Chapter 66
KAI
I gripped the steering wheel so hard my fingers ached.
The road blurred past the edges of my headlights, but it still felt like I was crawling. Every turn, every slow-moving car, every red light made my chest tighten a little more. I kept hearing Alex’s voice in my head - thin, shaking, breaking in places he tried to hide.
Please, Kai. You can’t come here. I can’t tell you.
I’d never heard him sound like that. Not even close.
He sounded scared…
No. Terrified.
My jaw locked. I pressed harder on the accelerator, not enough to get pulled over, but enough to feel the engine respond. The sky was dimming, the streetlights flickering on, and the whole world felt like it was moving too slowly.
Something was wrong.
Something was seriously wrong.
I’d known for a while - the flinches, the way he always said ‘I’m fine’ too fast, the way he looked over his shoulder like someone might be there - that something was going on. I just didn’t know what.
But hearing him like that… hearing the fear in his voice…
It hit me in the gut.
I tapped my thumb against the wheel, restless, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest. I shouldn’t have let him go home earlier. I shouldn’t have believed him when he said he was okay. I should’ve pushed harder. I should’ve-
I cut the thought off before it could spiral and turned onto the road leading to the park, scanning the paths even before I’d parked. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat sharp and impatient.
What if he wasn’t there?
I swallowed hard, my throat tight.
I just needed to see him.
To see his face. To know he was okay. Or… not okay. But here. Alive. With me.
I pulled into the small car park and killed the engine, the silence hitting me like a punch.
I stepped out, scanning the small patch of green, breath held, heart pounding.
“Come on, Alex,” I muttered under my breath as I locked the car. “Where are you?”
I started walking fast toward the benches, every instinct screaming the same thing:
Please be here. Please be okay. Please don’t make me go to your house.
One second I was walking fast across the grass, scanning the benches, breath catching in my throat - and then I saw a figure hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head down, a black beanie pulled low.
Alex.
I stopped dead.
It felt like someone had slammed a hand into my chest. All the air left my lungs at once. My feet rooted to the ground, refusing to move even though every instinct screamed at me to get to him.
He looked small. Smaller than I’d ever seen him.
His shoulders were rounded, like he was trying to fold himself into nothing. His hands were pressed together between his knees, trembling. His socks - his socks - were damp and dirty, barely covering his feet.
Barefoot.
He’d run out barefoot.
My stomach twisted hard.
I took a step forward, then stopped again, because the closer I looked, the worse it got. His cheek was red. His eyes were swollen. His lip was split. His whole body looked like it was holding itself together by threads.
And he’d still come here.
To me.
Like this.
I swallowed, but my throat was too tight. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. I didn’t trust myself to move. I didn’t trust myself not to break something - the air, the moment, myself - if I rushed him.
He lifted his head slightly, just enough for me to see the shine in his eyes before he looked away again, tugging the beanie lower like he could hide behind it.
God. He looked wrecked.
And I hadn’t been there. I hadn’t stopped it. I hadn’t even known.
My breath came out in a shaky exhale, and I forced my feet to move, slow, careful, like approaching something fragile.
“Alex…” I breathed, the word barely making it out.
He didn’t look at me. He just wiped at his face with his sleeve, like that would fix anything, and I froze again because seeing him like this - really seeing him - hit me harder than anything I’d prepared for.
He wasn’t fine.
He’d never been fine.
And now he couldn’t pretend.
I stopped a few feet in front of him, breath caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat. Up close, everything was worse - the redness on his cheek, the bruise forming on his jaw, the swelling around his eyes, the way he was holding himself like every part of him hurt.
I swallowed, my voice barely steady when it finally came out.
“Alex… what happened?”
The words felt too small for what I was seeing. Too soft. Too late.
He flinched - not big, not dramatic, just a tiny jerk of his shoulders like the question hit somewhere raw. He kept his head down, fingers twisting together between his knees.
I took another step closer, slow, careful, my hands half-raised like I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to touch him.
“Hey,” I said, quieter this time, breath unsteady. “Look at me.”
He didn’t.
His jaw tightened. His shoulders curled in tighter, breath hitching like he was trying to swallow something down.
I found myself crouching a little, trying to get into his line of sight without forcing it. My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might shake the ground beneath us.
