average human’s Reviews > Broken Breath > Status Update

My brain blanks out, and that’s when my body acts.”
His fingers still before he speaks again.
“Today wasn’t planned. I didn’t even think. It just… happened. And last year…” He swallows. “My temper almost cost me everything. The title and my contract.”
I frown. “It did?”
He dips his chin in answer before explaining. “Raine figured me out, somehow knew I had some anger issues, and he started poking it, little by little. Saying shit in passing, just enough to dig in, and I let him.” His lips twist with guilt. “End of the season, at the last race, he said something, I don’t even remember what it was. It was stupid, but I snapped and punched him in the stomach. Didn’t even care who saw.” He glances at me, and then back down again. “My team manager, Paul, did. He saw it all.”
I wince, but he doesn’t see it.
“It’s a miracle I wasn’t disqualified for unsporting behavior. I would’ve deserved it, honestly. After that, I promised myself and Paul I’d hold it together this season. That I’d grow up, but now it isn’t even the second race, and I’ve already shoved Payne and nearly fucking killed you.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m already fucking it up.”
“Fuck Raine.”
His head jerks up, eyes wide. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”
I shrug. “Hate the guy.”
Luc searches my face, and I almost squirm under it. I should give him more, probably should say something to smooth the moment out, but I’m not here to make friends. Especially not with the golden boy who lights up every room like a flare, but then leaves people singed.
Still, I feel sorry for him.
“You’re better than Raine. Don’t let the dickhead ruin your life.”
Like I did.
“He is a dickhead.” Luc leans back a little. “But so is Payne.”
My spine stiffens. “He’s not.”
His brow furrows. “Haven’t you heard what he did last year?”
“Allegedly,” I argue. “Just rumors. There’s nothing confirmed.”
“Are you one of those assholes who thinks victims have to prove they were raped?”
“If it’s as conveniently timed as hers was,” I say before I can stop myself.
Luc’s whole face shifts. “What do you mean?”
I look away. “Never mind.”
“Anyway.” He exhales like we’ve finished the heavy part, but I’m still reeling from what almost slipped out. “Now that we’ve settled that we’re friends, to make up for almost breaking your spine, I’ve decided to share my physio hours with you.”
“Never said we’re friends,” I mutter before I even register what else he said. “Wait, what?”
“Physio hours. I’ve got double sessions because of my back, and you’re a privateer. You don’t have a physio, and I hurt you pretty bad. The way it looked, anyway.” He stands, tossing the empty energy drink can into the trash. Then he turns and grabs my wrist. “I’m here to escort you to your first session.”
“No,” I say automatically.
“Yes.” He tugs as if that settles it. “You need a massage after that crash, or your muscles will cramp down so bad you’ll wake up feeling like you got hit by a truck. I don’t wanna hear you fucked up qualifying tomorrow because of me. Then you would have a reason to hate me, and my fragile ego cannot survive that.”
He pulls me toward the exit, and I dig my heels in on instinct.
“I’m wearing only a hoodie and shorts, man.”
Luc doesn’t even look back. “Yeah, and you’ll have to strip for the massage anyway, so what’s the difference?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Luc,” I protest, twisting out of his grip, “I don’t want to.”
“I know.” He doesn’t let go. “But you will. Trust me. It’s the best drug you’ve never tried.”
Once my bare feet hit the ground outside the bus, I dig my toes into the dirt as I resist again. “I’m not even wearing shoes.”
I finally manage to yank Luc to a stop, and he turns back to me and glances down.
Then he grins. “Even your feet are petit.”
I expect him to start pulling again, but instead, he drops my wrist, crouches, and grabs my thighs.
The next thing I know, I’m airborne. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, swings me right onto his back, and my legs hook instinctively around his waist.
“What the fuck are you doing?” My hands fly to his shoulders, gripping hard.
His back is solid beneath his soft T-shirt, stretched across his broad, muscular form, and he’s warm. Too warm.
“Giving you a piggyback ride.” He casually hooks his arms under my knees like this is something we do daily. Touching my bare skin. Fuck. “You hurting?”
All the fucking time.
“No,” I snap. “But let me down!”
