2. It’s Always a Fucking Man
2
IT’S ALWAYS A FUCKING MAN
KRUZ
My knees slam into the sidewalk with a brutal force, jolting up my spine and making my teeth clack together so hard it feels like they might crack. The rough concrete bites through my tights with ease, the fabric giving way as the skin beneath rips open. A searing pain flares through my legs, raw and immediate, like fire licking at an open wound.
You’d think after slipping on ice three times this season alone, I’d finally wise up and invest in better shoes. But the truth is, I have no clue what kind of footwear would actually prevent that. Traction? Special soles? Some kind of magic anti-slip technology? No idea. So, instead of figuring it out like a responsible adult, I stick with what I know—cute over practical. And, as expected, my own vanity continues to be my downfall.
It’s almost midnight, and I’m still three blocks away from my apartment, cursing every life decision that led me to this moment. The cold seeps through my torn tights as I glance up at the familiar mustard-yellow letters on the glass door I pass every morning on my way to work: Sylas Financial Solutions, Ray Sylas, CPA.
Ray really needs to salt his damn sidewalk.
Gritting my teeth, I groan and attempt to push myself up, but the movement sends a sharp sting through my hands. Blood smears against my palms, tiny shards of gravel embedded in the raw skin, a painful souvenir from my ill-advised attempt at winter fitness.
Because let’s be honest—fitness has never been my passion. Walking an extra few blocks every day might be tolerable in the crisp air of autumn, but in the dead of winter? It’s just a disaster waiting to happen. And, well… Here I am.
I’m still exhausted, days after Christmas, as if the holiday itself siphoned the last remnants of energy from my body. Break was supposed to be a reprieve, a chance to breathe after the chaos of finals, but somehow, being home was even more draining. My family, in true form, treated the season like a full-scale production—obnoxiously extravagant decorations, multi-course meals that required a military-level operation, traditions stacked so high they felt suffocating. I tried to keep up, really, I did. But with every passing second, I could feel myself wilting, shrinking into the background like an ornament no one remembered hanging up.
And even when I was physically there, I wasn’t really there.
Ezra lingered in my head the entire time, slipping into every quiet moment like a ghost that refused to be exorcised. Uninvited, unshakable—always there.
I’d be halfway through wrapping presents, fingers tangled in ribbons and tape, when it would hit me—the way his voice softened when he said my name. Just like that, I’d be somewhere else entirely, lost in the memory, the present in my hands suddenly forgotten.
Or I’d be sitting at the dinner table, tuning out the overlapping voices, the clinking silverware, the usual chaos of family chatter. My mind would drift, slipping away from the noise, back to the way he looked at me the last time we were together. The unspoken something in his eyes, the way it settled deep inside me. An ache I didn’t know what to do with.
Well, not the last time we were together.
That time, I was too busy throwing home decor at his face to notice.
Last Christmas, I was still his, even if neither of us admitted it out loud.
I spent the holiday with my family, but I remember lying awake that night, my phone burning in my hand, fighting the urge to text him. I remember wondering if he was thinking about me, if he was spending Christmas alone like he always did, or if—god forbid—he was with someone else.
I could’ve gone to him. I should have. But we weren’t that , weren’t real . Just stolen moments, whispers in the dark, something we never let see the light of day.
And maybe that’s why this year, it feels worse.
Because now, I don’t even have that.
I hated how much I wanted him there. Hated that he wasn’t.
These are the kinds of things I could never say out loud—not even to Quinn. Some feelings are too raw, too tangled, too impossible to explain without unraveling completely.
And even now, I can’t shake it. Can’t decide if I want to erase him from my mind entirely or surrender to the pull, let the thoughts of him consume me until there’s nothing left of who I used to be.
Not that it matters.
He’s clearly moved on. While I’ve spent months trying to bury every memory of him—shoving them down, piling distractions on top like dirt over a grave—he hasn’t once tried to dig them back up. Hasn’t reached out. Hasn’t chased me down. Hasn’t even let it slip that he misses me.
And maybe that’s what stings the most.
Because if he felt even a fraction of what I did, wouldn’t he have done something? Wouldn’t he have found a way to pull me back in, the way he always used to?
Yeah, that wasn’t toxic.
I need to get a grip.
And that’s not even counting the fact that he orchestrated the whole TA situation.
Now, I have to interact with him in a professional capacity, forced into polite, detached conversations when all I want to do is scream or pretend he doesn’t exist. It makes everything exponentially worse, turning what should have been a clean break into a slow, agonizing unraveling.
And it’s not over.
Tomorrow, there’s a family hike planned—one of those “fresh air is good for the soul” traditions my mom insists on every single year, as if forcing everyone into the freezing cold somehow strengthens familial bonds. We’ll all bundle up, layering scarves and gloves, pretending we’re thrilled to be trudging through snow and ice when, really, we’d all rather be anywhere else. I’ll be counting the minutes until we can finally head home, collapse onto the couch, and drown our suffering in oversized mugs of hot chocolate.
I should force Quinn to come with me—I swear this is her fault. She totally spoke this into existence when I was at her place at the beginning of break, and she said something about a stupid 5K.
The thought of spending yet another day plastering on a smile, pretending everything is fine, makes my stomach sink. Normally, I love this time of year—the lights, the warmth, the way the world seems to slow down for just a little while. But this year feels different. More empty. Like I’m going through the motions, surrounded by the people I love, but still somehow disconnected.
