The car rolled to a stop at the end of the block, the bass-heavy music thrumming beneath the pavement like a pulsing heartbeat. Neon lights bathed the sidewalk in purples and reds, as shadows flickered across the crowd wrapped around the Shattered sign, each conversation overlapping in laughter and cigarette smoke.
"Damn," Blake said, craning his neck. "Place is packed."
Chloe grinned. "As it should be. Chaos only works if there's a crowd."
We all slid out of the car, the summer night still heavy with leftover heat. My boots hit the pavement and I scanned the crowd—half-excited, half-nervous.
And then I saw him. Tristan stood about halfway down the line, leaning against the chipped brick wall with one boot crossed over the other, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looked at ease under the buzzing neon, as if it were his natural element. His leather jacket, just worn enough to suggest he'd lived in it, hugged his frame. Underneath, he wore a black tee. A silver chain caught the light subtly with each movement.
Our eyes met instantly. He straightened when he saw me, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Lizzie spotted him next. "Oop. There's your brooding guy."
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't stop the flutter in my chest. "C'mon."
We slipped past groups of waiting twenty-somethings and club rats, ignoring a few annoyed side-eyes as we reached Tristan. He held out his hand toward me, and I took it without thinking, our fingers lacing together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Hey," he said, voice low and steady. "Was starting to think I hallucinated you."
"You're not that lucky," I murmured, smiling.
Lizzie slid in beside us, offering Tristan a sly grin. "So, are you mysterious and punctual? Dangerous combo."
"Only when properly caffeinated," he replied with a deadpan that made Chloe snort behind me.
The line inched forward slowly, but I didn't care anymore. Standing there with my hand in his, Chloe and Lizzie chatting animatedly, and the scent of city, heat, and excitement thick in the air, it felt concrete. My fingers tightened around the club stamp in my hand, as if grounding me into the present moment, a silent vow to prove that tonight was about more than just surviving. Like the start of a night I'd remember, Tristan leaned closer, his voice warm against my ear.
"You look…" His eyes swept down to my dress—black velvet, chains glinting across my collarbones, the kind of outfit that made me feel like armor and softness all at once. The way he looked at me, there was a flicker of something deep and restless in his gaze, as if caught between wanting to hold the night still or capture something just out of reach.
"Insanely good. Like you just stepped out of a dream I wasn't supposed to have."
I bit back a smile. "You don't look too bad yourself."
His gaze lingered, and the thump of the music from inside seemed to sync with the rhythm in my chest. For the first time in a long time, I felt… wanted. Seen. Like maybe I wasn't just surviving anymore.
The line moved again. Almost there.
And for once, I wasn't afraid of whatever came next.
The line shuffled forward again—then again—until finally, we reached the door. The bass hit harder here, shaking the concrete under our boots like a pulse too big to contain. Fog coiled out from under the threshold in bursts, catching in the colored lights and casting eerie shapes on the sidewalk. The air was thicker, charged, like the club itself was exhaling something alive.
Martis stood just outside the entrance, arms crossed, black tee stretched tight over tattooed muscle. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing inked runes, skulls, and geometric lines that climbed up his neck like thorns. His expression was carved from stone—until he saw me. His eyes flicked to Tristan, then to Chloe and Lizzie, taking us all in with one slow scan.
Something unreadable passed across his face, but then he stepped aside and held the door open like it was an offering.
"Try not to get into too much trouble," he said.
"No promises," Lizzie grinned, practically bouncing.
Tristan gave Martis a nod—respectful, restrained—and I noticed how the bouncer's gaze lingered a second longer than usual before letting it go. Then the door opened wider. And Shattered swallowed us whole.
The sound hit like a wave—bass and synth and screaming vocals, layered thick as oil. Lights stabbed through smoke—strobes, lasers, red filters pulsing like heartbeat monitors gone wild. The scent of sweat, spilled drinks, cheap perfume, and something darker—almost metallic—curled in the air like incense. Inside, it was a cathedral of chaos—black walls covered in band posters and flickering neon. A ceiling lost in fog. Bodies everywhere, grinding, thrashing, spilling drinks, shouting conversations that no one could hear over the sound. The chandelier above the dance floor—massive, jagged, with rusted chains and hanging shards of glass—swung slightly as the bass shook the building. My chest tightened, not with fear. With awe. With adrenaline.