“Non.” He shifts me higher on his back, completely unbothered by the way I tense, but I can’t help it. I can feel the movement of his muscles under my palms. “You Americans and your fear of touch.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed and starts walking, basically kidnapping me. “Just because I have my hands on you doesn’t mean we’re automatically gay.”
I flush, heat crawling up my neck. “I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were,” he says smugly. “You were like, ‘Oh no, what if people see my thighs wrapped around this beautiful man’s waist and assume I’ve fallen in love with him, like everybody else?’ ” He gasps. “Scandal.”
“Delacroix,” I hiss out.
But he just laughs, easy and free, as always.
And I hate how much I notice it. Notice him. He smells like mint gum, sunscreen, and the faint, sharp edge of the lavender oil the physios use. The same oil I use every day to massage my tense muscles. His skin is warm against the insides of my thighs, and it makes my chest feel too tight. Or maybe it’s my pulse. Maybe it’s my entire nervous system.
This is so stupid, he’s not even doing anything, but my heart is pounding, my face is hot, and apparently, my body has decided to betray me entirely because when I open my mouth to snap something back, I…
Hiccup.
Luc comes to a sudden halt. “What was that?”
My nails dig into his shoulders. “Shut up.”
“No, seriously.” He twists his head to look at me, grinning like crazy. “Did you just hiccup?”
“No.”
“That was adorable, Petit Crews. Do it again.”
I dig in harder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I will kill you.”
He laughs again, and it vibrates right up my spine.
“Do I make you nervous?” he asks, all mock innocence.
“No.”
“Pity.”
He starts walking again, and soon the team pit comes into view. A big black and pink bus gleaming with sponsor logos, the flaps of the adjacent tent open, and people are milling around—young riders, pros, mechanics, and media.
Fuck.
“Let me down, Luc,” I whisper-shout. “People are going to see.”
“Good,” he says cheerfully. “Let them watch. I look hot today.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m charming,” he corrects. “Big difference.”
“You’re a menace.”
“That too.”
People are milling about, and among them, I see a camera lift to take a photo of us, and I bury my face in the back of Luc’s shoulder. “Oh my God.”
He laughs again, and this time it rumbles through his back into my chest. I want to scream.
“Don’t worry, mon Petit,” he says softly. “They’re here to film me. You’re just a very cute accessory.”
Did he just call me cute?
My brain follows the path of my body and short-circuits.
He’s like this to everyone, being flirty, loose, touchy. Full of sugar-laced chaos and half-meant compliments that make people trip over their own sense of reality, right?
God, I hope this is normal for him.
And I also hope it isn’t.
Luc carries me right through the pit, straight past all the people, cameras, and noise, and into the back without missing a beat.
When we come to a stop in front of two narrow doors, he lowers me a little too gently, like I might break if he’s not careful. His hands slowly skim up my bare legs before he lets go, and it feels reluctant.
I take a few moments to tug my hoodie back into place and get my breathing under control, but when I look up, the effort is wasted as I find him already looking at me. Then, he lifts a hand and brushes a strand of my too-short hair away from my eyes.
My breath hitches.
Hiccup.
God.
His eyes twinkle as he chuckles softly, like he’s genuinely delighted.
“Trop mignon,” he murmurs under his breath, barely louder than the sound of his knuckles tapping the door.
I don’t know what it means.
I don’t want to know what it means.
And I hate how badly I want to ask him.
He pushes open the door on the left, reclaims my wrist, and pulls me inside.
It’s a bright and clean room with a massage table sitting dead center, flanked by white shelves lined with rows of neatly rolled towels. A diffuser puffs lavender mist into the air. Only two other people are inside, both dressed in white. One is an older man with a serious face and a short, graying beard whose attention is fixed on the oils he’s lining up on a metal tray.
“Karl,” Luc says by way of introduction, clapping the guy on the shoulder like they’re old pals. “This is Petit Crews.” He jerks a thumb at me. “He’s taking my spot today. Had a bad crash and wrecked his hip, probably needs a deep session.”
The woman next to Karl scowls. She’s maybe in her early thirties, and her ash-blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail. I noticed her sharp blue eyes the second they flicked to us when we walked in. “Luc, can you please take the rat back already?”
