8 Zara
I Don’t Like Fighting
“You hit him? Cass, what the hell?” I demand, voice coming out sharper than I mean it to.
The word ‘hit’ echoes in my head, louder than the bass thudding through the closed front door behind us. My ears are still ringing from the shove of bodies, the shout, and the crack of his fist slamming into that guy’s face.
Sweat is drying on the back of my neck, and not in a pleasant way.
My heart hasn’t decided if it wants to slow down or sprint straight out of my chest. All I can see is Cass’ knuckles connecting with that guy’s jaw.
All I can hear is the way the music stopped before everyone rushed in, hands on Cass’ shoulders.
Now he stands a few feet away from me on the sidewalk with his chest heaving, shoulders high, and his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jump.
There’s a smear of blood on his hand—maybe the guy’s, maybe his—either way, I don’t like it.
The porch light casts a tired orange glow over his face, turning the shadows under his eyes darker.
I can see the guilt. The shock.
He doesn’t like this side of himself.
“I don’t have a good answer.” His voice is rough, like he chewed gravel. “I know. I fucked up.”
“No shit.”
My adrenaline skyrockets, late to the party. I press my palms against my thighs to stop them from shaking as I take a breath that doesn’t do much at all.
“Why would you do that?” I demand, dragging my gaze back to him. “Why would you punch him in the face just because he was dancing with me?”
His eyes flick to mine, then away like it burns to hold my gaze.
“I don’t…” He scrubs a hand over his face, wincing when his busted knuckles drag over his cheek.
“I don’t know. I just—” He cuts himself off with a humorless huff.
“That’s bullshit. I do know. I saw his hands on you, and I could feel it starting.
The anger. The… whatever. I didn’t breathe through it.
I didn’t walk away. And then it just—” He snaps his fingers once. “Went.”
“You blacked out?” I ask, stomach dropping.
“Not like, fully,” he corrects quickly. “I knew where I was. I knew it was stupid. I just… didn’t care for a second. My head went quiet and then there was his face and my fist and—” His shoulders sag. “I’m sorry. I really am. I know sorry doesn’t undo anything, but I am.”
The apology hits something soft in my chest and makes it worse.
I can’t just melt every time he apologizes like this. I need him to know this isn’t okay.
“You don’t get to be mad about who I dance with.” I try to keep my voice steady. “You don’t get to haul off and deck some random guy because he put his hands on my hips. You have a girlfriend, Cass.”
He flinches like I slapped him with the word.
“I know,” he says again, quieter. “You’re right.”
That just pisses me off more somehow.
“So what then?” I demand. “You get to play jealous boyfriend at a party with me and then go home and kiss Stacey goodnight? Is that how this works now?”
His head jerks up, eyes finally locking on mine. They’re too dark under the yellow porch light, like they don’t belong in this night.
“That’s not what I’m doing. I wasn’t thinking ‘boyfriend.’ I wasn’t thinking at all. I saw him pull you against him, saw his hands on you, and my brain just… short-circuited. I’m not trying to make excuses. I just—” He swallows hard. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”
The worst part is I believe him.
I believe he didn’t set out to embarrass me or make a scene. But that doesn’t unring the bell. It doesn’t erase the way everyone turned to stare as security frat boy shoved us toward the door.
“I needed this, Cass.” The words drag out, anger ebbing into something heavier.
“I know,” he says for the third time, frustration threading through it now but at himself, not me.
His hand curls into a fist, like he’s ready to hit something else, then he forces it open again.
I see the effort it takes him to keep calm.
“I know, Zae. I’m—” His voice cracks before he clears it.
“I’m trying. I swear to God, I’m trying so fucking hard not to be that guy anymore. ”
The fight in me wobbles a little at the way he sounds so broken.
I remember him two years ago, knuckles bleeding in the school parking lot because some asshole shoved me and made a joke at my expense. I remember how long it took him to admit he might need help. How much he hated the idea of group but went anyway.
“I know you’re trying.” My voice is softer now despite myself. “I see you trying. I see you breathing through it. I see you walking away instead of punching walls. But tonight? You didn’t.” I gesture back at the house. “You had a choice, and you made the worst one.”
His face tightens, my words hitting him where he’s already hurting.
“I know,” he repeats, his voice almost a whisper.
He looks down at his hand like it betrayed him.