Tristan's hand never left mine. His fingers laced between mine like they belonged there, like they weren't afraid of the noise or the crowd or the ghosts this place stirred up.
We pushed through the crowd, hips brushing strangers, shoulders nudged by drink-wielding arms, until we reached one of the shadowed booths tucked along the back wall—half-hidden behind a curtain of fog and flickering red light. The table was black marble, slick and cold beneath my palms. The booth itself was worn satin, deep crimson, the cushions sagging in just the right places like the club had molded around the people who lived in it too long. We sank into it like we'd done this a hundred times before. Tristan sat beside me, his arm brushing mine, that ever-present calm wrapped around him like armor. He leaned back like he owned the space, his gaze flicking over the crowd, one foot tapping in time with the bass. His fingers still loosely laced with mine beneath the table.
Lizzie was practically vibrating with energy across from us, pink waves already damp from the heat.
"Okay," she shouted over the music, her eyes gleaming. "We're not sitting here all night. Let's go."
Chloe shook her head. "Let me breathe for two seconds."
"Nope." Lizzie reached across the table, grabbing both our wrists. "Winter, Chloe—move it."
Chloe groaned dramatically but let herself be dragged to her feet. I half-stood, hesitation thick in my chest, eyes flicking back to Tristan. He was watching me—softly, quietly. That crooked smile played at the corner of his lips again.
I hesitated. Then he squeezed my hand, once, a gentle encouragement. I smiled back, letting Lizzie tug me fully upright. She shrieked in delight and spun us toward the pulsing center of the dance floor, the fog swallowing us. Even through the strobe lights and the writhing bodies, I could still feel him watching me, not as a claim, but as someone genuinely interested in seeing me let go.
I hesitated.
"Go. I want to see you happy."
The way he said it—simple, certain, with no expectations—broke something warm open in me.
I nodded and let Lizzie tug me fully upright. She shrieked in delight and spun us toward the pulsing center of the dance floor, the fog swallowing us whole. But even through the strobe lights and writhing bodies, I could still feel him watching me. Not possessively. Not like a claim. Just like someone who wanted to know what I looked like when I let go.
The bass thickened as we slipped into the crowd, fog curling around our legs like smoke from some infernal altar. Bodies pulsed under the lights—flashes of silver jewelry, streaks of neon, lipstick smudged by heat and movement.
The song shifted. A low, slow synth riff slithered through the air—recognizable in an instant. My breath caught.
"Darkest Bloom." By Obsidian Veins. One of my favorites. It was an older track—not a dance hit exactly, but it hit different in a place like this. Deep, thrumming, electric. Haunting in all the right ways. The kind of song that felt like it had teeth.
Lizzie squealed. "No way—they never play this one!"
Chloe's smile flickered wide and sharp as the beat dropped. "Come on, Win!"
She grabbed my hands and pulled me deeper into the crowd, into the swirl of limbs and flash of red and violet light. My boots slid on the sticky floor, but I didn't fall—I moved. Slowly at first. Then more. The music climbed—velvet vocals over grinding synths, tension threading every note. My body remembered the rhythm even when my mind hesitated. I closed my eyes. And let it take me. My hips found the beat. My arms moved with the pulse.
Lizzie spun beside me like a glitter bomb in combat boots, and Chloe moved low and dangerous, her hair catching the strobe with every twist.
For a second—just one—I wasn't thinking about Eric. About red flags or broken glass or all the things I hadn't said. For a second, I was fourteen again. In my room. Headphones in. Dancing like nobody could see me. Like I wasn't afraid of who I was becoming.
I opened my eyes. And through the haze and lights, I saw him—Tristan, still in the booth, elbow propped casually on the table. Watching me like I was a song he didn't know the lyrics to yet, but already loved. Our eyes locked. And for the first time in forever, I danced for me. But I didn't mind that he was watching. The music wrapped around me like smoke—thick, familiar, pulsing through my chest as I moved.