She holds Toulouse out between us, straight-armed, but now he’s way too close to me, and I freeze.
Beady black eyes. Twitching whiskers. That long, naked tail curling like a question mark in the air between us.
I try not to recoil.
I really try.
But then a full-body shudder rolls down my spine.
“Ew. Get that thing away from me.” The words slip out before I can stop them, but at least I manage to keep my voice deep.
Luc spins on me, looking like I just kicked a puppy.
“He’s not a thing,” he snaps, eyes hard. “He’s my son. So, shut up.”
With gentle coaxing and soft French murmurs, he scoops Toulouse back like he’s the most precious thing in the world. The rat immediately scrambles up his arm and sits on his shoulder, looking perfectly smug about the whole ordeal.
Like father, like son.
Luc strokes his little head once, then waves lazily at Karl as if nothing happened.
“Go on,” he says. “Do your thing.”
I balk. “No. God, Luc, I told you I don’t want to.”
He takes a step toward me. “You don’t want to,” he says gently. “But you need to.”
Taking me by surprise again, he grabs the hem of my hoodie. I move to stop him, but not fast enough. His fingers are already lifting the fabric, exposing my skin.
“See?” Luc says to Karl. “Crashed right on the…”
The bruise is already more widespread than it was an hour ago, but that’s not what stops him mid-sentence because the bruise isn’t the only thing he sees. His eyes are locked on my scars, faint surgical lines, some deep, some small, but they’re all over my hip and lower abdomen.
His gaze traces them slowly, like they’re a map, and the air in the room shifts, becoming tighter, hotter.

Luc crouches down and lifts the hem a little higher to follow the line of a jagged scar that curves up toward my ribcage as his breath brushes my skin, making my heart slam against my ribs.
“Merde,” he whispers, seeming too stunned to say anything else.
I snap out of it and swat his hand away, yanking the hoodie down hard. My face is burning, and my lungs ache with the weight of what he just saw, what I never meant for anyone to see. Silence fills the room until…
Hiccup.
Bury me already.
Luc’s eyes snap back to mine, soft and intense, but full of questions I’m not ready to answer.
Before he can decide which one to ask, the blonde woman steps in. “I’ll take this session.”
Luc turns toward her, his brows pulling together. “What?”
“You can have your massage with Karl. I’ve got a free hour. I’ll work with him.”
Luc blinks. “Really?”
“I don’t want—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Delacroix’s right.” She steps forward and catches my forearm. “You need the session, or your body’s going to seize up by tomorrow.” She squeezes gently, and her eyes meet mine. There’s a glint in them, a silent play along.
What the fuck is going on?
“Ah…” Luc smirks, cocking his head. “You’ve got a thing for younger guys, Piper? Just don’t steal him. I’m starting to like having him around.”
The woman, Piper, rolls her eyes hard enough that it should be audible. “Shut up, Delacroix.”
She guides me out of the room and through the second door, into a smaller room.
“I don’t⁠—”
“Relax,” she cuts me off gently as the door clicks shut behind us but doesn’t let go of me until I’ve stopped moving. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Studied the body inside and out. I know my way around anatomy.”
Fuck.
My breath stutters in my throat. I can’t seem to pull in a full one.
“Don’t worry. Karl was too distracted by the bruising and those scars,” she continues, like she didn’t just figure out my secret.
Shit. Shit.
Panic claws up the inside of my ribs like it’s trying to dig out. Stepping back automatically, my legs brush the edge of the massage table.
I feel exposed, cornered, and caught, and my body screams at me to run.
Piper just watches with her arms crossed, not crowding me, only waiting for me to settle myself.
“I’ll keep your secret.”
I blink. “W-why?”
She shrugs, casual but not careless. “I’m just… interested. You would easily be the best female rider on the circuit, but you’re riding with the guys. And you’re good.” She lets that sit, then tilts her head. “So what’s the angle, Crews? Why does it feel like no one else knows what I do?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“But there is an angle.”
I nod. Barely.
“Someone in particular?”
Another nod.
“Delacroix?”
I shake my head so fast it’s almost a reflex.
