5. Alexandra
I shouldn’t stay.
The thought keeps looping in my head as I follow him through the building, stubborn and insistent, like the last thread of logic trying not to snap.
I should thank them. Be grateful. Find a cab. Figure something out on my own.
Except I can’t go back to campus.
I can’t walk into a place where Justin knows my schedule, my classrooms, the shortcuts I take when I’m late. Where every familiar hallway suddenly feels hostile, every closed door a risk I can’t afford to take. And even if I wanted to disappear into a hotel for a few nights, I don’t have that kind of money.
So instead of leaving, I stay.
I walk behind him, my steps lighter, uncertain, trailing his steady stride. I tell myself I’m alert, that I’m paying attention, that I’m not letting my guard down.
But my body feels calmer than it has any right to.
That should scare me.
I don’t know this place. I don’t know these people. I don’t know him.
And yet, my chest isn’t tight. My breath isn’t stuttering. My instincts aren’t screaming.
They’re… quiet.
He walks just ahead of me, close enough that I’m aware of his presence without feeling crowded. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t rush me. Just moves forward with the unshakable confidence of someone who expects the world to make room.
And it does.
Now that the panic has ebbed and my head feels clearer, I finally have the space to really look at him. Not through tears. Not in flashes between grounding exercises.
Really look.
He’s tall. Broad. The kind of tall that makes you feel smaller without making you feel weak. His shoulders fill out his shirt easily, arms thick with muscle that looks earned rather than sculpted. Everything about him reads solid. Anchored. Like gravity works differently around him.
Dark hair, cut short. A strong jaw. A mouth that looks like it’s more familiar with orders than smiles—though I’ve already seen what happens when it does curve.
And his eyes…
Blue. Clear. Steady. Not soft, exactly, but calm in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s in control of himself at all times—and that makes him safe.
I swallow and force my gaze away before my thoughts wander somewhere dangerous.
We move deeper into the building, and I finally start noticing what I missed earlier when Ella practically dragged me through in a haze of fear.
The space is big, but warm. Dim lights cast everything in amber and shadow. A heavy wooden bar stretches along one wall, scarred and worn smooth, like it’s absorbed decades of spilled drinks and late-night confessions. Tables are scattered around the room, some occupied, some empty. The air smells like beer, leather, oil, and something metallic underneath it all.
Motorcycle parts mounted on the walls like art. Old photos. Framed patches and symbols I don’t recognize but instinctively understand are important.
People look up as we pass.
A few nod at him. Their gazes flick to me, curiosity replacing suspicion, and then they look away. No one stops us. No one asks questions.
It’s unsettling—and strangely comforting.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence before my thoughts spiral again. “Is Prez… actually your name?”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“I go by Stone,” he says. “Prez works too.”
I blink. “Those feel like very different options.”
A low chuckle rolls out of him. “Depends who you ask.”
I hesitate, then ask the question anyway. “Is that your real name?”
He slows just enough to walk beside me instead of ahead, casting me a sideways look that’s pure amusement.
“You haven’t earned my real name yet.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Earned it?”
“Mhm.” His smile is brief but dangerous. “Don’t worry. Most people never do.”
The playful banter loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize was still tight.
“Fair enough,” I say. “I’m Alexandra. Or Lex.”
“I know,” he replies immediately. We turn down a quieter hallway, the music from the bar fading into a distant thrum. This part of the building feels different. More private. The lights are softer here, the walls cleaner.
“So,” he says casually, “you’re not from around here.”
“No,” I reply. “Romania, originally. Denmark after that. Now California, apparently.”
“That’s a long way.”
“I’ve gotten good at uprooting my life,” I say lightly, then regret the words the second they leave my mouth.
He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask why.
“Can’t be easy,” he says instead.
I shrug. “Nothing worth doing ever is, right?”
We stop near the end of the hall. He pulls out a key and opens a door, stepping aside to let me enter first.
The room makes me pause.
I expected a storage closet or a lumpy couch, but this was… real. A heavy wooden bed with sheets that actually smelled like laundry detergent, not stale beer. A dresser, a desk tucked under the window. It wasn't fancy, but I’ve had worse.
It looked like place meant to be lived in, not passed through.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
“This one’s yours,” he says. “Bathroom’s through there.”
I step inside, taking it in slowly, like if I move too fast it might disappear.
“My room’s next door,” he adds.
My pulse skips.
“Not to keep tabs on you,” he continues, clearly catching the flicker of something on my face. “Just so you know where to find me.”
I turn back to face him.
Up close, he’s even more imposing—and somehow even calmer. Like nothing tonight rattled him at all.
“Thank you,” I say, knowing it doesn’t come close to covering what I mean.
He studies my face, searching for something.
“If you need anything,” he says quietly, “you come get me. Any time. Doesn’t matter what it is.”
Something fragile and warm settles in my chest.
“I will,” I promise.
“I mean it.”
I nod.
Before I can overthink it, before my courage evaporates, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
He freezes.
For a heartbeat, panic flares—what if this is too much, too soon?
Then his arms come up slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving me every chance to pull away.
I don’t.
He hugs me back. Not too tight or possessive. Just steady, like he’s anchoring me in place.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done tonight if I hadn’t found this place,” I whisper.
“You did what you had to do,” he says softly. “You ran.”
I breathe him in—leather, cologne, smoke.
We stay like that a moment longer than necessary.
Then he steps back first, respectful as ever.
“Get some rest,” he says. “We’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
The word feels fragile.
“Good night,” he adds. “Alexandra.”
Hearing my name in his voice sends a quiet shiver through me.
“Good night… Stone.”
Something unreadable flickers across his face before he nods once and steps away.
The door closes behind him.
I stand there for a long moment, heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
Eventually, I reach for my bag and pull out my phone, the screen lighting up the dim room.
My stomach drops.
Missed calls. Five of them. All from an unknown number.
I stare at the screen, a slow unease curling low in my gut. It could be nothing — a glitch, a wrong number, someone dialing blindly. But the timing feels wrong.
I turn the phone face down on the bed.
Whatever it is can wait.
For now, I’m here. In a place that feels solid in a way nothing has in weeks. My shoulders ease as I finally let myself breathe.
I don’t know what tomorrow looks like.
But I have the strangest feeling that staying here didn’t just save me — didn’t just give me somewhere to sleep.
It changed everything.