Chloe spun beside me, wild and sharp, her laugh cutting through the haze like a shot of lightning. Lizzie's arms rose above her head, her pink hair a blur under the strobe.
I let it all wash over me. The weight. The noise. The heat. It didn't matter. My body remembered what it meant to be free, even if just for a song. Even if I'd forgotten how. I twirled, boots sliding across the floor, hair whipping around my shoulders as the beat built again—and then cracked wide open. The song faded out on a last, trailing note. And for a moment, everything stilled.
Then came the next one—slow, low, melodic. A synth line that felt like rain on glass. A soft, haunting voice humming through the speakers like a secret. The tempo dropped to a crawl. The lights dimmed to a velvet glow—a slow song. Something inside me clenched. Around me, the crowd shifted—some couples drew closer. Some people left the floor.
Chloe gave me a smirk and twirled off with Lizzie, disappearing into the fog with a wink over her shoulder. I stood still, the beat curling around my ankles, chest rising and falling fast.
And then— I felt him before I saw him. Tristan's hand slipped gently around mine, his fingers cool against my flushed skin. I turned. He was right there, close now, his expression softer than I'd ever seen it.
The chaos of the club melted at the edges—just smoke and shadow behind him. He didn't ask with words—just a look.
I nodded before I could stop myself. He pulled me close, one hand on my waist, the other still holding mine, and we began to move—slow, deliberate.
The music wrapped around us like it was ours. Like it had always been waiting for this moment. My chest brushed his as we swayed. Now, with only his black tee between us, the warmth of him was immediate—solid, steady, his hair curling just slightly at the edges from the heat. The lights above flickered gold and crimson.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
We just… danced.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself fall into it. Not into him. Into peace. Into being held without fear. Into the feeling of being wanted—not consumed.
As we swayed together, the sound faded to something distant—like we were underwater, or in a dream I wasn't ready to wake from. The lights melted into soft glows, washing across Tristan's features in gold and red, catching the edge of his lashes, the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes never left mine.
His thumb moved gently across the back of my hand, the kind of slow, aimless motion people only do when they're not thinking—when it's instinct.
His touch wasn't rushed or demanding. It was quiet. Reassuring. It said: You're safe here with me.
I hadn't realized I'd stopped breathing until I finally exhaled.
"This okay?" he asked, voice low and barely audible over the music.
I nodded, then—voice smaller than I intended—said, "Yeah. It's more than okay."
We moved in time with the slow, aching beat, his hand light on my waist, mine resting over his heart. It thudded steadily beneath my palm, a rhythm that grounded me more than the song ever could. As I focused on his heartbeat, I felt my own breathing begin to slow, each breath becoming deeper and more even. A warmth unfurled in my chest, replacing the tension with a sense of safety I'd forgotten how to recognize.
My gaze dropped to his lips for half a second. Not long enough for him to catch it. But he did. And when I looked up again, he was already looking back at me like he knew. Not like he was going to make a move. Just that he was ready if I did. My breath caught. Something in my chest fluttered—fast and fragile.
"I've never danced like this before," I said, barely above a whisper.
"Me either," he said, smiling like I'd told him a secret. "Guess we're figuring it out together."
A soft laugh slipped from my throat—real, unguarded.
His eyes lit up like I'd done something incredible just by smiling. My fingers brushed higher on his chest, up toward his shoulder. Our bodies weren't pressed together, not entirely—but close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, the gravity. Close enough that I could lean in if I wanted to. And I did want to. A sliver of fear lingered in my chest, cold and uncertain, making my breath catch in my throat. My shoulders tightened, like they were trying to brace for something. Did he know that I wasn't sure how to trust that someone could hold me without using it as leverage later?
"I don't…" I hesitated, breath catching. "I don't know how to do any of this."
"You don't have to know," Tristan said, gently. "You just have to feel it. If it's right—it's right."