“Good,” she mutters. “I like the idiot.”
It’s so unexpected, I let out a half-laugh.
Yeah, I guess I do too.
She grins and turns to prep the table, lowering it and laying out fresh towels. “Get undressed. I’m gonna work your hip and back. And I’m making room for you in my schedule from now on. We’ll have to do it in the evenings, though, I’m pretty booked.” I just stare at her when she glances back over her shoulder. “If you want to kick the male riders’ asses, you’ll need a physio,” she says. “And I’m guessing you can’t exactly have anyone else doing your sessions without blowing your cover.”
“Why… why are you doing this?”
She pauses.
Then, with a little smile. “Honestly? This is my last season with the circuit. I’m bored. And you?” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re the most interesting thing I’ve seen in the last five years.” Something in my chest unknots just a little. “Maybe someday you’ll tell me,” she adds, smile deepening. “Or maybe I’ll just wait and see.”
I can’t help it, I grin a real one.
Dane is going to kill me for this. If he finds out, but the truth is, she already knows. And somehow, she’s not looking at me like I’m crazy or broken. She’s simply… curious.
There’s nothing left to do now but trust this sharp-eyed stranger who caught me mid-fall and didn’t flinch.
So I take a breath and pull off the hoodie.

37%

He’s always doing that. Always fixing something. Adjusting, tweaking, and tuning like the whole bike will fall apart if he doesn’t touch it every five minutes, and the longer I watch, the more annoyed I get.
Because what the hell is he trying to prove?
“I just don’t understand how he’s so damn fast,” I mutter. “He looks like a teenager. And have you noticed how⁠—”
“No,” Dad cuts in, voice dry as dust. “I haven’t noticed.” He glances up at me before going back to polishing. “Mase, I know you love to obsess over everything… your stats, your training, your lines. But I’ve never seen you obsess over another rider like this.”
“It’s not⁠—”
“So what if he’s small?” he asks, cutting me off. “He’s a good rider. That’s all, and you were never one to blame others for your time. He was just faster today. Doesn’t mean he will be tomorrow during the race. Give it your best and stop obsessing.”
Obsessing? Hardly.
I’ve been riled up by riders before. Luc, definitely. Raine, absolutely. But this?
This is different.
Mini Crews gets under my skin in a way I can’t explain because he’s got no business outdriving me and being fucking nice about it.
And I hate that the weird little guy jumped in to defend me. Twice. I didn’t ask for it. Didn’t need it, and he got hurt for it. Thrown down hard because of something I was in the middle of.
It looked bad too. I watched him puke before limping off like he was barely holding himself together. And what does he do today?
Qualifies third, above me, as if nothing happened.
I grip my cup tighter. “I’m not bloody obsessed.”
Dad keeps working, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’re talking an awful lot about that kid for someone who’s not obsessed.” I shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t even blink. Not even a flinch, of course not. “Do you have a crush on him?”
“No.” My face heats immediately. “What the fuck?”
When everything fell apart last year, I came out to my dad like it was part of the wreckage. Figured if he was going to lose everything because of me, he deserved to know all there is to know about me. No secrets. He knows I’m bi, but we don’t talk about it. Ever. I’d like for it to stay that way.
And I’m not crushing on Mini Crews. Nuh-uh. Not happening.
“You can tell me. I’m hip,” Dad continues, totally unfazed. “One time when I was younger, before your mom, there was a motocross race, and I got too drunk and…”
“Dad!” I groan, slapping a hand over my face. “I don’t want to hear that.”
“Just saying.” He shrugs. “Whatever floats your boat, son.”
“Crews doesn’t.”
“Okay. Why are you obsessing then? Is it because he punched Delacroix for you?”
“Didn’t ask him to,” I mutter. “And that wasn’t a punch. That was a flailing attempt at violence. He slapped him like someone trying to swat a wasp. He has no idea how to fight.”
“Well, fuck. That makes it even more impressive. Maybe the kid’s never had anyone show him how.”
I huff out something like a laugh. “Yeah, well, you made sure I knew how to throw a punch by the time I was ten.”
“And look how well that turned out.”
He grins, but I don’t.
