The morning of the championship, Vanessa was already pacing in front of the window when the knock came.
She didn't need to check. She knew it was him.
Ethan stood on the porch, hoodie half-zipped, gym bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Calm. Steady. As always.
She opened the door and stepped out before her mother could—
Too late.
"Oh! There's your boyfriend!" her mom called out from the kitchen, far too loud and definitely intentional. "He looks so handsome today. "
Vanessa groaned. "Mom."
"I'm just saying! A girl should bring home someone who can take a punch and give one." A pause. "Can he cook, too?"
Ethan smirked over her shoulder. "I make decent food."
Vanessa turned, exasperated. "Stop encouraging her."
He shrugged. "She's got a point."
She elbowed him lightly as they made their way to his car.
The drive was short, but the silence stretched between them for a while, comfortable in the way silence gets when it's earned.
Ethan tapped the steering wheel with one hand. The other rested on the gearshift like he wasn't even thinking about it. "You ready?"
Vanessa exhaled slowly. "I think so."
"You are." He glanced at her. "You've been ready for weeks."
"Yeah, well... doesn't stop my stomach from trying to climb out of my throat."
"That's just adrenaline." He paused. "Use it. Channel it. You've already done the hard part."
"What, training with you?"
He smirked. "Exactly. If you can survive six months of me making you run drills at 6 p.m., you can handle anyone in that ring."
She grinned despite herself. "That's not exactly comforting."
He looked at her again, this time more serious. "You've already proven yourself, Ness. Last year was just a taste. Today—you own it."
She nodded, pressing her palms against her thighs to ground herself. His confidence in her always hit somewhere deeper than her bones.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
"Don't thank me until you win."
She looked over at him, mouth quirked. "Cocky."
"Confident," he corrected.
The stadium buzzed with energy—sharp and crackling, like electricity in the air before a storm.
Vanessa's name was called.
She stepped onto the mat with the calm of someone who had bled, bruised, and broken limits behind closed doors. This wasn't nerves anymore. This was purpose.
Her opponent moved fast—sharp angles and eager strikes—but too wide, too open, too fresh. Vanessa saw it all before it happened, her instincts shaped by hours and hours in Ethan's gym, facing down someone faster, stronger, more relentless.
She didn't rush.
She waited.
One breath.
Then she moved.
A clean step, a pivot, and her fist connected with her opponent's side—controlled, not reckless. Enough to make contact. Enough for the point.
The scoreboard blinked. She didn't look at it.
The match continued, her body a smooth current of memory and muscle. She anticipated each strike like a game she already knew the rules to.
She didn't let herself get emotional. Didn't let adrenaline take the wheel.
The final strike was a clean sweep—fast and low—and the match was over.
Vanessa bowed, chest rising in a steady rhythm. She didn't smile. Not yet. Not until she looked toward the edge of the mat, past the judges, past the crowd—and saw him.
Ethan, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
But when their eyes met, he gave the slightest nod.
The second match was harder.
The girl was taller. Leaner. Her movements were precise, less flashy but calculated. Vanessa recognized it instantly—this was someone who didn't rely on speed but on reading her opponent. A strategist. A mirror.
Midway through the match, Vanessa slipped.
Not a fall. Just a moment of hesitation. One missed cue. One breath too long.
The hit landed square against her side. Not hard enough to shake her, but enough to shake her focus.
She still won.
Barely.
When she stepped off the mat, breath ragged and jaw tight, Ethan was waiting near the water station. He handed her a towel like she hadn't just almost gotten her ribs caved in.
"You dropped your shoulder," he said, like it was weather commentary.
She glared at him. "I know."
"Then don't do it again."
Vanessa growled under her breath. "You're not even gonna say 'good job'?"
"You didn't fight like you." He handed her a bottle. "You fought like someone trying not to mess up."
She looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat along with a gulp of water. "I just didn't want to lose early."
"Don't fight not to lose." His voice softened slightly. "Fight to win."
The third match was redemption.
She didn't hold back.
She didn't wait for the perfect moment or let her fear of error drive her decisions. She trusted her instincts, trusted the weight in her limbs that came from months of repetition, the quiet strength in her core that Ethan had helped build from the ground up.
Three hits. Two blocks. One clean takedown.
Done.
This time, Ethan didn't say anything. Just clapped once as she walked past. But his eyes were warmer now. Proud, even if his mouth was still a straight line.
By the fourth match, her body was running on muscle memory and adrenaline. Her opponent was strong—compact, aggressive, with something to prove. Every strike was heavy. Every move forward was a declaration: I belong here.
So Vanessa matched her.
Strike for strike. Breath for breath.
And when the final point lit the board in her favor, it felt earned.
Back in the prep room, Ethan handed her a pack of grapes—half frozen, like he somehow knew that was the only thing she'd be able to stomach.