Our faces were close now. His breath warm on my cheek. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, how they crinkled slightly at the corners. Kind. Patient. I leaned in—just a little. He didn't move. He waited. The space between us thinned until I could feel the faintest brush of his breath against my lips. Almost there. A heartbeat's length. My eyes fluttered shut.
Then— Someone bumped into us from behind. I gasped, blinking hard, nearly stumbling. Tristan steadied me instantly, arms catching me like I weighed nothing.
"Sorry," a passing voice slurred. Then vanished back into the fog.
I looked up at him, cheeks flushed, chest rising fast.
His lips quirked. "I'm not going anywhere, Winter. Whenever you're ready."
And that— That did something to me. Because he didn't push. Didn't tease. Just let me have the moment.
I exhaled a shaky breath, letting my forehead rest lightly against his collarbone, the faint scent of leather and something cedar-like grounding me again.
We didn't kiss.
But we didn't have to.
Because standing in the middle of the chaos, his arms around me, I'd never felt more wanted.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel broken.
Just healing. Bit by bit. Breath by breath.
Right here, in the arms of someone who knew how to hold all my pieces without asking me to be whole first.
The slow song faded into something harder, more aggressive, and the spell broke just enough for reality to creep back in. The lights flickered in time with the pounding rhythm, a sudden burst capturing the moment like a snapshot. I stepped back slightly, feeling the bass thrum through my feet, grounding me back into the pulsating atmosphere of the club.
My heart was still racing, but not from the music.
From him. From the way he'd held me like I was something precious instead of something to be controlled.
What the hell was that?
The thought hit me like a wave.
When was the last time someone touched me like that? Like I mattered? Like I wasn't just... there for them to use?
"I need—" I started, then stopped, my voice barely audible over the renewed chaos.
Tristan's eyes searched mine, immediately concerned. "What do you need?"
He's asking what I need—not telling me what he wants. When did Eric ever ask what I needed?
"Just a minute. To breathe."
He nodded, understanding flickering across his face. "Of course. I'll be right here."
He's not following me. He's not demanding explanations. He's just... letting me go.
I squeezed his hand once, then made my way off the dance floor, legs unsteady.
The bathroom was tucked away behind the bar, down a narrow hallway lined with band posters and graffiti.
The bass was muffled here, just enough that I could hear myself think.
Think about what, exactly?
About how his hands felt on my waist?
About how he smelled like cedar and safety?
About how I almost kissed him—and for once, it wasn't because someone expected it from me?
I pushed through the heavy door into the dim, mirror-lined space.
A few girls were touching up their makeup, but I barely registered them.
I just needed a moment to—
To what? To panic? To convince myself this isn't real? To remember all the ways Eric made me feel small and broken and convince myself that's what I deserve?
"Winter!" Chloe's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. She appeared beside me in the mirror, Lizzie right behind her, both of them glowing with excitement and concern.
"We saw," Lizzie said, grinning. "Holy shit, Winter, we saw."
Of course, they saw. Everyone probably saw. The girl who couldn't even dance without permission six months ago, melting into the arms of someone who actually sees her.
"That was—" Chloe started, then stopped, studying my face. "Hey. You okay?"
I stared at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed, my lips slightly parted, my eyes wide and bright. I looked like someone who'd been thoroughly kissed, even though we hadn't kissed at all.
I look... alive. When did I stop looking dead inside?
"I don't know," I whispered.
I don't know anything anymore. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to want something without being terrified of losing it. I don't know how to trust that someone won't use my softness against me.
The other girls filtered out, leaving us alone with the fluorescent lights and the distant thump of bass.
"Talk to us," Chloe said softly, leaning against the counter beside me.
"I just—" I pressed my palms against the cool marble, trying to ground myself. "I haven't felt like that in... God, I don't know if I've ever felt like that."
Because Eric never made me feel like that. Even in the beginning, when I thought I loved him, it was never this gentle. Never this patient. It was always about what he needed, what he wanted, how I could fit into his world, never about holding space for mine.
"Like what?" Lizzie asked, her voice gentle.
"Safe. Wanted. Like I could just... be myself and that would be enough." The words came out in a rush. "He didn't push. He didn't demand. He just... waited. For me to be ready."
