Chapter 18
18
LENA
Muscle Memory - Jared Benjamin, Natalia Taylar
The drive back to my place is suffocatingly quiet. Reign hasn’t said a word since the track. He’s been silent before, sure, but this is different. There’s a heaviness to it, like the panic attack drained something out of him that he can’t quite get back. He stares out the window, his jaw tight and his shoulders stiff, like he’s holding everything inside, refusing to let it show.
I steal glances at him when I can, searching for cracks in his armor. I want to ask him if this is new—if this is the first time this has happened—or if it’s been happening this whole time, if he’s been facing them all alone. The thought twists my stomach. Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he say anything?
Then again, why would he? I’ve been shutting them all out for months. It’s not like I’ve given him—or the rest of the Demons—much of a reason to think I’d listen. I know what it’s like to carry shit on your own, to feel like no one else would understand the pain you’re feeling, but it doesn’t stop the worry from clawing at me.
I pull into the driveway outside my apartment and put the car in park. The sound of the engine idling feels deafening in the silence. Reign doesn’t move at first. He just sits there, staring out the window, the faint moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. There’s something so painfully vulnerable about the way he’s sitting, like he’s bracing himself for something—or maybe just trying to keep it all together. Like he’s afraid to show his emotions in front of me.
I wish I knew what to say. I wish I could reach out and shake him, tell him he doesn’t have to go through this alone. But even I know the words won’t mean shit when I’ve been doing the same damn thing.
I care about him. I just wish he’d let me help.
“I should walk home,” he says, voice low and emotionless. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
I don’t say anything for a moment, just let the silence linger between us. Then I turn to him, my chest tight. “No, you’re not walking home,” I say, my tone firm, but not harsh. There’s no way in hell I’m letting him head off alone, to drown in whatever dark thoughts he’s got buried inside. “You’re not going back to your apartment, alone, where we both know you’re just going to drink yourself to sleep, or worse. Not tonight, Reign. You’re staying here tonight.”
He finally turns to me, looking at me like I’m crazy. There’s a hesitation in his gaze, like he’s trying to weigh his options. But I see the tiredness, the heaviness in his eyes, and I’m not backing down.
“No,” he says again, but there’s less conviction in his voice this time. He opens the door, but I move before he can step out.
I get out of the car and stand in front of him. “Reign, enough is enough. You’re not going home to deal with this by yourself. I’m not fucking letting you. You’ve been here for me—remember? I’m letting you help me. Well guess what, now, it’s your turn. You’re going to let me do the same for you. So get over yourself and come inside.”
I can see it then—the tension in his shoulders, the conflict in his eyes. He’s embarrassed. Ashamed. I can see it all in the way he moves, how his chest rises and falls like he’s about to say something, but the words keep getting caught in his throat.
He looks down at his hands for a moment, then back at me. “I’m fine,” he mutters, but it’s clear he’s not. It’s the kind of lie you tell yourself when you’ve got no other choice.
“No, you’re not fine,” I insist, my voice softer now, but still firm. “And after what you’ve been through, no one expects you to be. But you’re not leaving. You’re staying here tonight. End of story.”
He looks at me like I’m pushing him too hard, like I’m asking for something he’s not ready to give. And maybe I am, but he doesn’t get a choice in this. Not tonight. Not when I can see the cracks starting to show.
He opens his mouth again, but this time it’s more of a defeated sigh than a protest. “Fine,” he says quietly, the word a reluctant surrender. “I’ll stay. But I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
We walk away from the car in silence, the night air tense between us. I unlock the door, pushing it open and stepping inside first, flipping on the light. He follows, his boots heavy against the floor as the door clicks shut behind him.
The space feels smaller with him in it, the energy in the air shifting. Reign doesn’t say anything, just glances around once before heading to the couch and sinking onto it. He sits in the same spot he used to claim when he, Cruz, and Sayshen would hang out, their voices loud and full of trash talk as they battled it out on the PlayStation. Seeing him there now is a punch to the gut and a balm all at once.