"I thought you said you were gonna win fast today," he said.
Vanessa dropped into the folding chair beside him, her legs practically humming. "That was fast."
He raised a brow. "You've got one more."
"I know."
"You don't need to blow her off the mat," he said. "Just do what you've been doing. Breathe. Think. Hit hard, and don't stop moving."
She leaned her head back against the cinderblock wall. "You think I can do this?"
He didn't look at her. Just said, quiet but certain, "You're the best fighter here."
Her heart did something strange at that.
The fifth match was all grit.
By now, the mat was practically tattooed into her soles. Her gi was damp at the collar, and her knuckles were raw beneath the wraps. The crowd had gotten louder. The air heavier.
The girl across from her had won just as many today. She looked sharp. Determined.
But Vanessa had something else now.
Not just training.
Not just discipline.
She had clarity.
Every punch, every shift of weight, every breath—she owned it.
It was close. Down to the wire. Each strike met with a counter, every mistake exploited. But Vanessa didn't falter. She didn't freeze. She stayed grounded.
And when the buzzer sounded and her hand was raised, the sound of the crowd fell away beneath the rush in her ears.
She was in the quarterfinals.
Back in the hallway, she found Ethan waiting against the wall, arms crossed, hair slightly mussed like he'd run his hands through it one too many times.
She didn't say anything. Just walked right up and leaned into him, forehead against his shoulder.
He didn't pull away.
Didn't say anything for a moment, either.
Then: "Quarterfinals are tomorrow."
"I know."
"You're gonna win them."
She smiled into the fabric of his hoodie. "You're cocky."
"I'm right."
She looked up at him, tired but glowing. "Thanks for today."
Ethan met her gaze, voice low. "Thanks for letting me be here."
It wasn't romantic. Not exactly.
But it didn't have to be.
Not yet.
Not when everything between them was still unfolding—match by match, word by word, something careful and unspoken slowly blooming in the spaces they didn't dare name.
The car ride home was quiet.
Not tense—just tired. Vanessa slumped in the passenger seat, forehead against the cool glass of the window. Her limbs felt like lead, her muscles ached in places she didn't even know had names, and her hair was still damp with sweat at the roots.
But her heart was light.
When they pulled into her driveway, she didn't move right away. Just sat there, breathing.
Ethan didn't rush her.
Eventually, she mumbled, "I think my bones are soup."
He smirked. "Good. That means you gave everything."
She groaned and opened the door, dragging herself out like a dying soldier. Her duffel bag flopped onto the porch, and she left it there without a second thought.
Her mom opened the door before she could knock. "There she is! My little black belt of destruction!"
Vanessa gave her a look. "Please don't make that a thing."
But then her dad appeared behind her mom, eyebrows raised. "Quarterfinals?"
"She's in," Ethan said, stepping forward like it was his victory too.
And then... he stayed.
He didn't just drop her off with his usual nod and a wave. He followed her inside, offered her parents a warm smile, and started talking.
Vanessa collapsed on the couch like a rag doll, throwing an arm over her eyes. She could hear him in the kitchen with her mom and dad—his voice low, steady, and so damn proud it made her chest squeeze.
"She held her stance the whole match," he was saying. "Didn't even flinch when she took a hit to the ribs. Turned it into a counter in under two seconds."
"She did?" her dad asked, genuinely impressed.
"She's got control now. Discipline. Even when the other girl tried to bait her—Vanessa stayed cool. Focused. That's not easy. Not in this kind of pressure."
Vanessa blinked up at the ceiling, something warm blooming just beneath her bruises.
"And then in her last fight," Ethan continued, "you should've seen her footwork. That pivot into the back sweep? Clean. Textbook. I wouldn't be surprised if she takes the whole bracket tomorrow."
Vanessa let out a muffled sound into a pillow. "Please stop talking like I'm not here."
Ethan called from the kitchen, "I thought you were unconscious."
"Just dead enough to be embarrassed."
He appeared around the corner, a glass of water in one hand. "Here."
She sat up slowly, took it, and sipped. "Thanks."
Her mother leaned over the couch, smiling fondly. "He talks about you like you're already a champion."
Vanessa groaned again. Louder this time.
But Ethan only chuckled, voice smooth and easy. "We're still working on her timing. Everything else is already there."
Vanessa choked on her water.
Her father just laughed. "Well, thank you. Really. For taking care of her out there."
Ethan nodded once. "Always."
And in that moment, as she looked up at him, tired and aching and flushed with something she didn't have the strength to name, Vanessa knew—
Tomorrow was going to be brutal.
But she wouldn't be facing it alone.
The venue felt different today.
Bigger, somehow. Colder. Quieter—not in volume, but in weight. Yesterday had been chaos. Back-to-back matches, athletes shouting, whistles blaring, scores called out in rapid succession. But today... today the matches were fewer.
And they mattered more.
