Wound tight.
And looking at me like I’d asked him to bleed for it.
“I didn’t need saving,” I said, voice thinner than I meant it to be.
He didn’t blink. “Didn’t say you did.”