“You know,” he adds casually, “I remember when you were a junior, all bright-eyed and mouthy. Used to look up to a certain Crews back then.”
I groan. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting. You looked at Dane Crews like he hung the bloody moon.”
“I did not.”
He gives me a knowing look.
Okay, maybe a little, ’cause yeah, Dane Crews was my hero, everyone’s, really. Back when I was in juniors, he was the guy in downhill mountain biking. Untouchable. Legendary on a bike.
Getting signed to Crews Bikes was the dream, the endgame, the goal I built everything around, until the team imploded before I even got my shot.
“Maybe now you’ve got your own fanboy,” Dad suggests. “No harm in that.”
“He’s not a fanboy,” I grumble, frowning into my cup. “He’s kicking my arse. And I just can’t figure out his angle.”
“Why would he need an angle?”
“Why else would he be on my side?”
I don’t say, no one is on my side anymore besides you.
Dad shrugs, that kind of shrug that somehow manages to say both maybe you’re right and you’re being ridiculous in equal measure.
“I don’t know, maybe because being associated with you is such a good look,” he says with a smirk.
I scowl harder.
“Or maybe…” he adds, setting the tool down with a little clink, “… this kid just has a spine.”
“Or he’s an idiot,” I counter.
Dad glances over at me, quiet for a beat.
“I didn’t believe it,” he says softly. “Does that make me an idiot too?”
I flinch.
Fuck.
The words dig in somewhere deep, pressure against something that already hurts. Dad leans back in his chair, eyes tilted up toward the sky like the constellations will offer him backup. “All I’m saying is, it’s okay to make new friends. Not everyone’s out for you.”
“Sure feels like it, though,” I mutter, feeling that familiar pang in my chest. The one I can’t name without sounding pathetic. It just sits there, heavy, old, and stupid.
He brushes his hands off on a rag as he gets up. “From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re the hang-up here. Not the guy who’s trying to be your friend.”
I don’t reply, but my eyes do wander to where the obsessive little gremlin is still crouched over his bike, seemingly checking the bolts again. When the light inside their bus goes out, he clicks on his flashlight.
“That’s my cue.” Dad nods toward the van. “You coming?”
I should, but maybe Dad is right and Mini Crews isn’t playing some long game, maybe he’s just decent. Or I just haven’t spotted his angle yet.
Only one way to find out.
“In a minute.”
Dad smirks before he turns away. “Night.”
“Night.”
I wait until I hear the van door slide shut and the soft sounds of him settling inside fade into stillness before making my move. I stand, set my glass down, wipe my palms on my thighs, once. Twice. And head toward Mini Crews. He doesn’t seem to notice me until I lean my weight against the bus beside him, making him startle.
“How’s your hip?” I ask quietly.
He blinks at me, wearing a deer-in-the-headlights look, apparently stunned that I’m talking to him.
Right, this is a first for us.
“I’ll surv…” he starts, sounding squeaky before clearing his throat and dropping his voice an octave. “I’ll survive.”
I stifle a laugh.
Not just because of the voice, which, let’s be honest, is kind of hilarious, but because of the words. I’ll survive. That’s been my mantra all year.
Whispered between races when people talked about me as if I couldn’t hear them, into my pillow on sleepless nights, scraped into my bones like a goddamn brand.
I’ll survive this.
I nod toward the bike. “You done with that?”
He glances down. “Yeah. For an hour or so.”
Okaaay.
Mini Crews grabs the handlebars and rolls it quietly to the back of the bus. He pops open the back door, lifts the bike in like it’s made of glass, and locks everything up tight before turning back to me.
I gesture with my chin. “Come on.”
He blinks. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere no one can see us.” I start walking away from the vans. “Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea and kick us off the circuit.”
He frowns, but doesn’t argue or even ask. He just follows.
Huh.
Either he really doesn’t believe the rumors, or he’s stupid enough to follow a guy accused of assault into the dark without blinking.
Ballsy or daft.
When we’re close to the side entrance of the hotel, he glances at me. “You want to go inside?”
“We’re going to the gym.”
“The gym?” He narrows his eyes. “Is that even allowed?”
I shrug. “Yeah. Why shouldn’t it be?”