It’s painful—God, it’s painful. But it’s also healing, in a weird way. Like the ghost of those better days is flickering to life in the quiet. Back when we weren’t so broken. When Reign’s laugh could fill a room, Cruz’s grin was contagious, and everything didn’t feel so impossibly heavy.
Before Reign and I became whatever we are now. Before the crash, the fights, the endless spiral of grief and guilt that tore us all apart. Back when it was just the three of them, and I was on the sidelines, happier than I ever realized.
I move toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. From where I stand, I can see him better now, slouched back like he’s trying to relax, but it’s not working. Reign doesn’t do relaxed anymore. Not really anyway.
The white muscle shirt he’s wearing stretches tight over his chest, the fabric clinging to every defined line. His tattoos stand out even more under the soft light of the room, the dark ink winding along his arms, over the hard muscle, and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. They creep up his neck too, sharp lines and curves that give him that restless, dangerous edge.
His jaw is set tight, and the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss. Even sitting still, he looks like he’s wound too tight, like he’s one wrong word away from snapping.
I take a breath and force myself to stop staring. My fingers tighten around the glass as I walk back over to him. “Here,” I say, holding it out. He glances up, and for a split second, I catch something in his eyes—something raw, unguarded. Then it’s gone, replaced by that quiet, unreadable expression he’s been wearing since we left the track.
“I knew you were hurting,” I say softly, leaning against the edge of the couch. “I mean, it was obvious. But I didn’t realize it was this bad, Reign. You’re carrying all this weight, and you don’t have to. You don’t have to do it on your own.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps his gaze locked on the floor, his jaw tight. His chest rises and falls in that slow, deliberate way, like he’s barely holding it together.
“You’ve gotta let someone in,” I continue, my tone more casual now, trying to meet him where he’s at. “You’ve gotta let me in.”
I don’t expect him to open up right away, not with how stubborn he is, but I can’t ignore the way his shoulders tense more, like my words are chipping at something he’s not ready to show me.
And then he speaks, his voice rough but quieter than I expected. “You’re one to talk,” he says, his tone sharper than I wanted to hear. “You’ve shut everyone out too. Everyone but him.”
The jab about Revel stings, but it’s not surprising. I almost expected him to throw that back at me. Still, I wasn’t ready for how hard it would hit.
I push past it, ignoring the way my chest tightens. He’s deflecting, and I know it. But at least he’s saying something. That’s more than I thought I’d get tonight.
I want to snap at him, to tell him how wrong he is, how he doesn’t know a damn thing about what I’ve been through. How he has no idea what it’s like to fight every damn day just to keep your head above water. But I don’t. Instead, the frustration churns inside me, twisting into something raw.
“You think you’ve got me figured out?” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. My heart pounds as the words tumble out. “You think just because I don’t wear my shit on my sleeve like you do, I’m fine? Newsflash, Reign—just because I don’t show it doesn’t mean I’m not drowning too.”
He starts to say something, but I don’t let him. The anger, the tension between us—it’s thick, suffocating.
“Are you pissed that I let someone in, Reign? Or is it because it wasn’t you?” I ask, my voice calm but the question biting. “You think it was easy letting Revel in? It wasn’t. But at least with him, I’m not constantly reminded of everything I lost. Of all the memories with Cruz—the laughter, the hangouts, the fucking emptiness now that he’s gone. At least with Revel, I don’t have to carry that every damn day.”
I take a breath, trying to steady myself, but it’s hard. “I’m here, Reign. I’m trying to be here for you. But all you do is push me away, like you’re too fucking proud to admit you need someone. You think that makes you strong? It doesn’t. It just makes you alone.”
I don’t expect him to say anything. Hell, I don’t even know what I want him to say. But then I catch it—a flicker in his eyes, something that softens for just a second. The anger between us cracks, just barely, and beneath it, I see what he’s been hiding all along. He’s not angry. He’s not even mad at me. He’s just… lost.
The air shifts, the tension between us changing into something I can’t explain. My hand moves before I can stop it, brushing against his cheek. His skin is warm, the stubble rough under my fingertips as I tilt his face back toward mine.
“Reign,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
For a second, everything stills. His eyes lock on mine, and it’s like the weight of the world fades away. There’s nothing else—just him, just me, and the unspoken chaos between us.
