Page 112 of Freestyle
Aggravatedly, I type out a hurried response.
Rowyn:
Funny, I don’t remember having that conversation with either of you.
Gray:
We wanted to do this for you. Let us help with things we can control.
Rowyn:
We’ll talk about this later. I’ve got to get to the bar.
Immediate responses start popping up on my screen.
Phoenix:
You aren’t going back to that place unless you’re a customer.
Gray:
You’re going to call Frank and quit then come to the swim house. We have a surprise for you.
I can’t be mad at them, at least not over the top anyways. They were hinting at this for a week, through the hospital stay and recovery.
Love should make you feel light, they say. But all I feel is anchored to them, to everything they’ve done, every way they’ve wrapped their lives around mine. And I let them. I keep letting them.
They said they loved me. Not with flowers or promises, but with grit. With blood and silence and sacrifices I never asked for. Tuition paid, futures planned, decisions made. All of it soaked in intention.
Phoenix’s name on my screen feels like a pulse as Gray’s words settle into the hollows I pretend don’t ache. I know they mean well but love like theirs isn’t gentle, it’s fierce, it’s consuming. It rearranges you in ways you don’t realize until you try to stand alone and your footing’s gone.
So I’ll go. I’ll let them pull me deeper, because I already belong to them. Ithink I always have. And maybe… maybe I want to.
The swim mansion comes into view, rising like something out of a dream I’m not sure I’m ready to enter. My steps slow. Nerves stir low in my stomach, fluttering and twisting. “Surprise,” they’d said. That word’s a loaded thing with them, equal parts warmth and warning.
I know the way their minds work. I know what love looks like when it’s wrapped in velvet and control. And I know, already, they’ve planned something I won’t be able to walk away from—not because I’m trapped, but because I’m theirs.
My fingers tighten around my phone. I could turn back. I won’t. Of course I won’t.
I push open the heavy glass door, and the rush of cool air hits me first, a sharp contrast to the humid weight outside. Music hums low from somewhere deep in the house, the kind of sound you feel before you hear it. My heart’s beating too fast. I swallow it down, make myself step forward.
They’re sprawled across the lounge like gods in exile. Williams’ got his feet kicked up, phone in hand, barely sparing me a glance. Dalton lifts a brow but doesn’t speak. Jett Lawson, a junior that’s rumored to be captain next year, grins, slow and knowing, like he’s already seen this play unfold.
Andthen Gray appears at the top of the stairs.
It’s always like this with him, time thinning, pulling tight around that gaze. He doesn’t say anything at first, he just moves. One step. Another. Measured. Intentional. The kind of descent meant to be watched.
His eyes never leave mine. No teasing, no heat, just something steady and deep that makes the nerves in my stomach swirl harder.
“You came,” he says softly, as if he wasn’t absolutely sure I would.
I lift my chin. “You paid my tuition.”
A flicker crosses his face. A crease between his brows, but he doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t explain. He just keeps walking until he’s in front of me. Close enough that I can smell the ghost of his cologne, that clean, dark scent I’ve always associated with safety and danger, tangled too tightly to separate.
“We take care of what’s ours,” he murmurs. “And you’re ours.”
The words settle around me like dusk, soft, inevitable. I should push back, I should remind him I’m not something to be possessed.
