Different

39.

"Shit," I hear a muffled voice from the kitchen.

Cabinets open and slam shut. I jolt upright, groggy, and switch on the lamp. My phone reads 4:03 a.m. Jace stands in front of a kitchen cabinet, rummaging through it with a clenched jaw. "Jace? What are you doing?" I ask, rubbing my eyes.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. "I can't find the rubbing alcohol." Rubbing alcohol?

I throw the covers off and pad over to him. "Why do you—"

I stop mid-sentence as my eyes adjust. His right knuckle is raw and swollen, a thin trail of blood tracing his skin. My heart skips. "What happened?" I ask, more awake now than I'd like to be.

 "Nothing," he snaps. "Go back to bed." The harshness in his voice stings. I blink, stunned into silence. He doesn't look at me, doesn't even acknowledge my presence beyond that single line. I cross my arms, trying not to flinch under the weight of the moment.

That's when I notice: the sweatpants he's wearing weren't part of our bedtime routine. His shoes sit near the kitchen table—also new arrivals. Realization hits me.  "You went to see Derek," I say, the words heavy.

Jace doesn't confirm or deny it. He's stopped searching and is now leaning over the counter, hands braced, shoulders tense. I exhale slowly and head to the bathroom. I remember seeing the rubbing alcohol under the sink, and sure enough, it's there. 

When I return, Jace hasn't moved. I set the bottle beside his hand.

His fingers are smeared with blood and turning purple. A shiver runs down my spine, and I realize I'm trembling. Violence makes me anxious. Also, I should be asleep right now. 

Jace turns just as I'm about to leave again. He catches my wrist gently. "Please don't be mad at me," he whispers, the anger from moments ago replaced with something quieter—guilt, maybe. I pause. He pulls me into him and cups my cheek with his left hand. "I didn't mean to wake you," he says, his voice softer than before.

"What happened?" I ask, cautious.

He exhales through his nose. "I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about him—about Derek getting in your face, trying to intimidate you. It made my blood boil. I had to do something." I take in his words slowly. "Let's just say I made it clear he doesn't get to mess with you," he adds, stroking my back with the same bruised hand. My stomach twists. I hate the violence—but I also know what he meant by it. Part of me sees it as a reckless, misguided gesture of... love?

"I thought you said you'd wait until after dinner tonight to punch someone in the face," I murmur, half-joking. Jace cracks a small smile, but it fades quickly. He's still wound up, still carrying it. "Punch in the face or not," I whisper, "he could never have me."

His gaze flickers up to mine, softening. "So, you're not mad?"

I shake my head. "No. But I don't like waking up to find you gone. It scared me. Just—don't disappear on me like that again."

He nods. "I know. I'm sorry. I won't." He kisses my forehead, and I step back to grab the rubbing alcohol.

"Let me clean this before it gets worse," I say, motioning to his hand.

Jace rolls up his sleeve as I soak a paper towel with disinfectant. My fingers are still shaking when I press it to his skin. He doesn't flinch. Then he stops me, curling his hand gently around mine. 

"Why are you shaking?" he asks quietly. "I did it again, didn't I?"

"Did what?"

"Made you anxious."

"It's not your fault," I say quickly.

He lets out a dry laugh. "Yeah. It is."

"I just... don't like violence, okay? I'm fine, my body just hasn't caught up yet." I toss the paper towel and close the bottle, trying to calm myself. My back is starting to ache from the tension that hasn't quite let go. "Let's just go back to bed," I suggest, tugging gently on his arm.

Jace shrugs out of his sweater and follows me. The moment we slide under the covers, he pulls me onto his chest and wraps his arms tightly around me, like he can hold my trembling away. "I'm sorry, Mila," he murmurs. "I don't want to be the reason you feel like this. I want to be the one who helps you feel calm."

"You are," I whisper. "You couldn't have known. Just... thank you for saying that."

"I'll do better," he says quietly, before finally closing his eyes.

For the second time that night, my heart softens. He's really trying. Maybe too much, maybe in the wrong ways—but he's trying. And I realize something I'm not sure I should: there might be nothing I couldn't forgive him for.

Waking up the second time feels different—peaceful, even. My alarm pulls me out of sleep, but I'm not groggy. I've got a full day of seminars ahead, but tonight's dinner with Bree and Austin is something to look forward to.

Jace is still asleep beside me when I slide out of bed at nine. I let him rest—God knows how long he was gone last night —and head to the bathroom for a quick shower. Five minutes under the hot water is all I need.

Once I'm dressed, I comb through my hair and eventually cave to the blow dryer. Sorry, Jace. I try to be fast, but when I step out, I find him awake, lying back with his phone in hand.

"Sorry," I say, sheepish. "Didn't mean to wake you."

He grins. "Payback's a bitch."

I laugh and sit beside him on the bed. "How's your hand?"

He lifts it for inspection. Still swollen, a bluish tint forming on his knuckles. "I'm fine," he says, brushing it off. Then he cups my chin, pulling me into a soft kiss. "You showered without me?" he teases.

"You were still sleeping. I didn't know if you needed to get up. You should just send me your schedule," I add, reaching for my phone. Jace taps something into his own, then sends me a screenshot. My phone vibrates seconds later. "Thanks," I smile. "You have class today."

He groans. "Skipped my 8 a.m. But I've got another one later—I'll drive you." He disappears into the bathroom, and I head to the kitchen to make us breakfast. A new day begins—one full of lectures, lingering bruises, and the strange, uncertain calm that only something this complicated can bring.

_________

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