The drive was pure silence and tension. Chase had one hand on the wheel, the other doing absolutely nothing on the gearshift, like tonight was just another Tuesday instead of my complete psychological breakdown. Bass thrummed through my chest while my brain replayed Miles calling me pathetic on a loop.
He pulled behind the school without asking. Empty parking lot, shadows thick as secrets. Engine off, silence so complete it had weight.
I sat there like an idiot, breathing his scent–leather, pine air freshener, and something sharper that was just him. My mind was static. I didn’t want explanations or comfort or someone telling me this phase would pass.
I wanted to feel real.
So I climbed onto his lap.
His hands froze mid–air like I’d electrocuted him. I straddled him, knees on either side of his hips, heart hammering against my ribs. He looked up at me with those steady eyes, mouth slightly open, waiting.
I hated that party,” I whispered.
“I didn’t.” His voice was low, almost teasing. “You looked dangerous.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I didn’t break eye contact. I felt transparent under his gaze–like he could see every crack in my perfect–student facade.
I dug into my bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “Want to see something pathetic?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Always.”
I handed him my secret list–the one I’d written at 2 AM during my post–breakup crisis. Things I’d never admitted wanting. Tattoos. Spontaneous kisses. Detention. Rules broken just to feel the rush.
He read it twice, fingers tracing each fold like it was scripture.
“You actually wrote this down?”
“Had to.” My voice came out tight. “Didn’t think I was allowed to want them. otherwise.”
He leaned back, moonlight catching his jaw. For a second, he looked older. More dangerous.
“This one.” He tapped the paper. “Break a rule that scares you.‘
“Why that one?”
“Because watching you try not to want it is driving me insane.”
333
My breath hitched. The air between us crackled. I was hyperaware of everything–his hoodie smelling like smoke and summer, his lips inches from mine, the heat radiating from his body.
“Okay,” I said.
His smile was pure trouble. “Let’s go.”
“What?”
He opened the door, stepped out, looked back like I should’ve seen this coming.
wanted to break a rule. Time to deliver.”
“Right now?”
“When else?”
I followed him into the night. Asphalt still warm, air buzzing with that post–apocalyptic quiet. He walked toward the school gym like he’d done this before, like breaking and entering was just another Tuesday activity.
“Are you insane?” I hissed.
“Are you chickening out?”
I shut up.
We stopped under a half–open gym window. Chase reached up, jimmied it loose with practiced ease. was offering candy to a kid.
“Ladies first.”
own at me
like he
“Ladies first.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I grabbed the window ledge, hauled myself up. My hands slipped on the metal, but he was there, steadying me without comment.
I slid through the opening, dropped to the gym floor with a soft thud that sounded like thunder in the silence.
He landed beside me seconds later, quiet as a shadow.
I stared around the empty gym–bleachers like sleeping giants, darkness so complete it felt sacred. This was my school, the place I’d walked through a thousand times. But now it felt electric. Forbidden. Alive.
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
“Language, Hale.” But he was grinning.
We stood there in the dark, two teenagers who’d just committed a felony for the thrill of it. My heart was racing, my hands shaking, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.
“Now what?” I whispered.
“Now,” Chase said, pulling out his phone’s flashlight, “we make some memories worth getting expelled for.
12:31 AM
The midnight gym swallowed our footsteps, moonlight striping the court like spotlights on a dare. It smelled like floor wax and sweat and secrets–the kind of place where bad decisions became stories.
My heart thundered. My skin buzzed. And when Chase rattled that red spray paint, it felt like the start of something I couldn’t take back.
པ འོན ཋཎྜ བ བ ཚ
“Last chance to pussy out,” he said, voice low and dark.
I stepped closer instead. “Not happening.”
He tagged the floor–FUCK MILES in furious red–and dropped the can with a clatter. Then he turned to me, eyes unreadable.