Vanessa arrived the same time as yesterday, her duffel slung over one shoulder, hoodie zipped up to her chin. Her hands were already taped. Her mouth was dry.
She didn't need to be told what today meant.
The quarterfinals weren't about survival.
They were about dominance.
At 10 a.m., the first matches began. Vanessa stood in the prep area, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet as her name was called. Her eyes swept the stands—found her parents standing near the front rail, her dad waving like it was a little league game.
And beside them—Ethan.
Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
But his eyes were on her.
That was enough.
She exhaled hard, rolled her shoulders, and walked to the mat.
Her opponent looked older. Sharper. She moved like she'd been doing this since childhood—quick, efficient, zero wasted motion. And she didn't wait. The moment the ref dropped his hand, the other girl was on her.
A fist drove into Vanessa's chest.
Hard.
Too hard.
She misjudged it by an inch, thought it would land off-center—but it slammed just under her collarbone and knocked the air out of her lungs. The world went narrow for a second, a crack of static in her chest.
But she stayed on her feet.
Didn't stumble. Didn't retreat.
She swallowed the pain, bit down on the fire rising in her throat, and refused to let it twist her focus. Anger surged. It wanted to take over. Wanted to turn her reckless.
But she'd trained for this.
Ethan had drilled it into her. Stay sharp. Don't chase. Don't give them your temper.
So she backed off half a step. Breathed.
And waited.
The opponent moved in again, cocky now. Aiming to finish it quick.
She lifted her leg—too wide, too eager—and Vanessa saw it. The opening.
She swept.
Fast. Clean.
The other girl's foot came off the mat and Vanessa was already low, pivoting hard on her heel as her leg snapped around like a scythe. The girl dropped.
And Vanessa didn't hesitate.
One quick step, knee bent, body controlled—then a strike to the chest while the girl was still trying to rise. Focused. Precise.
Two points.
The ref blew the whistle, signaling a halt.
Vanessa stepped back, breathing hard but steady, every nerve alight.
From the corner of the mat, she could just barely hear someone shout.
It was Ethan.
"That's how you do it!"
Her lips twitched into a smile.
She didn't look at him—wouldn't give him the satisfaction—but she felt the warmth all the same, buzzing in her ribs right next to the bruise already forming beneath her gi.
She rolled her shoulders once, reset her stance, and got ready for the next exchange.
The match wasn't over yet.
The whistle blew, and they reset.
Vanessa flexed her fingers, shook out her arms. Her lungs still burned from that first hit, but her mind was clear—ice over fire. She could feel the shift in the girl across from her.
Anger.
The kind that bubbled behind the eyes and twisted form into force.
Good.
Let her get sloppy.
As the match resumed, the opponent came at her fast—hard strikes, low kicks, fists thrown like punches could win the war alone. But Vanessa's stance held. She absorbed each blow, let them glance off her arms, her shoulders, her guard firm as iron.
Control. Footwork. See it before it comes.
That voice in her head—steady, low, unmistakably Ethan's—kept her grounded.
The girl growled in frustration. Another fist swung wide, Vanessa blocked it with the edge of her forearm, pivoted, evaded.
And then—it happened.
She saw it before she understood it.
A breath too long. A pullback too deep. The girl drew her hand behind her body, coiling for a strike under Vanessa's ribs—same move, same spot.
She was going to do it again.
But this time, she overcommitted.
Left her chest wide open.
And Vanessa didn't think.
She moved.
Her body reacted before her brain could catch up—reflex, instinct, all those hours on the mat with Ethan flooding into muscle memory. Her leg snapped up, clean and brutal, heel angled perfectly.
The kick landed with a crack.
A full-bodied strike straight to the sternum.
The opponent's eyes went wide.
She staggered backward.
Then flew.
Feet skidding, arms flailing, she stumbled off the mat boundary, crashing to the ground outside the ring with a stunned thud.
The ref's whistle pierced the air.
Cheers erupted somewhere behind Vanessa—loud, sharp, full of her father's booming voice and her mother's shriek of surprise. But louder than them all was Ethan's single word:
"YES!"
Vanessa didn't smile.
Didn't move.
Just stood there, breath harsh in her throat, body locked in the perfect stance, watching as the other girl slowly pushed herself to her feet, dazed and wide-eyed.
Another point. Three total.
The crowd was murmuring now, the energy shifting in the room.
Vanessa was winning.
Not just surviving.
Owning the mat.
And as she walked back to center, eyes calm, limbs trembling only slightly beneath the fire in her veins, she knew—
This fight was hers.
And no one—not pain, not pressure, not even fear—was taking it from her.
The girl was still on the mat, chest heaving, arms trembling as she tried to push herself up.
The ref crouched beside her, speaking low. Vanessa couldn't hear what he said—didn't try to. She stood still, centered, every muscle humming with adrenaline, her lungs burning in short, sharp bursts.