When was the last time someone waited for me? When was the last time someone cared more about my comfort than their own gratification?
Chloe's eyes softened. "That's how it's supposed to be, Win."
"Is it?" I turned to face them, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "Because I'm so used to feeling like I have to earn affection, or like I'm always doing something wrong, or like I'm too much or not enough or—"
Like I'm a problem to be solved instead of a person to be loved. Like, my boundaries are suggestions instead of requirements. Like saying no makes me selfish instead of human.
"Stop," Lizzie stepped forward, her hands finding my shoulders. "Eric fucked with your head. This is what normal feels like. This is what it looks like when someone actually cares about you."
Normal. Is this is normal? This feeling of being able to breathe around someone? This absence of that constant low-level anxiety that someone's going to snap at me for existing wrong?
"But what if I'm reading it wrong?" The fear spilled out before I could stop it. "What if I'm just so desperate for someone to be kind to me that I'm seeing things that aren't there?"
What if I'm so starved for basic human decency that I'm mistaking kindness for love? What if I'm projecting all my fantasies of what a relationship should be onto someone who's just... nice?
Chloe shook her head firmly, "Winter, I've been watching you two all night. The way he looks at you? The way he listens when you talk? The way he didn't try to grope you during that dance?"
She gestured toward the door, "That's not politeness. That's genuine care."
He did listen. Really listened. Not just waiting for his turn to talk, not just looking for openings to correct me or redirect the conversation back to himself. He listened as if what I had to say mattered.
"Plus," Lizzie added with a smirk, "did you see how he completely ignored that girl in the red dress who was basically throwing herself at him earlier? He only had eyes for you."
I blinked. "What girl in the red dress?"
Of course, I didn't see her. Because when I was with him, the rest of the world just... faded. Not in a scary, isolating way like it did with Eric. In a peaceful way. Like finding the eye of a storm.
"Exactly," Chloe said. "Because you're all he sees."
I looked at myself in the mirror again, trying to see what they saw—trying to believe that I deserved this kind of tenderness.
Do I deserve this? After everything I let Eric do to me? After all the times I chose him over my friends, over my own well-being? After becoming so small that I almost disappeared entirely?
"I'm scared," I admitted quietly.
Terrified. Absolutely fucking terrified. Of wanting this. Of trusting it. Of letting myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I'm worth loving without conditions.
"Of what?" Lizzie asked.
"Of trusting it. Of letting myself want it. Of fucking it up somehow." I laughed, but it came out shaky. "What if I'm too damaged for this? What if I don't know how to be in a healthy relationship?"
What if all those months with Eric broke something in me that can't be fixed? What if I'm too fucked up to recognize love when it's right in front of me? What if I sabotage this because I'm so used to chaos that peace feels foreign?
"Then you learn," Chloe said simply. "Together. That's what people do when they care about each other."
Learn. Together. Not 'fix yourself and then maybe you'll be worthy of love.' Not 'change everything about yourself to fit someone else's vision.' Just... learn. Together.
"And Winter?" Lizzie's voice was soft but firm. "You're not damaged. You're healing. There's a difference."
Healing. Not broken. Not ruined. Just... healing. Like a bone that's been fractured but is slowly knitting itself back together, stronger than before. As the tears slid down my cheeks, I realized they weren't from sadness. They were tears of pure, overwhelming relief. Relief that maybe I'm not as broken as I thought. Realizing this, I felt hope flicker within me—hope that maybe this feeling in my chest isn't just desperation dressed up as something else. And when I considered the possibility that someone might actually care about me, a sense of gratitude washed over me, a gratitude for being able to recognize and accept this new reality.
"But isn't this too soon?" I asked, panic creeping into my voice. "It's been, what, 24 hours since I left Eric? Maybe less? What if I'm rebounding? What if I'm so desperate to feel something other than broken that I'm confusing gratitude with—"
"Stop," Chloe said firmly, her hands finding my shoulders. "Winter, look at me."
I met her eyes in the mirror, my own wide and frightened.
