I wake up with a plan crystallizing behind my eyes.
If I can't get Ashton fired through normal means, I'll make him want to leave. I'll be so difficult, so reckless, so utterly impossible to manage that he'll call my father and say the words I need to hear: your daughter is mentally unstable, and I refuse to help you anymore.
I smile at my reflection as I get ready, a sharp determined smile that doesn't reach my eyes.
Time to become the nightmare he never signed up for.
I start small. Instead of walking the well-lit path to my morning lecture, I cut through the shadowed alley behind the maintenance building—the one plastered with warning signs about not walking alone. My footsteps echo off the brick walls. Shadows pool in corners where the sun can't reach.
I'm halfway through when my phone buzzes.
The maintenance alley. Really? I expected more creativity from you.
My jaw clenches. I don't even bother looking around—he's not here. He doesn't need to be. He's watching somehow, tracking my movements, and the fact that he can see me without being seen makes my skin prickle with something I refuse to name.
I type back: Stalking is a crime, you know.
His response comes instantly: So is stupidity. Pick better battles.
I shove my phone in my pocket and keep walking, my cheeks burning with frustration.
That evening, I change tactics. I duck into a dive bar near campus—the kind of place with sticky floors, neon signs buzzing in the windows, and men who look at you too long. The air reeks of stale beer and bad decisions. I order a whiskey I don't want and settle into a corner booth, waiting for the chaos to build.
An hour passes. Then two. The crowd turns rowdy. Someone's shouting at the bartender. A fight's brewing by the pool tables. A guy with greasy hair slides into the booth across from me, his smile all wrong.
"You look lonely, sweetheart."
"I'm not."
"Come on, don't be like that—"
Headlights sweep across the window. A black pickup truck pulls up to the curb outside, engine rumbling. My phone buzzes.
Get in the truck. Now.
The guy across from me is still talking, but I'm already sliding out of the booth. I push through the sticky crowd and step into the cool night air. The passenger door of the truck swings open.
Ashton sits behind the wheel, jaw tight, eyes straight ahead.
I climb in, but the step is higher than I expected and I stumble. His hand shoots out, catching my elbow, steadying me before I can fall.
He doesn't let go.
His fingers are warm through the thin fabric of my sleeve, his grip firm but not painful. For a long moment, neither of us moves. I can feel my pulse beating against his palm, can feel the heat of his touch spreading up my arm like wildfire.
Then he releases me, and I slam the door harder than necessary.
"Seatbelt."
"I'm not a child."
I reach for it at the same moment he does. Our fingers brush—warm, rough, unexpected—and the contact sends a jolt straight through me. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then he pulls back like I burned him, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, jaw tight. I fumble with the buckle alone, my skin still tingling where he touched me.
"Then stop acting like one." He pulls away from the curb, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw ticks. "A dive bar. Alone. At eleven PM. What exactly was your plan if that guy didn't take no for an answer?"
"I had it handled."
"You had nothing handled." His voice is low, controlled, but there's an edge to it I haven't heard before. Something that sounds almost like fear buried under all that authority. "You had a drunk man twice your size cornering you in a booth while a bar fight was about to break out ten feet away."
"Maybe I wanted to see how long it would take you to show up."
He finally looks at me. Just a glance, but the heat in it makes my breath catch. His eyes rake down my body—the tight jeans, the low-cut top I wore specifically to cause trouble—before snapping back to the road.
"Mission accomplished," he says roughly. "Happy now?"
I don't answer. The cab of his truck feels too small suddenly. I can smell him—something clean and masculine that makes me want to lean closer. I press myself against the passenger door instead, my heart pounding harder than it should.
The next night, I escalate. I stay out past midnight, wandering through poorly lit streets where the streetlamps flicker and shadows gather in doorways. I dare the darkness to swallow me whole.
Twenty minutes in, the truck appears.
It rolls alongside me, matching my pace. The window slides down.
"Get in, Lyra."
"No."
"It's two in the morning."
"I'm aware."
He stops the truck. Gets out. The door slams, and suddenly he's standing in front of me, blocking my path, his broad shoulders eating up the streetlight behind him. He's wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest, and I hate that I notice. Hate that my eyes trace the lines of his arms, the way his hands hang loose at his sides like he's ready for anything.
"What do you want from me?" His voice is rough. "What do I have to do to make you stop this?"
"Leave." I step closer, tilting my chin up to meet his eyes. "That's all you have to do. Tell my father you quit. Walk away. Let me live my life."
"I can't do that."
"Why not?" Another step. We're close enough now that I can see the stubble on his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls just slightly faster than it should. "Why do you care so much about protecting someone who clearly doesn't want your protection?"
He doesn't answer. But his eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—a fraction of a heartbeat—and the air between us shifts. Charges. Becomes something thick and dangerous that makes my skin flush hot despite the cold night air.
"Get in the truck," he says again, quieter this time. Almost gentle.
And I do. Because standing this close to him in the dark, feeling the heat radiating off his body, I'm not sure I trust myself not to do something stupid.
The next evening, I sit on my bed with my knees pulled to my chest, staring at the wall with Angel, waiting for the fallout.
"None of this makes sense." I drag my hands down my face. "I've done everything. Dark alleys. Sketchy bars. Staying out all night. Any sane person would have quit by now."
"But he's still here." My voice cracks. "What does it take to break this man?"
Angel chews her bottom lip. "I might have an idea. But it's risky. Really risky."
I look up, desperate. "I'll try anything."
"The victory party tomorrow night. Everyone's going to be there—players, staff, coaches. Tons of alcohol, total chaos." She pauses. "What it.. What if you kissed him?"
The words hang between us.
“What- Are you.. Why would I kiss him?”
"Isn’t it obvious? He's supposed to protect you, not seducing you," Angel continues. "If he crosses that line, he fails completely. Your dad would fire him on the spot."
I stare at her, mind racing. Ashton has survived everything I've thrown at him. But this? This would shatter everything.
"What if I don't have the courage to kiss him?”
Angel shrugs. "Then we're back to square one. But if it works..."
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, the terrible plan taking root. Tomorrow night. The party. A man who looks at me like he's fighting a war with himself every time I get too close.
I think about his eyes dropping to my mouth in the dark. The way his voice went rough when he asked what I wanted from him.
One way or another, this ends.