She kept her eyes ahead. Kept her expression blank.
Then the ref stood.
He turned to the table. Raised both hands.
Two sharp whistles split the air.
And just like that—it was over.
He crossed the mat back toward her, face unreadable, and reached for her wrist. The gesture was firm, practiced.
Then he lifted her arm.
Cheers erupted behind her—familiar voices, loud and unfiltered. Her father shouting something in pride. Her mother yelling her name like it was the first word she'd ever spoken. Ethan didn't shout.
But she knew he was there.
She could feel him.
The ref dropped her hand. She bowed, respectfully, then turned to leave the mat.
As she stepped off the boundary, she caught the movement from the corner of her eye—her opponent, finally upright, being helped by her coach. Sweat clung to her brow, strands of hair stuck to her face. Her chest rose and fell like she'd run a marathon.
Vanessa didn't gloat.
She didn't need to.
But as she passed, the girl turned her head—still breathless, still hurting—and spoke, her voice hoarse but certain:
"I'll get you next time."
Vanessa paused only a heartbeat, then met her eyes.
There was no malice in them. No cruelty.
Just hunger.
Vanessa gave a small nod. "I'll be ready."
Then she turned away.
The mat fell behind her step by step as she crossed the floor toward the edge of the venue. Her pulse was still high, her body sore, her hands starting to shake now that the adrenaline was ebbing.
But none of that mattered when she saw them.
Her mother, eyes glistening. Her father, trying to act composed and failing entirely. And Ethan—
Ethan, arms crossed, leaning against the rail with that unreadable look that was quickly becoming her favorite thing.
Because she could see it.
The pride in the set of his jaw. The relief in his shoulders. The warmth tucked beneath the arch of his brow as his eyes landed on her.
She didn't need words.
She just walked up to him and bumped his shoulder with hers.
He let the silence linger for a beat, then said, quietly, "Told you your footwork would win the match."
Vanessa let out a breath, half a laugh. "Pretty sure it was the kick to the chest."
He shrugged, but his smile was sly. "Yeah. That too."
And as her parents stepped in to hug her, arms thrown around her like she was a kid again, Vanessa closed her eyes for a moment and let herself feel it—
The win.
The weight of it. The stillness after the storm.
Three other matches passed.
Vanessa watched them from the edge of the warm-up area, stretching slow and deliberate, nursing the soreness still blooming across her chest. The bruise ached when she moved too fast, but it was dull now—manageable. Just another part of the fight.
She'd iced it. She'd rested.
And now?
She was ready.
The announcer called her name over the loudspeaker, crisp and familiar now, like she belonged here—like this was where she'd always been meant to end up.
She made her way to the mat, mouthguard tucked under her tongue, hands taped, body loose but coiled beneath the surface. The crowd was thicker today. The semifinal crowd always was—full of scouts, local reporters, families of finalists, all holding their breath for the last bracket before the championship match.
Her parents were in the stands again, eyes locked on her with the kind of fierce pride that didn't need words.
But this time... she wasn't walking alone.
Ethan moved behind her, head down, hoodie unzipped halfway, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was regretting every life decision that brought him here. He stepped into the coaching area—barely three feet from the mat—and folded his arms, trying very hard to blend in with the wall.
It didn't work.
Not even a little.
Because less than a minute later, the commentator's voice cracked through the speakers—not with match stats, not with her record, but with a name.
"Wait a minute. Is that—Is that Ethan Smith?"
There was a ripple in the crowd. Heads turned. Cameras shifted. A quiet hum of recognition swept through the venue like wind through dry grass.
Vanessa blinked and looked back, eyebrows raised.
Ethan didn't move.
"Ladies and gentlemen—if you've been in the circuit for any length of time, you know that name. Ethan Smith—prodigy in the fighting world. State champion at twelve. National competitor by thirteen. Multiple disciplines, multiple black belts... and then—poof. Vanished."
More murmurs. The crowd was practically buzzing now. Even the ref glanced toward Ethan, recognition blooming slow across his face.
Ethan shifted his weight like the floor was too warm.
Vanessa could see the discomfort in him—shoulders a little too tight, jaw clenched just enough to register. She'd seen him face down opponents twice his size and not flinch.
But attention? Praise?
He hated it.
Her heart gave a strange little tug.
But then the ref gave the signal.
And the noise faded into the background.
Her opponent stepped onto the mat—taller, broader. Strong legs, sharp footwork. The kind of fighter that made every second count.
Vanessa took a breath. Deep. Slow.
The kind Ethan had drilled into her.
She turned back once—just enough to catch his eye.
He nodded.
No words.
Just that look—the one that said I know what you're capable of.
Then the whistle blew.
The match began.
Vanessa's breath was steady, her eyes locked onto her opponent, who moved with an eerie calm — every step deliberate, every motion fluid, precise. The tension between them was palpable, the air charged as if time slowed just enough to catch every nuance of their dance.
