Lola POV
I’m back at the gym.
It’s been a while—too long, honestly. But I couldn’t stay in that house anymore. Not with Cassian being there. Not with the tension thick enough to choke me. Not with him throwing guilt in my face every time we crossed paths. Not with those sharp remarks, those looks that said everything he didn’t have to speak out loud.
My mind was fucked. I was fucked.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do when everything hurt too much—I hit something.
The punching bag took it all. My fists pounded it over and over, each hit louder than the last. I wasn’t even counting. My knuckles burned, sweat dripped down my neck, and behind my eyes, tears sat heavy. But I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now. Not in front of anyone.
I didn’t cry in public. That was a rule I made years ago.
But I was so angry.
At myself. At Jace. At Cassian. To the whole world. How could I be so stupid? Letting myself believe there could be a future with Jace? That we could exist in this world without it falling apart?
We weren’t supposed to be together. We weren’t allowed.
“So, you saw it, huh?”
I stopped, mid-punch, breathing hard.
I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
“Yup,” I muttered, and hit the bag again, harder this time. “The whole fucking world saw it.”
He walked into view slowly. Jace.
Still wearing that hoodie he always wears when he wants to disappear. But it couldn’t hide how drained he looked. Like the weight of everything was crushing his spine. Like winning that race yesterday never even happened.
“Mine saw it too,” he said quietly. “My dad. The school. Everyone.”
I nodded but kept hitting the bag.
“I guess happiness really does have an expiration date, huh?” he added, trying to sound like it didn’t bother him, but it did. His eyes gave it away. They always did.
I finally stopped. My hands rested against the bag, breathing hard.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I said.
“Doing what?” he asked, even though he already knew.
“This. Us.” I turned to him. “It was never supposed to happen.”
His jaw tightened. “Is this because of what happened online? Or what your brother said? Or what my dad threatened?”
“All of it,” I said honestly. “This world… it’s not made for us. We’re not on the same side. We’re literally fighting against each other.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess we’re just distractions.”
“Exactly,” I said. “We’re just… dragging each other down.”
He nodded once. “You’re right.”
There was a pause. A heavy, painful one.
Then he looked at me—harder now, like something was boiling just beneath the surface. “But don’t act like you don't want to be distracted, Sinclair. Don’t act like you didn’t run into it the second I showed you who I was.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said. “You came to the track. You kissed me. You stayed. Don’t pin this all on me now that it’s gone to shit.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, laughing bitterly. “And what about you, Reyes? You do whatever your dad says anyway, so it’s not like it matters. You’ll go crawling back to volleyball now, pretend like nothing happened.”
His face darkened. “And you? You’re still trying to please dead parents. Chasing a legacy that’s already six feet under.”
I froze.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me,” he snapped. “You’re living your whole life for two people who aren’t even here anymore, Lola. You’re not even living for yourself. You’re just following ghosts.”
I stepped toward him, chest heaving. “That’s low. Even for you.”
“Well, so is fucking your enemy in front of the cameras and then acting like it’s my fault your perfect world crumbled.”
I pushed him, hard. He didn’t stumble, but his eyes flared.
“You don’t know anything about my world,” I hissed.
“And you don’t know shit about mine,” he shot back. “But that didn’t stop you from kissing me like none of it mattered.”
“Because at that moment it didn’t! I forgot how toxic this world is! I forgot who the fuck we were!”
“Yeah, well now you remember,” he said. “Congratulations.”
The air between us crackled. It wasn’t romantic. It was rage. It was grief. It was two people ripping into each other because they didn’t know how else to process the pain.
I looked at him, breathless, bruised by every word we’d thrown like fists.
“Fuck you, Reyes.”
He smirked. Bitter. Hurt.
“You wish, Sinclair.”