“I’m not proud of it, okay? I’m not standing here thinking I did anything right.
I feel like shit. I scared you. I embarrassed you.
I’m not… confused about that.” He looks up again, eyes shining too bright. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
The last of my anger drains out, leaving something that feels a lot like disappointment and a weird, aching sadness.
I hate it.
I hate that I can’t just stay mad and stomp away and never speak to him again. I hate that I care too much about the fact that he looks wrecked. That I know what it costs him to even say I fucked up out loud.
“You’re better than this,” I say, voice low. “You know better than this. You’ve worked too hard to go back to throwing punches because you don’t like what you’re feeling.”
“I know.” He sounds like a broken record. His shoulders slump another inch, like I’ve just stacked fifty pounds on them.
“And you can’t do this with me,” I add as my throat goes tight. “You can’t snap in the middle of a party because some guy danced with me. That’s not fair. To me or you.”
He nods, jaw clenched. “You’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” I snap automatically, then wince because this isn’t the time for my ego.
I blow out a breath, trying to calm down.
“Look, I get that your brain does the Hulk thing sometimes. Mine does too, just… on a different level. But you had all the tools and you decided not to use them. That’s what hurts. ”
He looks like he wants to say something back, but whatever it is dies on his tongue. His hands hover uselessly at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they’re not hitting anything.
There’s a long, shaky pause while we just… stand there. Someone opens the front door to peek out, sees us, and quickly ducks back in.
“Where are you going?” Cass asks when I finally turn away.
“Home,” I answer, already walking down the sidewalk. “Back to my dorm. Away from this place before someone decides to actually call the cops.”
“I’m driving you,” he claims immediately.
I shake my head without looking back. “Nope. I don’t want to be in a car with you right now.”
“Too bad,” he shoots back. “It’s not up for debate.”
A small, sharp anger flickers in me again.
“You don’t get to make that call for me.” I spin around to face him, hands tight at my side. “You don’t get to decide where I go and how I get there.”
His eyes flash, the anger still boiling inside him. “I’m not letting you walk across campus in the dark after you’ve been drinking.”
“I had like three sips of a Truly. I’m not drunk.”
“You still smell like the party.” His frustration is creeping back into his tone. “There are drunk dudes spilling into the street and you’re in a tiny skirt and a shirt that shouldn’t even count as one. I’m not leaving you alone. I don’t care if you’re mad at me.”
My stomach does a stupid little flip at him caring about my safety.
No. Focus.
“You can’t control everything,” I argue, words coming faster now that I’m worked up again. “You screwed up, Cass. You don’t get to fix it by controlling me. That’s not how this works. You don’t get to decide how I walk away or if I walk away at all.”
He stares at me, chest rising and falling too fast. For a second, I think maybe he heard me. That maybe he’ll let me go cool off and we can talk later when we’re not both vibrating out of our skins. Instead, he steps forward.
“Cass,” I warn, but he ignores me. “Don’t even think abou—hey!” I yelp as he ducks, grips the back of my thighs, and hoists me up over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
“Cassius Brin Lee!” I shout, upside down and outraged, fists thumping against his back. “Put me down! What is this, caveman transport? Fireman carry? I do not consent to this!”
“Stop squirming,” he grunts, adjusting his hold so I don’t flip right over his back onto the pavement. “You’re going to make me drop you.”
“Good!” I whack his shoulder blade. “Drop me, you goon!”
A couple of drunk guys on the lawn hoot and whistle as we pass. Someone yells, “Get it, bro!” and I briefly consider death as an option.
“This is humiliating. I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he argues, annoyingly calm now that his anger has a goal it understands: getting me to the car.
I kick my heels in protest, but he just clamps an arm more securely around my legs and keeps walking. My hair is hanging in my face, and I can see the sidewalk moving away behind us in jerky patches between strands.
He gets to the car, opens the passenger door, and finally sets me down on my feet. I wobble once, vision tilting, then grab the top of the door to steady myself.
“You’re the worst,” I tell him, breathing hard.
He doesn’t look amused. His face is still tight, eyes darker than usual.
“Sit,” he commands.
On instinct, I cross my arms. “Make me.”
Something in his expression shifts—frustration, worry, stubbornness all tangled together. He steps in close, hands braced on the frame of the car so I’m caged between his arms and the open doorway. The move isn’t aggressive; it’s desperate.