Neither faltered. They shifted in perfect sync, muscles coiled like springs ready to unleash. Then, without hesitation, they struck simultaneously — fists cutting through the air, a clash of intent and power. Vanessa's shoulder jolted as a sharp punch landed, but she barely registered the sting. Her opponent, momentarily winded, doubled over slightly, clutching her abdomen where Vanessa's own blow had landed hard.
They pulled back, muscles tense, eyes scanning, searching for a flaw. Vanessa's heartbeat thrummed in her ears, but her mind was razor sharp.
And then, she moved.
A swift strike followed by a kick — sharp, controlled, and ruthless. The opponent barely had time to react before the full force connected against her left rib cage. The impact sent a visible jolt through her, the wind knocked out, her guard shattered for the briefest moment.
Vanessa stood poised, sensing the shift — the fight was far from over, but the momentum had just tipped in her favor.
Vanessa scored two points; her opponent managed one. Both fighters slipped back into their stances, eyes sharp, breaths steady but heavy. The opponent's chest rose and fell a little faster, her body circling Vanessa cautiously, mirroring her every movement as if trying to read her through the subtle shifts.
They danced in that circle — cautious, tense, waiting for the other to make the first real move.
Suddenly, the opponent launched a quick kick. Vanessa blocked it cleanly, her arms snapping up like steel. She moved low, sweeping her leg out to trip, but her opponent was quicker—she leapt just in time, graceful and precise.
Before anything else could unfold, the sharp blast of the whistle cut through the tension. Vanessa glanced around and caught sight of the opponent's coach signaling the timeout.
Vanessa pivoted and made her way toward Ethan. Her gaze was eager, hungry for insight. "So, what advice do you have for me, coach?"
Ethan's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Stay away from her," he said simply. "She's strong with her fists and upper body, but her footwork's weak. Use that."
Vanessa nodded firmly, the fire in her eyes rekindled.
The whistle blew again, sharp and demanding — calling them back to the fight.
They returned to their fighting positions, the tension sharp between them. Vanessa remembered Ethan's words — stay away from her. She kept her distance, light on her feet, eyes reading every twitch, every breath from her opponent.
Then it came — the opening.
The girl lunged, throwing a punch with power behind it, but Vanessa slipped to the left with fluid grace. That was the moment. With precision and speed, she twisted her hips and launched a shin kick straight into her opponent's chest. The impact landed solidly, knocking the air out of her opponent and earning Vanessa her third point.
The girl stumbled back, shaken but still standing, fire returning to her eyes. The whistle blew — a halt.
A few moments passed, a beat of silence, and the whistle called them back in.
This time, the opponent came forward harder, her movements less measured, more desperate. She was wild now, chasing points, throwing another punch that aimed high.
Vanessa read it before it fully formed. She dipped just under the strike and answered with a tight, powerful punch of her own — her knuckles thudding squarely into her opponent's chest.
Another clean point. Her fourth.
The crowd stirred, and Vanessa held her stance, calm and ready, knowing the fight was tipping ever more in her favor.
The referee's whistle blew, sharp and commanding, bringing both fighters back to center. Vanessa slid into her stance with a calm poise, while across from her, the champion looked visibly unsettled. Her eyes narrowed, jaw tight — the confusion was growing. This wasn't the Vanessa she remembered. Gone was the reckless aggression. In its place stood someone composed, calculating... and dangerous.
The two circled. The champion lashed out with a punch — quick, but not careful. Vanessa slipped just out of reach with practiced ease and didn't retaliate. She stayed still. Waiting. Watching.
That hesitation unnerved the champion even more. Two points down, the weight of the scoreboard pressing against her pride, she began to move faster, less precise. Desperation crept into her form. Her movements, once refined and clean, now cracked with frustration. And Vanessa saw everything.
Then came the opening.
The champion lunged again, aiming a punch at Vanessa's chest — a clear, aggressive shot. But Vanessa moved at the exact right moment, sidestepping the strike and pivoting with grace and power.
Her fist drove forward like a piston, landing squarely on the champion's sternum. The sound of the impact echoed with a sharp thud, and the crowd reacted with a mix of gasps and cheers.
Another clean point.
The champion staggered back, winded and rattled — both from the hit and the realization that this fight was slipping through her fingers.
The champion staggered back, dazed and exposed, and the referee still hadn't blown the whistle — the match was still live.
Vanessa didn't hesitate.
With perfect control and timing, she followed her chest strike with a swift, arcing kick. Her foot snapped up and struck the side of her opponent's head with a crisp crack. The girl crumpled instantly, falling limp to the mat — unconscious.
A hush fell over the arena.
Vanessa stood still, chest rising and falling, her face unreadable but her eyes burning with fierce triumph. The scoreboard showed four points — not that it mattered anymore.
