Not tonight. Not after everything.
But Tristan and X wouldn’t shut up about “getting back out there,” claiming the entire school was crawling out of the ruins of homecoming like it didn’t change everything. Like they hadn’t watched me get torched alive in slow motion.
“We need a win, bro. A scene,” Tristan had said after basketball practice, sweat still clinging to his jawline. “You show your face, remind people who you are.”
“I didn’t forget who I am,” I muttered, slamming my locker shut harder than necessary.
X shrugged, cocky as ever. “Then come prove it.”
So here I am, firelight licking the edges of the beach, the whole place buzzing with nervous energy.
I’ve been trying to keep it together—headphones on, workouts early, extra drills, pushing myself in practice until my muscles burn. But nothing’s touching this ache. The space where Jade used to be.
Then I feel it. A shift in the air.
Voices hush. Heads turn.
And I see her.
Bright red lipstick, that new choppy haircut teased to hell, black eyeliner like wings. Tight jeans, leather jacket with fringe catching the wind. She’s not just walking—she’s gliding like she owns the whole damn beach.
My jaw clenches.
X mutters, “Holy. Shit.”
A few guys whistle. One of the football morons brushes her ass with the tips of his fingers like he’s untouchable.
Before I can move, Jade stops, slowly turns to him with that lazy, lethal smile.
“Touch me again,” she says, voice smooth and dangerous, “and I’ll twist your wrist until you scream for your mommy. Sound fun?”
The guy stumbles back, red-faced. A few people snicker.
X claps a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t. Let her have this.”
I’m already halfway to my feet, fists curled. But I stop when her eyes land on mine across the fire.
Direct hit.
She starts walking toward me. No hesitation. No mercy.
She steps between my legs, all attitude and firelight. I can smell her—vanilla and smoke. Her hand cups my face, and for a heartbeat, I think she’s back.
Then her lips are on mine.
Hot. Fast. Perfect.
But it’s over before I can process it.
She pulls back, straightens, her expression flat as stone.
“Confirmed,” she says. “I felt nothing. Not. One. Thing. We are so over. Stop following me around. It’s not attractive.”
Then she turns and struts off like a mic drop in human form.
My heart is a jackhammer in my chest. My mouth is still parted. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
Around me, the crowd reacts—some muttering, others gaping.