"There's no timeline for healing," she said. "There's no rule that says you have to be miserable for a certain amount of time before you're allowed to be happy again."
But what if I am rebounding? What if I'm using him to fill the hole Eric left? Just for the idea of not being alone?
"But what if I'm not ready?" I whispered. "What if I'm too messed up to know the difference between healthy feelings and just... desperation?"
Lizzie stepped closer, her expression gentle but serious. "Win, can I ask you something?"
I nodded.
"When you were with Eric, even in the beginning, did you ever feel like this?"
Like what? Like, I could breathe around someone? Like I mattered? Like, I was allowed to have opinions and boundaries and bad days without being punished for them?
"No," I said quietly. "Even when it was good with Eric, it was never... it was never like this."
"Then it's not a rebound," Chloe said. "A rebound would feel familiar. This feels different because it IS different."
Different.
This feeling in my chest when I look at him—it's not the desperate, clinging need I felt with Eric. It's not the constant anxiety of wondering if I'm doing something wrong. It's just... warm. Steady. Like coming home.
"Plus," Chloe continued, her voice getting stronger, "haven't you basically been done with Eric for a while, but were just too scared to leave?"
The words hit me like a punch to the gut because they were true. So true. How long had I been going through the motions? How long had I been staying with him, not because I loved him, but because I was terrified of what leaving would mean? How long had I been dead inside that relationship, just surviving day by day?
"I..." I started, then stopped, my throat tight. "Yeah. God, yeah, you're right."
Months. It had been months since I'd felt anything real for Eric. Months of flinching when he touched me, of walking on eggshells, of feeling relieved when he left instead of excited when he came back.
"I was emotionally done with him way before I physically left," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a wave. "I was just... existing. Waiting for something to change, but too scared to change it myself."
I'd been mourning that relationship for months while I was still in it. I'd been grieving the person I used to be, the person Eric had slowly chipped away at until I barely recognized myself.
"So really," Lizzie said gently, "you've been healing longer than you think. You've been ready for something real for a while now."
"Besides," Lizzie added with a small smile, "you're not making any life-changing decisions here. You're just... feeling something. You're allowed to feel something, Winter. You're allowed to be happy."
I looked at myself in the mirror again, searching for answers in my own reflection.
"I just don't want to fuck this up," I admitted. "I don't want to drag him into my mess or use him to heal or... or hurt him because I don't know how to do this right."
"Then don't," Chloe said. "Be honest with him. Tell him where you're at. Let him make his own choices about what he can handle."
"And Winter?" Lizzie's voice was soft but firm. "You're not responsible for protecting him from your feelings. If he cares about you—and he clearly does—then he wants to know what's going on in your head." "
"Good," Chloe said, pulling me into a hug. "It's about fucking time you have someone who deserves you."
Someone who deserves me. Not someone I have to earn. Not someone I have to shrink myself for. Someone who deserves me, exactly as I am, broken pieces and all.
I pulled them both into a fierce hug, my arms wrapping around their shoulders as tightly as I could manage.
"Thank you," I whispered into their hair. "For seeing me. For not letting me disappear completely."
"Always," Chloe murmured against my shoulder.
"That's what we're here for," Lizzie added, squeezing back just as hard.
We stayed like that for a moment, the three of us holding each other in the fluorescent-lit bathroom while the bass thumped through the walls. It felt like a sacred moment, a promise that we'd get through whatever came next together.
Finally, we pulled apart, and Lizzie grabbed some paper towels to help me fix my smudged mascara.
"Ready to go back?" she asked. Ready. To face whatever this is with Tristan. To stop running from good things. To trust that maybe I deserve them.
Yeah," I said. "I'm ready." We pushed back through the bathroom door and into the chaos of the club. But a question lingered, gnawing at the edge of my thoughts: Had Eric really left? As the music hit us like a wall—something dark and pulsing that made the floor vibrate under our feet—I couldn't shake the feeling that the past might still find its way into my present. Bodies pressed around us as we made our way back through the crowd, the air thick with fog and the scent of sweat.