The referee knelt beside the fallen fighter, checked quickly, then gave a subtle nod. With two sharp blasts of the whistle, he signaled the end of the match and turned to raise Vanessa's hand high into the air.
Victory.
The crowd erupted.
Medics and the opponent's coach rushed onto the mat, lifting the unconscious champion onto a stretcher with practiced urgency. Vanessa watched only briefly before her gaze turned elsewhere — to the figure standing at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, pride gleaming in his eyes.
Ethan.
The trophy was handed to her, solid and gleaming in her grip. Vanessa barely had time to take it in before the adrenaline, relief, and pure joy took hold of her. She spun around, still breathless, and leapt into Ethan's arms, wrapping herself around him.
Then she kissed him — hard, full on the face, with every ounce of her victory and emotion poured into it.
The crowd roared louder.
Ethan laughed into her lips, one arm tight around her, the other catching the trophy as she half-dropped it between them. "Well," he murmured with a grin, "I guess that makes you the new champ."
Vanessa had never really thought much about winning state until that night. The idea had always felt distant—symbolic, like a trophy on a shelf she hadn't yet earned the right to look at. But now? Now it carried weight—real weight. It wasn't just about the title or the medal around her neck. It was about being seen. Being watched. Being measured in ways she hadn't expected.
And she felt it.
In the clink of expensive glassware. The murmur of layered conversations. The soft hum of piano drifting through the background like a soundtrack to a life she still wasn't sure she belonged in. The kind of restaurant her parents usually didn't have the money for, but tonight was different. This was for her. For the win. For the banner that would hang in the gym forever with her name on it. Everything was polished, perfect. People smiled too much. She sat at the center of it all, in a dress she didn't entirely pick, surrounded by people who were supposed to matter. Some did. Most didn't. She tolerated their hugs, their smiles, their too-loud congratulations.
But all of that faded the moment she saw him.
Ethan.
And it wasn't just that he showed up. It was how.
Gone was the black hoodie. Gone were the layers of silent rebellion, the muted tones he wore like armor. Tonight, he wore a dark blue shirt—fitted, deliberate, with the top buttons left casually undone. The color made his pale skin look sharper, his white hair like frost under the restaurant's warm lights. His tousled hair wasn't styled, not really, but somehow it worked—like everything about him tonight had been quietly, carefully thought through.
And no one recognized him.
Not at first.
Not the girls from school who had screamed on the sidelines like it made them part of the game. Not the boys who used to whisper about him in locker room tones. They looked at him—and paused. Squinted. Whispered. Because he wasn't supposed to exist like this. Not here. Not in her moment.
But Vanessa saw him. Instantly. Like gravity had shifted just slightly and her eyes found the one thing in the room that wasn't pretending.
She didn't think.
She moved.
Out of her chair. Past her parents. Past the banner and the balloons and the waitstaff trying not to stare. She walked straight to him—Ethan, her Ethan—and kissed him. No drama. No hesitation. Just lips against lips, soft and certain, like she'd done it a hundred times before and would do it a thousand more.
It was brief, but the impact was nuclear.
She felt it ripple outward, like a shockwave. The entire room stilled, breath held in collective disbelief. And then—noise.
"...That's Ethan?!" "Wait—Vanessa is dating him?" "No way, that's not—" "It is! You remember—he used to look like a ghost in a hoodie." "He looks... different." "He looks—hot."
The words reached her ears like echoes, but Vanessa was focused only on him. On the small curve of amusement tugging at his lips. On the way his eyes dipped to hers with quiet challenge and deeper questions he wasn't saying out loud.
"That was unexpected," he said, voice low, meant only for her.
She shrugged like her heart hadn't just tried to claw out of her chest. "Felt like it."
"You just wanted to shut them up, didn't you?"
Her smirk was answer enough. And he didn't fight it. He let her take his wrist, let her pull him through the minefield of judgment and confused stares, straight to the only people whose opinions she half cared about tonight—her parents.
Her father, who looked at Ethan like he was trying to solve a riddle. Arms crossed, not hostile—just curious. "So, you do clean up well."
Ethan tilted his head, just enough to show he was playing along. "I try."
Vanessa rolled her eyes, that familiar mix of fondness and exasperation curling in her chest. "You try to disappear, more like."
Her mother chuckled, warm but knowing. "It's nice to see you, Ethan. And in clothes that don't scream I hate you all."
"Thanks for inviting me," he replied simply, and Vanessa watched the way he stood—steady, polite, composed, even as the rest of the room tried to rewrite their memory of him in real time.
Her father gave him one last look, then smirked. "Come on then. Before your fan club starts foaming at the mouth."
Ethan glanced back, eyes scanning the stunned crowd still locked on them like they couldn't decide if this was a prank or a prophecy. His lips twitched. "Too late for that."
And then he sat beside her. With her.