“We’re privateers.” He looks baffled. “This is the hotel for the media and the teams.”
“And the circuit pays every hotel they’re staying in for the season to keep the gym open all week for all riders. It’s not exclusive. How do you not know that?”
“It wasn’t like that seven years ago.”
I stop walking. “How would you know?”
Something flickers across his face, too fast to pin down. “Dane told me about it.”
Right.
“Anyway…” I start toward the entrance again, “… we’re not breaking any rules. Relax.”
We move through the quiet hotel, all polished floors and too-bright lighting. The gym is nearly empty, except for one guy jogging on a treadmill, too absorbed in his headphones to notice us.
As we walk past the mirrored wall, I glance over at Mini Crews again.
He only comes up to about my nose. There’s no way to tell whether he’s got muscle under the oversized hoodie he’s always wearing when he’s not in a race jersey, but I know he has to have. You don’t ride this level without it. I’m lean, too, but I can throw a punch when I need to.
Let’s see if he can.
We head to the back where the mats are, and I stop, then turn to face him. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
He looks around before his brown eyes come back to me. “Do what?”
“I don’t want you jumping into my shit again. But if you do, you can’t just slap a guy over the helmet. That’s not…” I scrub a hand over my face. “That’s not a good look. Not for me. Not for you.”
He winces. “Sorry.”
“You ever thrown a real punch before?”
“Sure have,” he says, way too fast, making me squint at him. He clears his throat. “Maybe just… not so recently.”
Why is this guy so obsessed with looking and sounding tougher than he is?
I step onto the mat and motion for him to join me. He does, dragging his feet just a little. As he steps up, he pushes the sleeves of his hoodie higher, and I get a proper look at the tattoos I’ve only ever caught flashes of before.
I’d assumed they formed some random dark pattern, abstract, maybe geometric, something edgy for the sake of it, but it’s not.
It’s flowers.
Flowers I recognize from too many childhood hours in overgrown gardens. Cosmos. Cornflowers near the elbow. Something like forget-me-nots winding down his forearm. The ink is dark and bold, like he tried to turn flowers into armor.
My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I have to shake my head once to clear it.
Weird kid. Weird vibe. Weird choice.
I square my stance and wave him closer. “Fists up.”
He mimics me, but one hand is too high, the other is sagging, and his elbows are flared like chicken wings.
God, he really is like a baby deer. All startled stares and shaky legs.
I huff a laugh. “You’re not in a Disney montage. Let’s fix your stance.”
Stepping closer, I lift his arm by the elbow, and he tenses immediately, breath catching in a tiny hitch. I glance at him, but he’s looking dead ahead, eyes wide and locked on some invisible threat across the gym.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he blurts, voice way too high again. Then clears his throat. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Right.” I guide his fists into place. “Even if you don’t want to get into a fight, sometimes you just need to know how to hit something without hurting yourself.” I instruct him to shift his weight to the balls of his feet, then nudge his back leg slightly with mine.
He gasps again.
“What is with you?” I ask, half-amused. “You allergic to contact?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
“Expect it. A punch is physical. You think a guy’s going to ask permission before throwing hands?”
He nods, then blows out a breath. “Right.”
“Okay. Watch me.” I step back, take my stance again, and show him a proper jab. Then I do it again, slower. “Now you.”
He mimics it, and it’s not terrible, but it’s not great either.
“You punch like a T-Rex,” I mutter.
“I do not.”
“Short arms with poor rotation and no follow-through.”
He tries again, this time stepping into it a little more. There’s some force behind it, and okay, maybe he’s stronger than he looks, but the form is still off.
I move in behind him and put my hands on his shoulders, adjusting them. “You need to pivot through the hips.” I lower my voice as I guide the movement. “Like that. Tight core, drive from the back leg.”

He stiffens as if I just whispered a death sentence in his ear.
I sigh. “What now?”
“N-nothing.” His face is a little red, though. Ears pink.
What in the world?
I step back and let him go at it again. He punches the air with a little more aggression this time, like he’s angry.
Better.
“Okay, you’re still locking your upper body too much. You’re not going to generate power like that. You’ve got to rotate more.” My fingers push against the front of his hoodie to reposition his upper body.
