Page 47 of Freestyle
“Thank you,” I say, my voice quieter than intended. I don’t meet his gaze. The weight of the night presses down on me, thick and disorienting, and I can’t shake the feeling that stepping into his space is crossing some invisible threshold.
“The bathroom is through there,” he replies, his voice softer now, lacking its usual guarded edge. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
I nod and close the door behind me, the click echoing in the stillness. The bathroom light flickers on, casting my reflection against the mirror’s surface—an image that feels simultaneously familiar and foreign. My flushed cheeks, thefaint tension in my brow, the uncertainty clouding my eyes. I look like someone who has been thrown into a story I don’t fully understand. I press my fingers against the cool porcelain sink, grounding myself in something tangible.
I change into the clothes Nix provided, the fabric soft against my skin, a welcome relief from the tension of the night.
The softness of the fabric is a stark contrast to the unease still thrumming beneath my skin—a quiet comfort amidst the chaos. The scent of Nix lingers faintly in the material, a subtle reminder of his presence just beyond the door.
For a moment, I linger, staring at my reflection. The bruise on my cheek is more pronounced under the fluorescent light. I trace it absently, exhaling.
I turn toward the door, gripping the handle. My fingers tighten around the cool metal, hesitation creeping in. Stepping out means facing him again, navigating whatever this unspoken tension is—uncertainty, curiosity, maybe something I don’t want to name yet.
Still, I pull the door open.
The dim glow of the bedside lamp filters in, casting soft shadows across the room. Nix is leaning against the desk, arms crossed, his gaze flicking toward me as I step forward. There’s something unreadable in hisexpression—thoughtful, assessing. The silence stretches between us, charged but not uncomfortable.
“Better?” he asks, voice low, measured.
His question lingers in the air, carrying an intimacy I’m not sure how to respond to.Am I better?I should be. The fresh clothes, the quiet of his space—it should all help. But something in me remains unsettled.
I nod, though the movement feels slow, uncertain. “Yeah. Better,” I say, but even I can hear the hesitation in my voice.
I stand there, arms crossed, still caught in the tension of the night. My thoughts keep circling back to everything that’s happened, everything I haven’t had time to process.
“You don’t have to pretend,” Nix finally says, his voice low but sure. “Tonight was—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “A lot.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur, but we both know it’s only half true.
Nix watches me for a moment, then exhales, pushing off the desk. “You need to sleep,” he says, straightforward, no room for argument.
I blink, thrown off by the certainty in his voice. “I’m—”
“Not gonna fight me on this.” His tone is calm but firm, like he’s already decided for me. “You’ve been running on adrenaline. That only lasts so long.”
He moves toward the bed, tugging at the rumpled sheets, smoothing them out with quick, methodical movements.It’s such a simple gesture, but it sends a strange warmth through me—like, despite everything, he’s trying to make this space feel safe.
I hesitate. The idea of shutting off my brain, of letting go just for a few hours, feels foreign. But exhaustion is creeping in, heavy in my limbs, clouding the edges of my mind.
Nix glances at me again, quieter now. “I’ll be right here,” he says. “Just sleep.”
Maybe it’s the way he says it—like it’s not a command, but permission—that finally makes me move.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the weight of everything crashing down on me. My eyelids feel heavy, and the exhaustion from the chaos of the past hours pulls at me. I lie back on the bed, sinking into the plush mattress, the softness enveloping me like a warm embrace.
“Thank you for getting that man off me,” I murmur as I snuggle into the blankets. Before I know it, I surrender to the darkness, my mind drifting as I succumb to the exhaustion of theday.
Grayson
I’m lying on my bed, sending a stress ball into the air over and over, trying to calm my nerves.
The ball lands back in my palm with a soft thud. Again. And again.
Toss. Catch. Squeeze.
Each repetition is supposed to bleed out the rage, siphon off the edges of the storm crawling under my skin.
It doesn’t.
