10. Dean #2
I don’t give him anything. I hold his gaze.
Let him feel exactly what he’s standing in front of.
And then she moves. I catch it in the edge of my vision first, the way she slips past him instead of around him, her body angled inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
Her head stays down. Her shoulders pulled in just enough that it doesn’t read as obvious to anyone who isn’t looking for it.
But I am. I always am. She doesn’t look at him.
Doesn’t look at me. She just moves. And something in me tightens further.
“Fuck it,” Tyler mutters, and then the door slams hard enough that the sound cracks through the hallway.
She’s already halfway down the hall. Luka and I move at the same time, falling into step behind her without saying a word, the distance between us closing quickly as she reaches the elevator and hits the button.
The doors slide open. She steps in immediately, her hand bracing against the side wall like she needs something solid to steady herself.
Luka’s voice breaks the silence first. “Maddie—”
“Not right now.” She doesn’t look at him when she says it.
Her voice is low. Controlled. Stripped of anything that would give away what’s sitting underneath it.
And that’s what sets something off in me.
Because she’s never like this. Not with us.
The doors close, sealing the three of us into a space that feels too small for everything pressing in around it.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just watch her.
The way her shoulders stay slightly curled inward. The way her hands hang at her sides like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. The way she keeps her face turned just enough that I can’t fully see it, like she’s holding something back and doesn’t trust what will happen if she lets it show.
The elevator hums as it descends, each second stretching longer than it should, the air inside it thick in a way that doesn’t belong to the space itself.
Something is wrong. Not small wrong. Not something that gets brushed off or explained away.
Something deeper. Something I can feel sitting just under the surface of her, even without her saying a word.
The doors slide open. She moves immediately.
Fast. Like she needs out. Like she needs air.
She steps into the garage without looking back, her pace uneven in a way that doesn’t match the way she normally carries herself, like her body is trying to keep up with something her mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
And that’s where I break. Not loud. Not explosive. Just… done. My hand closes around her wrist before I think about it, firm enough to stop her, careful enough not to hurt her, the contact grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed until it’s there.
She stills. The movement stops. The space between one breath and the next stretches. Then she turns. And looks at me.
Everything inside me goes red.
Not a flash. Not a spike. A flood.
Her cheek is already marked, the skin flushed and angry, the edges darkening just enough that I know what it’s going to look like later.
Her lip is split, the smallest break, but enough that it pulls something violent through my chest that doesn’t have anywhere to go.
I don’t hear the garage. I don’t hear the echo of our footsteps or the distant hum of engines or anything else that should be there.
All I see is her.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him.” Luka’s voice cuts through somewhere behind me, low and dangerous in a way that belongs to a part of him most people never see, a part that runs deeper than the rink, deeper than the game.
But I don’t answer him. I don’t say anything at all.
Because everything in me is too tight. Too controlled.
Too close to snapping. I’ve fought my entire life.
I know what anger feels like. I know how it moves through my body, how to use it, how to direct it, how to keep it from crossing lines that can’t be uncrossed.
This isn’t that. This isn’t something I can shape. This is something that wants out.
My hand lifts before I think about it, my fingers brushing against her cheek, light enough that it shouldn’t hurt, careful enough that I don’t add to what’s already there.
She flinches anyway. It’s small. Barely there.
But I feel it like it’s my own skin reacting.
My jaw tightens, something shifting deeper, something darker, something that settles instead of flaring, and that’s what makes it worse.
I drag my thumb just beneath the mark, slow, controlled, like I can erase it if I’m careful enough.
I can’t. I know that. But I don’t stop. My hand moves to her lip, my finger brushing it just enough to check, to see, to confirm what I already know.
Her breath catches. Sharp. Involuntary. And that’s it. That’s the last thing holding me back. My hand slides to the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, and I pull her into me without thinking, without asking, without giving either of us time to question it.
Her body hits my chest. I wrap my arm around her, holding her against me, not crushing, not hurting, but firm enough that there’s no space left between us, no room for anything else to get in.
I need to feel her. I need to know she’s here.
Because if I don’t—if I let even an inch of space open up—I’m going back upstairs.
And I won’t stop at a warning.
Her body trembles against mine, subtle at first, then stronger, her breath uneven where it presses against my chest, and something in me tightens further, not with restraint this time, but with something that feels dangerously close to breaking.
I lower my head, pressing my jaw against the top of hers, my hand tightening slightly in her hair just to anchor myself. Just to hold on.
“Never again, Baby,” I murmur into her hair, the words low, rough, pulled from somewhere deeper than I let myself think about.
My eyes stay open. Locked on nothing. Red still bleeding through everything I see. But my hold on her doesn’t loosen. Not even a fraction.