And then it happens.
I kiss him.
It’s not planned. It’s not soft or tentative. It’s raw, a desperate collision of everything unsaid, every feeling we’ve been holding back for too long. His lips crash into mine with an urgency that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s like the world drops away, and for just a second, there’s only the heat of his mouth, the roughness of his touch, the weight of everything unspoken between us.
His hands are on me—grabbing, pulling, like he can’t get close enough, like he needs to feel me in a way that words could never do justice. I’m not even thinking anymore. My hands find their way to his chest, pushing against him to pull him down onto my lap, and in one smooth motion, I straddle him. His grip tightens around my thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of my clothes before they slide up to my waist, pulling me closer, harder, into him. I feel his chest against mine, the heat of his body seeping into mine, and it’s like I can’t breathe without him, like we’re both drowning in this moment.
He pulls me down into him with a force that has my pulse racing. I can feel the tension in his body, the weight of everything he’s holding onto, and for a second, I think he might pull away, but he doesn’t. He just kisses me deeper, his lips urgent, hungry, like he’s trying to erase everything that’s been keeping us apart. And for the briefest of moments, everything else falls away—the pain, the guilt, the history between us. It’s just us now. Just the heat and the desperate need to feel something, to feel alive .
His hands move up to cup my face, his thumbs brushing across my skin, grounding me, pulling me closer. But then, like a switch flips, he pulls back just enough to break the kiss, his breath shallow and uneven. His forehead rests against mine, both of us gasping for air, our hearts racing in sync, the weight of what just happened hanging heavy in the air.
But neither of us moves. We just stay there, caught in the aftershock, our bodies still pressed together, unsure of what to do next.
“Lena…” His voice is raw, cracked, like it’s taking everything in him to say my name.
I open my eyes, my hand still resting on his cheek as he leans away, his gaze darting between me and the floor. I can see the storm in his eyes—the pull, the push, the fear.
It’s like we’re both standing on the edge of something, and neither of us knows what to do next.
I pull back, feeling the tears I’ve been holding back suddenly threatening to spill. I clear my throat, trying to steady myself, but my voice still wavers. “You can take the bed,” I say softly, barely above a whisper. “I’ll crash on the couch.”
The words feel hollow, like they’re not enough to fill the space between us. But it’s all I can manage right now.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “I’m not kicking you out of your bed, Lena. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it hard to breathe. “No, it’s fine, really. I haven’t slept in it since… since—” I confess, my voice breaking. “I can’t.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me. Then he stands up, his movements slow. “Okay,” he says, his voice quiet. “I’ll sleep on the floor, then.”
He grabs a blanket from the couch and lays it down beside me, his body sinking onto the floor with a quiet sigh. I watch him, feeling a mixture of confusion and hurt twist inside me. I’m not sure how we ended up like this—how we ended up here, in this silent, unspoken mess. But the weight of everything, of the things I haven’t said, presses down on me, and I feel it in every breath I take.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to collect myself, but I can’t stop my thoughts from racing. I pull the blanket tighter around me, my fingers brushing over the soft fabric like it might somehow anchor me to something stable. The fish tank hums quietly in the background, the sound strangely comforting in the quiet. But even with the silence, my heart is still racing, unsure of everything between us.
I try to settle into the couch, my body too restless, but then I hear his breathing. Steady. Slow. It’s enough to make the chaos in my mind fade for a moment. There’s a part of me that still doesn’t understand why he’s here, why we’re both here, why things feel so broken. But in this moment, with him so close, I can feel something shift inside me, like his presence is the only thing keeping me from unraveling.
I pull the blanket up further, the warmth grounding me, and though there’s a heavy ache in my chest, his breathing, calm and steady, somehow brings a small sense of peace. It’s strange. I don’t know why it matters so much to me that he’s here, but it does. Even with all the confusion and hurt, having him beside me—just being here—has a way of quieting the storm in my head.
I close my eyes again, and though everything between us is unresolved, I find myself relaxing just a little. Maybe not fixed, maybe not okay, but somehow... calm. For now, that’s enough.