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She’s done.

He turns to her like he didn’t hear right. Sweat and blood have made his hair stick to his forehead. “What? No. I’m not going anywhere until—”

“Leave. This is my house. My life. You don’t get to blow it up just because you don’t like who I’m with.”

For a beat, he just stands there. Breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like a bellows. Then he throws me a final glare, one thatpromises this war isn’t over, and stomps down the driveway. His footsteps echo off the concrete like gunshots.

The second his truck peels off, the air collapses. The fight leaves my body like steam off a cracked pipe. My hands shake as the adrenaline fades, leaving me hollow and aching. Griffin’s blood is under my fingernails, dark and sticky. My own blood coats my teeth.

This is exactly the kind of shit Dawson warned me about. The kind of behavior that ends careers. But I can’t bring myself to care about hockey right now. Not when there’s a baby growing inside the woman standing three feet away from me.

And then it’s just me and her.

I can still taste blood. My jaw aches with every heartbeat. But it’s nothing compared to the weight behind her eyes.

She turns, walking to the door. Fumbling with her keys. Her hand trembles so badly the keys jingle like wind chimes. The sound cuts through me worse than Griffin’s fists did.

The sight of her shaking sends something protective surging through me. I want to reach out, steady her, but I don’t know if I have the right anymore. My hands are still bloody. Still violent.

“Come inside,” she says, without looking at me.

I follow.

Her place smells like her. Lemon and something sweet—vanilla, maybe. It hits me like a brick to the ribs, making my chest tight with want and fear and something I can’t name.

I drop into the couch when she gestures for me to sit. My muscles scream from the fight. My heart from everything else. The cushions are soft, probably expensive. Nothing like the hand-me-down furniture I grew up with.

“This is insane,” I mutter, pressing my palms against my eyes until I see stars. “I don’t even know where to start.”

She lowers herself next to me. Stiff. Careful. Like she’s afraid we’ll combust if we touch. Her scent wraps around me, making my skin prickle with awareness despite everything.

The space between us feels like a chasm. Three feet might as well be three miles.

Then she says it:

“I’m the girl from that night. The masked party.”

My stomach plummets. Even though I knew—reallyknew—hearing her say it out loud punches the air from my lungs.

I nod. “I know.”

She stares. “You… what?”

“I knew the second you moaned. That first time. In your office. It wrecked me. I tried to put it out of my mind, convince myself that it wasn’t you.”

“ But my body knew.”

The memory slams into me like an open-ice hit—clean, brutal, impossible to ignore. The way her back arched when I touched her. The sound she made when I kissed her neck—breathless and desperate. I’d replayed that night so many times it was burned into my DNA, tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

Her mouth opens, but no words come. I can see her pulse fluttering in her throat like a trapped bird.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, rubbing my jaw where it’s already starting to swell. “I left that morning because I didn’t know how to handle it. I thought maybe it was just sex. That I could bury it. Pretend it didn’t mean anything. But the second I walked out, I knew I was full of shit.”

The words feel like confession. Like admitting to a crime I’ve been carrying around for months. My voice comes out rougher than I intend, scraped raw by everything I’ve been swallowing.

She’s quiet. Her breathing is shallow, uneven. I don’t know if she’s going to cry or scream or bolt for the door.

“I should’ve told you,” I say. “But I couldn’t find the right time. And then I realized… there isn’t one. This is messy. It’s fucked. But I’m not leaving again.”