Chastity #2
"Optics. Relationship narrative. Blah blah." He waved a hand dismissively. A beat of silence. Then, quieter, "You should be there."
My pulse jumped.
He didn't look at me when he added, softer than I'd ever heard him speak, "If you want."
The words hit differently. Not a command. Not manipulation. An invitation wrapped in the careful packaging of someone who'd been rejected too many times to ask directly.
I didn't trust my voice. Didn't trust the way my chest tightened or the way my traitorous heart leapt at the thought of watching him play. Of being in the stands wearing his colors. Of people seeing me as his.
Even if it was fake.
Even if it shouldn't matter.
"Yeah." I swallowed, barely managing the words. "I'll… I'll come."
He nodded once. Not relief. Not satisfaction. Something deeper. Something dangerous. Something that looked like the beginnings of hope he didn't know what to do with.
He left without another word, disappearing into the kitchen with his empty mug. Left me sitting there with buttered toast and Advil and the crushing realization that everything had shifted.
I'd defended him to his ex-wife without hesitation. I'd touched him on that dance floor like I had every right. I'd woken up in his care, wrapped in blankets he'd tucked around me, drinking coffee he'd made specifically for me.
And now I was going to his game. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to.
Because somewhere between this ruse and the careful touches and the moments he let his guard drop, I'd stopped pretending this was just an arrangement.
I took a bite of toast, the butter melting on my tongue, and pressed my hand against my racing heart.
Thirty days, my father had said.
We were only a week in.
And I was already in too deep.
The shower was scalding. I turned the heat up until steam filled the bathroom, until my skin flushed pink, until I couldn't think about anything except the pounding water against my shoulders.
My head throbbed with each pulse. The hangover clung to me like a second skin, making every movement feel weighted and wrong.
I braced my hands against the tile, letting the water cascade down my back, and tried desperately not to think about the way Wyatt's hand had felt against my cheek. Clinical, he'd said. Checking for fever. Making sure I was hydrating properly.
But his thumb had lingered.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the spray. "Stop it. Just stop."
The water didn't answer. Didn't offer absolution. Didn't wash away the memory of dancing with him, hands on his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him under my palms.
I scrubbed at my hair harder than necessary, punishing myself for the thoughts I couldn't control. For the way my pulse had jumped when he'd invited me to his game. For the traitorous warmth spreading through my chest every time he did something unexpectedly kind.
By the time I emerged, wrapped in a towel with my hair dripping down my back, the throbbing in my skull had intensified into a full percussion section.
I dressed in the softest clothes I owned—oversized sweats, a hoodie I'd stolen from my college roommate, thick socks. Armor against feeling anything else today.
The living room was empty when I returned. Wyatt had disappeared somewhere—his room, maybe, or the gym he'd forbidden me from entering. I didn't look for him. Couldn't handle another interaction that would leave me more confused than the last.
I collapsed onto the couch, pulled the blankets back around myself, and grabbed the remote.
Netflix loaded with familiar efficiency. I scrolled past romantic comedies I absolutely could not handle right now, past action movies that would make my head worse, until I landed on a true crime documentary about a woman who'd faked her own death.
Perfect. Nothing romantic. Nothing complicated. Just deception, investigation, and the cold comfort of other people's disasters.
I hit play and burrowed deeper into the cushions.
The narrator's voice washed over me, detached and clinical, detailing the elaborate scheme. I focused on the timeline. The evidence. The detective work that unraveled everything.
Anything to stop thinking about the man upstairs who'd held my hair back while I was sick.
The documentary shifted. Timeline dissolving into grainy footage of a college campus. A girl with bright eyes and a ponytail, arm wrapped around a boy who looked too charming. Too perfect.
My stomach dropped before the narrator even began explaining what happened next.
They went on a road trip. Cross-country adventure. Young love, endless possibilities, freedom stretching out before them like an open highway.
Except he didn't take her to see the Grand Canyon.
He took her to the middle of nowhere.
And he killed her.
The tears came without warning. Hot and sudden, spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them. I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle the sob that tore from my throat.
Because I knew. I knew what it was like to love someone who hurt you. To make excuses. To believe that this time would be different. To feel the walls closing in while everyone outside thought you were living the dream.
My ex had only ever hurt me once, and I still have the scar on my side to prove it. But he'd thrown things. Punched walls. Grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave marks I'd hidden under bracelets. Screamed in my face until I was small and terrified and convinced it was somehow my fault.
The girl on screen had trusted her boyfriend completely.
Just like I had.
The documentary played security footage—the last time anyone saw her alive. Walking hand-in-hand with the man who would murder her hours later. Smiling. Trusting. Unaware.
I couldn't breathe past the tightness in my chest. Couldn't stop the tears streaming down my face as the narrator detailed the search. The investigation. The eventual discovery of her body.
"What is it?"
I jolted, swiping frantically at my eyes.
Wyatt stood in the doorway, hair still damp, dressed for practice in athletic pants and a compression shirt. His expression shifted from neutral to concerned the moment he saw my face.
"Nothing. I'm fine." My voice cracked on the lie.
He crossed the room without hesitation, sat beside me on the couch. Close. Not touching, but present. Solid. Real.
"What're you watching?"
I gestured vaguely at the screen, unable to form words. The documentary had moved to the aftermath. How the boyfriend went missing. How he killed himself like the coward he was.
Wyatt's jaw tightened. He didn't ask again. Just sat there as the documentary continued, occasionally glancing at me when I sniffled or wiped my eyes.
The credits rolled eventually. Silence settled over us, heavy and uncomfortable.
Wyatt spoke first, voice low and rough. "Any man who puts his hands on a woman is no man."
The conviction in his tone startled me. I looked at him, wiping the last traces of tears from my cheeks. "Not all violence is physical."
His eyes met mine. Understanding flickered there. "You're right."
The certainty in his voice cracked something open inside me. I pulled the blanket tighter, suddenly exhausted. "Why do people do that? Hurt the ones who trust them?"
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried weight I didn't understand. "Because they're cowards. Because they can. Because some people destroy things just to prove they have the power. Ego. Pride. Insecurity. Fear."
I studied his profile. The scars. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands curled into fists against his thighs. "Did someone hurt you like that?"
His laugh was bitter. "Different kind of violence. Same betrayal."
We sat in the weight of that admission. Two people who'd learned the hard way that trust was a weapon.
"Did you see it coming? With whoever hurt you?"
His jaw worked. "No. I was too busy being in love to notice I was the punchline."
The vulnerability in those words gutted me. This man—scarred and sharp and terrifying—had loved someone enough to miss the knife at his back.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He shrugged, but the gesture looked painful. "Ancient history."
"Doesn't feel ancient."
"No," he admitted. "It doesn't."
Silence stretched between us again. Not uncomfortable. Just... present. Two damaged people sitting in the wreckage of their pasts.
Wyatt checked his watch and stood. "I need to get to practice."
I nodded, pulling the blanket up to my chin. "Okay."
He paused at the doorway, looked back. "Lock the door after me. Don't answer it for anyone."
"I won't."
"And Chastity?" His voice softened just slightly. "That documentary? That wasn't your fault. What happened to her. Whatever…" He stopped. "None of it."
My throat tightened. "Thank you."
He left without another word.
And I sat there in the quiet, staring at the blank screen, wondering how someone so damaged had become the safest person I knew.