In a space that, until now, had only ever belonged to her other life. The one with the fake friends and snide remarks about people. The polished version was new. But somehow, he fit.
The dinner went surprisingly well.
But her pulse still hadn't slowed.
Vanessa could practically feel the attention lingering on her skin like static, even as the night wore on. The aftershocks of earlier whispers and glances still echoed around the room, pressing in on her like invisible fingers. Her old "friends" were still piecing things together, their judgmental expressions flickering between confusion and barely concealed envy. She could see it all in their tight-lipped smiles, their sidelong looks—the way they pretended to be unbothered but couldn't help stealing glances at Ethan like he was an unsolvable puzzle they'd just realized they never had the pieces for.
Ethan William . Not just the name they used to mutter in the hallways with a sneer or a warning. Not the hoodie-wrapped enigma they dismissed without a second thought. Now, he was a revelation. An unexpected headline. An inconvenient truth they didn't know how to swallow.
And Vanessa?
She was the plot twist.
The girl who'd just won the state championship.
Now, here she was—celebrated, surrounded, scrutinized. And beside her was the boy no one could quite make sense of.
Her coworkers from the ice cream shop were more relaxed—cooler, easier. They didn't care much for high school drama or social rankings, but even they kept side-eyeing Ethan when they thought she wasn't looking. There was a stunned curiosity in their eyes, like they were trying to connect the dots between the girl who laughed while scooping Rocky Road and the quiet, dangerous-looking guy at her side. The kind of curiosity that always toed the line between awe and disbelief.
But Vanessa's parents? They were... happy. Suspiciously so. The kind of happy that came with too many knowing glances exchanged across the table. The kind of happy that made her feel like she was missing something—like they were in on a joke she wasn't part of yet.
And it gnawed at her, quietly.
Was it just that she'd found someone? Or did they know something—something about Ethan—that she didn't?
She wasn't ready to ask.
Because tonight was supposed to be hers. A celebration. A memory. And for once, she wasn't alone in it.
Ethan was there. Not the public version of him that made people stare. But hers. The one who touched her without hesitation when no one else was watching. The one who watched her like she was the only thing tethering him to the world. The one who spoke in dry wit and unexpected honesty. That Ethan. Her Ethan.
She'd fully expected him to slip out once the formalities ended. That was who he was—unapologetically private, never lingering where he didn't feel anchored. Crowds weren't his thing. Neither was noise. But tonight, he stayed.
He stayed.
And that fact alone buzzed in her chest like a secret she wasn't quite ready to share.
He didn't drink either, even when offered more than once—teasingly, curiously, even challengingly. He just shook his head with that small, unreadable smile and a soft, effortless refusal.
When she asked about it later, during a quiet moment near the edge of the room where the music didn't quite reach, he just shrugged.
"Never saw the point," he said. "Besides... someone has to stay sober in case things go south."
And that was such a him answer. Straightforward. Subtly protective. No drama, no explanation, just a quiet readiness that made her chest tighten in a way she wasn't used to. There were layers to Ethan—many she hadn't even touched yet—but that calm vigilance? That fierce, low-burning loyalty masked in sarcasm and indifference? That was the layer she'd fallen for.
But it wasn't the lack of alcohol that made him the center of gravity tonight.
It was the whispers.
They started subtly, like background noise. But then names started surfacing. Not just Ethan William , but Ethan Smith. And with that, everything changed.
The murmurs grew sharper. Louder. Curious glances morphed into blatant stares. Someone had Googled him. Probably more than one. And now the room was alive with half-truths and speculation.
"Wait, so he's that Ethan?"
"The Ethan Smith? The one with the dead parents?"
"No wonder he's rich."
"Why doesn't he act like it?"
"Why the hell is he with Vanessa?"
That last one—it almost made her snap.
The possessiveness it stirred in her was white-hot. Not jealousy. Not insecurity. Rage. Because they didn't get to question that. They didn't get to judge what they couldn't begin to understand.
She clenched her jaw, exhaled slow, and forced herself to let it slide.
Because she knew.
She knew what he was like in the moments no one else got to see. She knew how he thought, how he watched the world like it was a chessboard he was already six moves ahead on. She knew how his silence wasn't apathy—it was observation. She knew what it felt like to be seen by him, really seen, and still be wanted.
And that was enough.
It should have been enough.
Now the restaurant had thinned out. The air had calmed. Her chest was lighter after walking her coworkers to their cars beneath the stars, her hands still cold from hugging goodbye. The night should have ended peacefully, wrapped in her own little halo of pride and exhaustion.
But the second she stepped back inside—
Everything shifted.
They were seated near the bar—her parents and Ethan—laughing softly, like they were old friends swapping stories over bourbon. And for a brief, fragile second, Vanessa let herself believe it was okay.
Until she heard his voice.
