Page 14 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

T he drive is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Just…still. The kind of quiet that feels suspended, like the world’s holding its breath with us.

Lyla’s tucked into the passenger seat, hair damp and messy from the shower she barely finished.

The overhead lights from passing intersections cast soft glows over her skin, flickering like frames in a film reel.

I glance over, and that’s when I notice it.

Her right thumb, pressing into the center of her left palm. Over and over.

It’s subtle. But rhythmic. Almost practiced.

She’s spiraling again.

I don’t say anything. Just reach across the console and slide my hand into hers, weaving my fingers between hers like I’ve done it a hundred times.

She goes still.

But doesn’t pull away.

Her thumb pauses mid-press, resting now against my skin.

She stares down at our joined hands for a second. A long, weighted beat. And then— Her lips twitch. Just the faintest upward curve.

She turns her face toward the window, but not before I catch it.

And for some reason, that one tiny smile—barely there, but real—settles something in my chest I didn’t know was restless.

I don’t know what this is. But I know I don’t want to let go.

Not just yet.

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hum above us as we push through the entrance. Lyla grabs a basket instead of a cart—she says it makes it easier to feel in control of the list in her head. I let her lead the way, trailing half a step behind as we navigate the empty late-night aisles.

We pass the pharmacy section, and I clock the bright neon signs—pain relievers, razors, condoms.

I don’t say anything at first, but then I raise a brow and nudge her with my elbow. “Should we restock? You know, in case next time you forget to cancel the booty call, and I actually show up prepared?”

She laughs under her breath, rolling her eyes. “You wish.”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about it.”

“Only so I could un-think it.” But she’s smirking now, that sharp spark back in her voice.

We keep walking, and I think that’s it—until she slows down in front of the tampons.

She eyes the shelves, scanning for her usual brand, then glances at me sideways. “You’re being alarmingly chill about walking through this aisle.”

I shrug. “I’ve lived with enough foster sisters to know what’s what. Not exactly traumatized by some cardboard boxes and pastel packaging.”

She snorts. “Wow. A man with emotional maturity and a functioning understanding of women’s bodies. You’re gonna ruin your reputation.”

I grin. “Too late. Already did that when I alphabetized your pantry.”

She laughs, real and unguarded this time, and something warm curls in my chest.

We move on toward the frozen section, the air cooling against our skin as we step into the glow of freezer doors.

“Pick your poison,” I say, opening one of the glass doors with a flourish.

She peers in, all faux-serious. “Do not underestimate the power of a well-timed mint chip.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”

And when she grabs the pint and drops it into the basket, her fingers brush mine—and neither of us pulls away.

The faint sound of voices outside the apartment door snap me out of whatever daze I’d fallen into. I glance at the screen—still muted chaos—and then down at Lyla.

I lean in gently. “Hey,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles lightly against her arm. “Lyla, wake up.”

She stirs, eyes blinking open. “What?—”

“I think Madison and Jaxon just got back. I heard them outside.”

Her eyes go wide in an instant. “Shit.”

She’s up in a flash, pushing her hair behind her ears and shoving me toward the hallway.

“Go—my room. Quick.”

I hesitate. “Lyla?—”

“Please, Carter. Just—go. I’ll handle it.”

And maybe it’s the way she avoids looking at me. Maybe it’s the shift in her tone, like she’s trying to undo everything that happened between us tonight.

Either way, it stings.

I slip into her room, but I don’t stay there. Not for long.

A tight breath leaves my lungs as I glance at the window.

Screw it.

I unlatch it and climb out, careful not to make a sound as I descend the fire escape.

But when my feet hit the pavement and I start toward my Jeep, I freeze.

Jaxon’s leaning against it, arms crossed, watching me with that knowing smirk he wears so damn well.

“Busy night?” he says, lifting a brow.

And just like that, my chest tightens again—for a whole different reason.

“Don’t start,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair as I approach.

He smirks but doesn’t push. “Didn’t think you were the type to sneak out of a window.”

“I’m not.” I unlock the door, then pause, glancing back at him. “But I also didn’t want to get caught playing hide-and-seek with Madison’s best friend.”

Jaxon huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

We stand there for a beat, just breathing in the cool night air. The street’s quiet, moonlight cutting long shadows across the lot.

“You good?” he asks, softer now.

I nod, even though I’m not sure I am.

“Cool,” he says, pushing off the car. “Let’s get out of here before someone sees you doing the walk of shame.”

I roll my eyes but follow him anyway, sliding into the driver’s seat as he climbs into his own truck and heads for the house.

Later that week we’re back in the athletic building recouping after morning weight lifting, waiting on smoothies from the place near the student center. I’ve got my hoodie pulled low, earbuds in but no music playing, when I hear her voice.

Lyla.

She’s standing a few feet away, talking to Jaxon.

“For my marketing class. It’s this whole NIL project thing, kind of like a mock rep situation. I just need someone to be the client.”

“I’d do it,” Jaxon says, scratching the back of his neck. “But between practice, film, and everything else…I don’t have a lot of time.”

My body moves before my brain catches up.

“I’ll do it.”

They both look over. Jaxon smirks like he already knows my angle.

Lyla blinks. “You?”

“Yeah,” I say, stepping in. “I’ve got time.”

It’s not entirely a lie.

Jaxon claps me on the shoulder. “Perfect. You’ll be in good hands. Lyla’s a psycho about spreadsheets.”

“I’m organized,” she corrects, arching a brow at me like she’s already second-guessing the offer.

But she doesn’t say no.

And maybe I should’ve played it cool. Maybe I should’ve let someone else be her test dummy.

But the truth is, I want the excuse.

To talk to her more.

To see her more.

She crosses her arms, one brow still lifted. “Just so we’re clear—this project is a huge part of my grade. I need someone who’s going to actually show up and take it seriously. If you’re just trying to be cute or whatever?—”

“I can be cute and committed,” I say, flashing a grin. “I’ll give it my best. Promise.”

She doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker of amusement behind her eyes. “Good. Then I’ll need access to your social media. Especially Instagram. If I’m supposed to manage your image, I need to see what kind of train wreck I’m dealing with.”

“Train wreck? Damn. Brutal.”

She holds out her hand. “Login.”

I fish my phone from my pocket, open the app, and hand it to her without a second thought. “Go wild.”

She scrolls for a second, then her eyes narrow. “You have like…a hundred unread messages. From girls. Going back months.”

I lean against the wall casually. “And?”

“You don’t answer any of them?”

I push off the wall, take a slow step forward, and rap my knuckles against it twice. A subtle, sharp sound that makes her blink up at me.

“Got my eyes on someone else,” I say simply.

Then I walk off, hands in my pockets, not bothering to look back.

Because I don’t need to see her face to know she’s watching me go.