Battle Scars

Chapter 17

Jay

I fumble with the keys at the door, trying to steady the girl leaning against me. The alcohol is buzzing through my veins, making it harder to ignore the frustration simmering beneath the surface. Leah left the bar early tonight, and ever since, I can't seem to shake the mess of feelings she's stirred up. Feelings I shouldn't have. Don't want to have.

I shove those thoughts down and lean the girl into the door, kissing her hard, trying to drown out the image of Leah's face in my head. The girl responds, leaning into me, but it feels wrong. I pull back for a second, opening the door and leading her inside. She laughs softly, her voice high-pitched and slurring, but all I can think about is how it doesn't sound like Leah's laugh.

We stumble to my room, and I try to convince myself this is exactly what I need—a distraction. I haven't been laid in a while, and I blame it on Leah moving in. Ever since she showed up, it's like my whole world got turned upside down. I've been off my game, and it's pissing me off.

I guide the girl to the bed and kiss her again, trying to stay in the moment. But every single thing about her only makes me think of Leah. Her lips are thinner, her hair smells too floral, her attempts to sound seductive just grate on my nerves. I try to focus, but my mind keeps going back to Leah—her voice, her full lips, the way she challenges me without even trying.

The frustration builds, and I pull away, backing up from the girl. I can't do this.

"Just... get dressed," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. I can't even look at her.

She looks confused and hurt. "What? Why?"

"I'm just—too drunk," I lie, trying to keep my voice steady. "Not into it. Sorry."

The girl narrows her eyes, probably trying to decide if she believes me. But eventually, she huffs and starts putting her clothes back on, throwing me a look like I've wasted her time. I watch her silently, my anger shifting towards myself now. I can't even get this right. The one thing I'm good at—keeping things casual and detached—and I've screwed it up.

When she's ready, I walk her to the front door. She doesn't say goodbye, just gives me a disappointed look before leaving. I close the door behind her, running a hand over my face, trying to pull myself together.

When I turn around, Leah is standing in the hallway, holding a bottle of water. She's in loose sweatpants and a tank top, her hair damp from a shower. And she's got that smug, knowing expression on her face that drives me up the damn wall.

"Well," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "that was fast."

Something snaps inside me, and I can't keep my frustration in check. "Go to bed, Leah," I snap, my voice coming out harsher than I mean it to. I shove past her, slamming my bedroom door behind me.

I lean against the door, breathing heavily, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. I've always been good at this—keeping things simple, no strings attached. But Leah's got me all twisted up, and I don't know how to handle it. Don't want to handle it.

I slide down to the floor, pressing my fists against my forehead. All I can see is that damn smirk on Leah's face, and it only fuels my frustration. I want to forget her, to push her out of my head, but I can't.

And deep down, I know it's not just about tonight. It's about the way she slipped past every defense I've ever put up, without even trying. The way she sees through my bullshit, calls me out, and never backs down. The way she looks at me like she expects more—expects better.

The thought terrifies me, and I have no idea what to do with that fear except shove it down and hope it goes away. But it's not going away. It's only getting worse.

I let out a bitter laugh, realizing just how badly I've screwed this up. I've spent my whole life keeping people at a distance, and now, without even trying, Leah's gotten closer than anyone else in years.

And I have no damn clue what to do about it.

I wake up the morning after the bar with a pounding headache and a knot in my gut. The memory of last night runs on a loop, making me feel like an idiot. Bringing that girl home was a mistake—one that blew up in my face when Leah caught me failing at what I'm supposed to be good at: keeping things casual.

Splashing water on my face doesn't help. I take a deep breath, hoping the awkwardness won't be as bad as I expect. When I head into the kitchen, Leah's already there, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee, scrolling through her phone. She's dressed in shorts and one of Nate's oversized t-shirts, looking annoyingly at ease. It irritates me, like she's completely unfazed by last night's fiasco.

"Morning, lover boy," she says without looking up, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I grit my teeth. "Morning," I mutter, trying not to let her bait me.

She finally looks up, a smirk playing on her lips. "You were fast last night," she remarks, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "What happened? She didn't live up to expectations?"

"Don't," I warn, my voice low, trying to rein in the irritation bubbling up.

Leah takes a leisurely sip of her coffee. "What?" she asks, feigning innocence. "Just curious."

That smirk on her face sets me off. It's like she knows exactly what she's doing—pushing me, testing me. I feel my temper rising, and I'm trying like hell to keep a lid on it, but I've never been good at backing down from a challenge.

"You don't know anything," I snap, the frustration leaking into my voice. "You don't know me."

Her smirk fades slightly, and she narrows her eyes, like she's picking apart my words. "You don't even believe the words that just came out of your mouth," she says, her voice softer but with an edge that cuts right through me.

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. She's right, and it pisses me off even more. Leah crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing as she studies me like she's solving a puzzle.

"Admit it," she presses, stepping closer. "You care about me as more than just a friend."

I feel my chest tighten. "You're only a friend," I snap, my words sharper than I intended. "Nothing more."

Her eyes widen for a second, and there's a flicker of something—hurt, maybe—before it's gone, replaced by that damn smirk. She lets out a dry laugh and shakes her head like she's dealing with a stubborn kid.

"Okay," she says, voice soft and mocking. "If that's what you want to believe."

She steps closer, and I can't move. I'm stuck, rooted to the floor as she looks up at me with those intense gray eyes, like she's stripping away every defense I've put up. She lifts her hand and places it on my bare chest, right over my heart. I can feel the warmth of her touch searing through my skin, and I know she can feel my heart hammering beneath her fingers.

"So," she murmurs, voice low and almost amused, "since we're just friends, you won't care if I bring over... guests?" She says it with a suggestive undertone that makes my blood boil.

I flinch despite myself, body going rigid at the thought of her with someone else. But I force my face to stay neutral. "Do whatever you want," I lie, trying to sound casual even as my pulse races.

She studies me for a moment, those sharp eyes boring into mine like she's searching for something. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely a whisper, but it's enough to send a chill down my spine. "Good to know," she says, her lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile.

And just like that, I know I'm in trouble.