But the second I make contact with his chest, he flinches like I burned him and jerks back. By the time I blink, he’s three full steps away, eyes wide and locked on me like I’m something dangerous.
I freeze, and my hands hover in midair before I slowly raise them, palms out. “Whoa, mate.”
His mouth opens, then shuts again, before his gaze flicks to the exit, then back to me.
Fuck.
I should have asked for permission to touch him. Now he thinks I’m exactly what they say I am. It hits like a fucking body blow, and something cold cracks open in my chest. Because yeah, I’ve gotten used to the whispers, the side-eyes, the way people pull back like I might snap. But not from him.
God, please don’t let him be afraid of me.
Keeping my movements slow, I lower my hands and start to turn away, but then he blurts out, “It’s not you.”
My jaw tightens. “Sure, it’s not.”
“No, I mean it. It’s not you.” He takes half a step toward me. “It’s a me problem, okay? I don’t like…” he swallows, “… I don’t like people touching my chest. That’s all. It’s not about you.” He’s wide-eyed and breathing hard. “I’m sorry I made you think that.”
“Okay,” I say finally, hesitantly, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. My gaze drops to the mats beneath us, and my fingers twitch uselessly. I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t know what to do with any of this.
The rubber soles of Mini Crews’s shoes whisper against the mat as he fidgets. Then, quietly, he asks, “Why don’t you tell them?”
My head lifts. “Tell who what?”
“That you didn’t do it.” His voice is soft but steady now, like he’s made up his mind to ask this. “Why do you let Delacroix and the others talk shit like that?”
I stare at him. No one’s ever asked me that before. Not straight out to my face, not like this. I open my mouth, then close it again.
Not knowing how else to respond, I ask, “Why do you think I should?”
“Because it’s not fair how they treat you,” he says, like it’s that simple.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you didn’t do it.”
I huff a sound that might be a laugh but feels more like a cough. “Who says that?”
“I say it,” he fires back, and it’s sharp in that nasally voice of his. “And you should too. Why don’t you? Why don’t you tell them to fuck off and that what they say isn’t true?”
“Because I believe in believing victims.” My gaze finds the mat again. My hands are fists now, clenched at my sides, not from anger but something heavier.
Nobody understands. But how could they?
Whenever I try to defend myself, it feels like I’m betraying that belief.
And it wouldn’t matter anyway. She wrecked my life with a single sentence. No proof, no charges. Just her word. And in a world that rightly believes victims, that was enough. The only way this stain will come off will be if she stands up and says she made it all up, and I know that’s never going to happen.
“And what if I believe you’re the victim in this case?”
Fuck.
My throat burns at his words, and my eyes sting. I clench my jaw, hard, like that’ll stop it, and I can bite the emotion back into place. I shouldn’t feel like this, not because of him or anyone. I’ve held it together this long, I’ve survived the stares, the silence, the suspicion. I’m supposed to take the hits and keep going, not fall apart because one guy looked at me like I’m not the villain.
I can’t handle this anymore.
“Don’t,” I say, but it’s barely audible.
Mini Crews tilts his head. “What?”
“Don’t say that. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need pity. I don’t need you standing up for me like I’m some wounded dog that can’t fight his own battles.”
His eyes widen, lips parting in preparation to speak, but I keep going. Louder. Maybe if I shout loud enough, it’ll drown out everything else.
“I don’t need you to take my side, do you understand? Didn’t bloody ask for that. I didn’t ask you to get between me and Delacroix, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to look at me like I’m something broken that needs fixing. I don’t need this.”
My chest heaves as I grit out, “I need nobody.”
The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s thick.
Mini Crews shifts his weight. “Good thing I am a nobody, then.”
That little shit.
The balls on him.
I spin on my heel and bolt.
It’s not a graceful exit, not some cool, composed retreat. I run out of the gym like a fucking coward, away from the heat in my throat and the crack in my chest. I don’t stop until the air outside hits like punishment, scraping through my lungs.
I stand there alone, breathing hard.
And I don’t look back.
Because if he follows, I’ll either say too much or nothing at all.
And either one of them might break me.