Mila Wilson is quiet, anxious and a little bit of a mess. Panic attacks have ruled her life for as long as she can remember - but starting college is her chance to take control. Love? Not something she believes she's built for.
Then she meets Jace E...
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Jace takes a deep breath. His voice is rough when he speaks. "I fucked up, Mila. And I'm sorry." He rubs a hand over his face like he's trying to wipe something that won't come off.
"How?" I ask, tired. My arms fold across my chest automatically, a shield I know he notices.
He hesitates. "Just... listen. Please. Let me get it out before you say anything. Promise?" His elbows rest heavily on his thighs, his eyes barely meeting mine.
I nod, stiff and silent. Another breath from him. Another delay. Whatever he's about to say, he's trying to cushion it — which only makes my heart pound harder.
"When you left..." he starts, his voice small, careful. "Jessica messaged me. It wasn't anything big at first, just a 'what's up' kind of thing. But that night — Friday — I felt... off. Like I didn't know who I was. You were gone, and after being with you all the time, it was like this hole opened up and swallowed me. I didn't know what to do with it, it scared me."
I frown. "Scared?" The word comes out sharp, almost too sharp.
He nods. "I missed you so fast it terrified me. I've never felt that before. And when I don't know what I'm feeling... I ruin things. That's just what I do. I break shit."
His laugh is hollow. It's not even a laugh. It's the sound someone makes when they're trying not to cry but don't want you to know it.
My stomach coils, anxiety rises. I can feel the cold bloom of dread settling under my skin. I start to shake without meaning to — it's small, but Jace notices immediately. His eyes fill with something close to pain, and he gently places his hand on my thigh, like he always does when we're in the car and he wants to ground me.
But this time, his touch burns. I flinch.
He pulls back like I struck him, pain flashing across his face like a whip.
"Jace, just tell me," I whisper. "Please."
He nods once, like he's bracing for impact. "I started flirting with her," he admits. "Asked her for... you know. Pictures."
And there it is — a weight, a crash, something huge that hits my chest and knocks the air out of my lungs.
Flirting. Pictures.
I latch onto those words but refuse to make sense of them. They don't sound bad the way he says them — but his face tells another story. His face tells the truth. I'm not proud of it, but there's only one way to find out.
"Can I see?" The words taste like metal on my tongue. I hate myself for asking, but I need to know. I need the facts. Because if I don't know the truth, I'll imagine worse.
Jace sighs, and that sigh is filled with guilt. Regret. A little bit of fear.
He stands and walks to the shelf, grabbing his phone. He unlocks it, taps a few times, then hands it to me.