“Alex,” I said again, softer, but firmer. “Tell me what happened.”
He shook his head again - quick, sharp - like the truth was something he physically couldn’t let out.
“I’m fine,” he whispered.
It was barely a sound. Barely a breath. And it was a lie so thin it almost broke in the air between us.
I felt something in my stomach pull.
He still wouldn’t look at me. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, on his damp socks, on anything that wasn’t my face. His jaw trembled once before he clenched it tight, like he was trying to hold himself together by force.
“Alex,” I said quietly, stepping closer. “You’re not fine.”
“I am.” He nodded too quickly, like the movement itself might make the words true. He dragged in a breath - shaky, uneven - and wiped at his cheek with the sleeve of his jumper, the gesture small and embarrassed, like he hoped I hadn’t seen the tear at all.
But the breath he pulled in hitched halfway.
He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t even close.
Watching him try to lie - watching him try to pretend he was okay when he was clearly falling apart - made something hot and furious rise in my throat.
I crouched lower in front of him, slow, careful, trying to catch even a glimpse of his eyes beneath the beanie.
“Alex,” I said, firmer this time. “Look at me.”
My fingers were barely touching him - just the lightest pressure under his chin - but it felt like the most fragile thing I’d ever done.
He could’ve pulled away. He could’ve flinched or shut down completely, but he didn’t. Instead, his breath snagged, and he just stayed still, letting me lift his chin, letting me see him.
And when his eyes finally met mine-
God.
It felt like someone punched the air out of my lungs.
Not because of the bruises. Not because of the marks on his face. But because he looked so completely broken - like someone had taken something out of him and he didn’t know how to get it back. He looked like he’d been holding himself together with nothing but willpower.
And he was still trying to lie to me.
My thumb brushed his jaw - not to comfort him, not really, but because I needed to steady my own hand. I didn’t trust myself not to shake.
“Who did this to you?” I asked, feeling my eyes well.
The words came out rougher than I meant them to - not angry, not at him, just… too full. Too much. My throat tightened the second I heard myself say it.
Alex’s breath faltered, his eyes flicking away, whole body going still under my hand.
“Please, Alex, you can tell me.” I murmured, trying to meet his gaze.
“I can’t,” he whispered, his bottom lip trembling. “He’ll be so annoyed.”
My stomach dropped.
He’ll. Not they’ll. Not someone will. He.
I felt the pieces slot together in my head, one after another, too fast, too sharp.
“Who will be annoyed?” I questioned, my voice barely holding steady. “Connor?”
The second his name left my mouth, Alex froze.
Not a flinch.
Not a twitch.
A full-body stillness, like the air had turned to glass around him.
His breath stuttered, fingers tightening in his lap, eyes squeezing shut for half a second, like hearing the name hurt. And that was all the answer I needed.
“I knew it,” I said, through gritted teeth.
“You can’t tell.” He shook his head, his fingers knotting together in his lap like he was trying to hold himself in place.
“Alex-”
“Please, Kai.” He leaned forward as he said it, his voice cracking, his eyes wide and desperate. “You can’t.”
“Alex,” I blinked, my pulse thudding in my ears as I tried to make sense of the panic in his voice, “you need help.”
“Please.” He pleaded with me, shaking his head. “I will tell you everything, just promise me you won’t tell.” He reached for my sleeve, not grabbing, just brushing it, like he needed the contact to stay upright.
I dragged my hands through my hair, pacing one step back before forcing myself still. My pulse hammered so hard it felt like it shook my ribs.
He was terrified - not nervous, not embarrassed - terrified.
And I wanted to stop it.
I wanted to calm him.
To slow whatever storm was tearing through his head.
To make his mind stop running a million miles an hour.
To make him feel safe - even for a second.
“Okay,” I breathed, stepping back toward him, my voice barely holding together.
He stared at me like he was waiting for something more, something binding, something that would lock me in place with him.
“I promise.” I lowered myself down next to him.
The second the words left my mouth, something in him loosened - not relief, not really - more like resignation. Like he’d been holding a door shut for years and now he was letting it crack open, even though he knew what was behind it could swallow him whole.
His hands trembled in his lap.
His eyes were glassy, unfocused.
He looked like he might be sick.