When we reached our booth, I saw Blake and Tristan sitting across from each other, leaning forward slightly to hear each other over the music. They looked comfortable together, like they'd been talking about something serious but not heavy. Blake's posture was more relaxed than I'd seen it all night, and Tristan was listening with that same focused attention he'd given me earlier. They're getting along. Of course they are. Blake's good at reading people, and he wouldn't be talking to Tristan like that if he disapproved.
Tristan looked up as we approached, his eyes immediately finding mine. That soft smile tugged at his lips, the one that made my stomach flip every time.
"Feel better?" he asked, his voice low and warm.
"Much," I said, sliding into the booth beside him. His hand found mine under the table immediately, fingers intertwining like they belonged there.
"We're going to grab some food and drinks," Chloe announced, already eyeing the bar.
Lizzie nodded, "I'll help you."
They disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with Blake and Tristan. The booth felt suddenly quieter, more intimate, despite the chaos around us.
Blake shifted in his seat, running a hand through his hair. He looked uncomfortable, like he was working up to saying something difficult.
Blake shifted in his seat, running a hand through his hair. He looked uncomfortable, like he was working up to saying something difficult.
"Winter," he started, then stopped, jaw tightening. "I need to say something."
His gaze flicked away, finding something fascinating about the table.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Then it strengthened, the words breaking free as if they'd been held back for too long.
"For hanging around Eric. For not... seeing things sooner."
I blinked, surprised. "Blake—"
"No, let me finish." He leaned forward, his expression serious, but there was a hesitation in his eyes. "Things have gotten... worse. Recently. I mean, there's a lot you probably..." He trailed off, swallowing back the rest.
"Things Eric says," he added, avoiding eye contact. "When you're not around..."
His words hung in the air, unfinished, leaving an uneasy tension between us. I could almost see the weight they carried, the darkness hinted at but not fully revealed.
Blake shook his head, his hands restless against the table edge. "I should have said something sooner. I should have told you some of it, you know, the way things were getting..."
My heart tightened at the gaps, the silence more telling than any explanation.
Tristan's hand tightened around mine under the table, a steady anchor as Blake's words sank in.
"What kind of things?" I asked quietly, not sure I wanted to know the answer.
Blake's jaw worked for a moment. "The way he'd talk about you like you were his property. How he'd get pissed when other guys even looked at you. The way he'd drink and then call you names..."
He looked down at his hands. "I told myself he was just venting, that he didn't mean it. But I knew better."
Names. He called me names in front of Blake and to his friends. While I was at home, I was worried about him and making excuses for his behavior.
"I'm sorry, Winter. I really am. I should have been a better friend to you."
I stared at him, processing his words.
Part of me wanted to be angry—at Blake for staying silent, at Eric for being even worse than I'd realized, at myself for not seeing it sooner. But mostly, I just felt... tired. Tired of carrying all this weight, tired of feeling like I had to defend or explain or justify what had happened to me.
"Thank you," I said finally. "For telling me. For apologizing. It means a lot."
"I'm done with him," Blake said firmly. "I should have been done with him months ago, but I'm done now. You deserve better than that. You always did."
Tristan hadn't said anything through the whole exchange, but I could feel him listening, absorbing, understanding.
When I looked at him, his eyes were dark with something that might have been anger, but his touch remained gentle.
"I'm glad you're away from him," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made me believe he'd fight anyone who tried to bring that darkness back into my life.
Just then, Chloe and Lizzie returned with their arms full of drinks and what looked like nachos and mozzarella sticks.
"Food!" Lizzie announced, setting everything down on the table. "Because dancing on an empty stomach is how people end up making questionable decisions."
"Too late for that," Chloe said, grinning at me and Tristan.
The tension from Blake's confession seemed to dissolve as we all reached for the food, the conversation shifting to lighter topics. But I could feel the weight of what had been said, the way it had cleared the air somehow. As I sat there, surrounded by people who actually cared about me, with Tristan's hand warm in mine, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time. Hope. Yet, even amidst the laughter and warmth, a question lingered: What was I truly ready to risk for a chance at something real? Something new?