Because tomorrow—or the next day, whenever I’m ready—I’m going to need to say all of this out loud. To police, to campus security, definitely to people who will question every word.
And I need to remember. I need to remember that I said no. That I tried to stop him. That my body failing me wasn’t the same as consent.
I need to remember that what happened wasn’t my fault.
I lie back down, exhausted, and let my eyes close.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out next steps.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to the police.
Tomorrow, I’ll start figuring out how to be okay again.
But today, I just survived.
And that has to be enough.
29
LINES IN THE ICE (KIERAN)
My body feels scraped out when I close Wren’s door. I stand in the hallway for a second, palms on my thighs, trying to breathe past the tightness in my chest.
You did the first part.
Now do the rest.
My knuckles throb. The bandage is stiff with dried blood. I shove my hand into my pocket and head home.
Mason’s on the sofa when I walk in, laptop open, mid-way through a scouting clip. He pauses it the second he sees me.
His eyes drop to my hand. “Jesus. So it’s true.”
I kick the door shut and sink onto the cushion beside him. “Yeah.”
“Where’s Wren?”
“Sleeping in her dorm.” My voice goes thin. “She’s okay. Or, she will be.”
Mason exhales once—slow, measured—then shuts the laptop fully.
“What happened?”
“Reed put something in her drink,” I say. Saying italoud feels like swallowing broken glass. “Tried to take her upstairs.”
Mason goes absolutely still. Goalie-still. The kind of focus he gets right before a shootout.
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Yeah.”
“Guys said you went nuclear.”
“Understatement.”
He looks at my hand. “Good.”
My throat tightens. “I’m not letting him get away with it.”