I know they mean well. Maybe I should be grateful.
But all I want is quiet.
Space.
A moment to breathe without feeling like I have to perform.
I’ll go, of course. I always do. And I’ll laugh at my brother’s jokes and let my niece drag me down snowy trails. I’ll play the part: the cheerful daughter, the grateful student.
But part of me wonders what would happen if I just… didn’t show up.
Would my family notice if I slipped away, or would they chalk it up to me needing a break from it all and move on?
Maybe they’d laugh about it over dinner, call it classic Kruz, and leave it at that.
God, school too.
It’s still three weeks before I have to go back, but what I wouldn’t give for a week longer—hell, a whole month longer—where I didn’t have to answer a single email from a professor or explain the same concept to a student for the tenth time.
Where I didn’t have to sit in Ezra’s class, trying not to look at him, while every nerve in my body felt like it was on fire.
I could disappear—no forwarding address, no explanations.
Just… gone.
I picture the university scrambling, students whispering about the TA who ghosted the department, Ezra glancing at my empty chair during lectures.
Would he even care?
Would anyone?
Or would they all just keep moving, as if I were never there to begin with?
I could go anywhere.
Anywhere but here.
Some remote island, where the sun is warm and the breeze smells like salt and freedom. I’d be stretched out in a hammock, coconut drink in hand, the ice clinking against the glass as I sip lazily, not a single obligation in sight. No phones. No texts. No emails demanding my attention. I’d chuck my laptop into the ocean, watch it sink like a stone, and laugh as it vanished beneath the waves, taking all my responsibilities down with it.
But no.
I’ll be there tomorrow.
Of course, I will.
Like always. Like clockwork. Because that’s what I do. Because they expect me to. And because, despite every part of me that wants to disappear, I don’t know how to do anything else.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
A never-ending loop of fake smiles and forced enthusiasm— Oh, look how hard you’re working at school —as if I’m not barely keeping my head above water, drowning in deadlines and expectations.
The stilted small talk, the exhausting charade of pretending I belong. I’d honestly rather be buried under a mountain of coursework, no matter how drained I already am. At least there, no one corners me into debates I never asked for, pretending to ask my opinion on the political climate just to smirk when I say something they don’t agree with. As if believing all humans deserve basic rights makes me na?ve.
But it’s nice to think about, isn’t it? Just… disappearing for a while. Slipping out of sight, out of reach.
I groan, pressing my palms against my eyes.
Snow beats against my face, sticking to my eyelashes, and I peer through the glass of the CPA office, catching a glimpse of the dimly lit Christmas tree in the empty reception area. The soft glow of the lights and the glittering ornaments almost seem to mock my predicament.
It’s the last thing I see before someone shoves a burlap sack over my head.
It smells like dirt and sweat, the stale odor making my stomach churn, and I scream as panic spikes through me, but the thick fabric muffles my voice. My hands instinctively claw at the material, desperate to tear it away, but they’re quickly restrained behind my back. I hit the ground face-first, the icy sidewalk biting through my clothes, shock robbing me of breath. The cold sinks into my bones, but it’s nothing compared to the terror pumping through my veins.
“Shut the fuck up,” someone growls when I make a sad attempt to scream.
A man, because, of course, it’s a man.
It’s always a fucking man.
I grunt, twisting like hell to try and get away from him. “You shut the fuck up,” I tell him, though I’m not sure he can hear me clearly through the sack over my head. “It’s not like I’d be fucking screaming if you weren’t trying to snatch me off the street like a fucking psychopath.”
On a normal day, I would probably not be able to find the wherewithal to scold someone trying to kidnap me, but it’s Christmas fucking break , I’m too tired for this, and what the actual fuck?
I was busy contemplating running away from my life, and this is not at all what I had in mind.
I’m able to turn on my back, but it doesn’t make any difference.
I think that’s actually what he wanted me to do; it’s made it easier for him to pick me up and sling me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all.
I scream again, but it’s like shouting into the void—no one can hear me, and even if they could, I am not sure it would matter at this point.
The whoosh of a van door sliding open echoes in the cold air, and in my mind, I can picture it: a white van with blacked-out windows, maybe something ridiculous like Free Candy Canes scrawled across the side. The absurdity of that thought almost makes me laugh out loud.
I really am losing it.
He grabs me roughly, his hands digging into my sides, and before I can even put up any kind of fight, he hurls me into the van like I’m nothing more than a sack of trash.
I hit the metal floor hard, and the breath is knocked from my lungs.
I can already feel bruises blooming in various spots all over my body from the impact.
The door slams shut with a finality that sends another jolt of panic through me, and I scramble to push myself up, but there’s no time. The sound of his boots smacking against the asphalt fades as he walks around the front, and I hear the faint creak of the driver’s side door opening. Then, the engine roars to life, the vibrations rattling through the van and deep into me.
As he pulls onto the road, the sudden movement sends me sliding across the slick floor, my body slamming into the wall with a dull thud.
My pulse pounds in my ears, and my thoughts race in every direction. I don’t know who he is, what he wants, or where he’s taking me, but one thing’s for damn sure: this is about to be the worst fucking Christmas vacation of my life.