"—and that's when I offered her the loan. With the three conditions, of course."
Her feet stopped moving. Her stomach dropped like a stone in water.
No. No, no, no—Ethan, what are you doing?
Her father gave a low chuckle, swirling the ice in his glass. "Eighteen percent interest rate, huh? Ruthless."
Ethan leaned back, casual and maddeningly self-satisfied. "Had to make sure she took it seriously."
Vanessa's lungs forgot how to breathe. Her spine stiffened as she stepped closer, her pulse hammering against her throat.
"And the last condition?" her mother asked, her voice warm with interest.
Don't say it. Ethan, please—don't—
"Oh," Ethan said, with a smile so smooth it made her want to punch and kiss him in the same breath. "That was just to guarantee she'd pay me back. She had to be my slave for a day if she didn't."
Silence.
Complete. Total. Shattering.
Her father raised an eyebrow, his grin slow and dangerous. "Slave, huh?"
Her mother gave a delighted, wicked smirk. "Oh, Vanessa. I had no idea you were into that kind of arrangement."
Vanessa felt the heat explode up her neck and bloom across her face, red and raw and unrelenting. Her whole body burned like she'd just stepped into a furnace. Her legs refused to move. Her voice caught somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.
"IT WASN'T LIKE THAT!" she managed, her pitch cracking as the words burst out of her.
Her parents just laughed, like this was the most fun they'd had in years.
But Ethan—
Ethan was the worst of all.
He just sat there, his fingertips tapping idly against the glass in front of him, like he hadn't just detonated a bomb and walked away from the wreckage.
"You—" she hissed, storming over, eyes blazing. "You absolute asshole."
He looked up at her, calm and collected. Amused. His green eyes gleamed with mischief and something else—something darker.
"What?" he asked, almost lazily. "I was just answering their question of how we met and started to talk."
"You did not have to phrase it like that!" she snapped, standing way too close now. His leg brushed against hers under the table, and she felt it like a spark up her thigh.
"Would you rather I lie?"
"YES!"
Her father laughed into his drink. "I like him."
Her mother gave Ethan a once-over. "Oh, definitely."
Vanessa groaned, buried her face in her hands, and let the wave of humiliation wash over her—but it wasn't just embarrassment.
And Ethan? That smug bastard? He just sat there, smirking like the chaos was dessert.
Vanessa was not over it.
Not even close.
She'd just won state. STATE. The thing she'd bled, bruised, and nearly broken herself chasing for years. She should've been riding the high for days—weeks, maybe. But instead, she was marinating in the aftermath of Ethan's mouth and her parents' very public amusement at her expense.
Her parents were still grinning like villains in a bad rom-com, laughing at every loaded comment Ethan dropped like little conversational bombs. They'd eaten it up. Loved it. Her mom had nearly snorted wine through her nose. Her dad had looked at Ethan like he was auditioning to join the family bloodline.
And Ethan?
That smug, beautiful bastard just smirked through it all like he hadn't tossed her to the wolves with one casually delivered innuendo.
She should've punched him in the face. Or walked out. Or both.
But instead?
Her arm was linked through his as they stepped into the night air.
It wasn't planned. She didn't even remember reaching for him. Her hand had just... slipped into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there, like her body had made the choice before her brain could catch up. And the worst part?
He didn't even flinch.
No smug comment. No dramatic bow.
He just let her, like this was normal. Like they were normal.
And she hated that it worked.
Because she was furious—still vibrating with leftover embarrassment—but his body was warm beside hers, his steps matched hers without effort, and every time his shirt brushed against her bare arm, she felt it everywhere.
They walked in silence for a stretch, the quiet humming with unspoken things. His scent—clean soap, motor oil, and whatever low-grade sin he carried naturally—clung to her like temptation.
Then, without warning, he leaned in.
His breath slid along the shell of her ear—warm, low, and far too amused.
Vanessa stopped. Froze mid-step.
"Sorry about that," he murmured, the words soft enough to make her shiver.
Because he didn't sound sorry. Not remotely. His tone was smooth, like he'd chosen his words carefully—each syllable meant to unbalance her, to slide under her skin and stay there.
Before she could spit back something scathing, he added, voice even lower now, teasing:
"I mean... I didn't tell them about you cleaning my bike, so technically—your secret's still mostly safe."
She inhaled sharply.
Oh no.
Her brain shoved her straight back to that day: her on her knees in the driveway, sweat glistening on her neck, grease smeared across her thighs, tank top sticking to her skin. Scrubbing the chrome while Ethan leaned back in a lawn chair, sunglasses low, watching her like she was performance art. Like every slow swipe of her rag was a goddamn show.
If he'd told her parents that...
She could already hear her dad offering to take pictures. Her mom asking if chains were involved. Maybe laughing about how she always did have a thing for "hands-on projects."
She didn't respond. She just tightened her grip on his arm like she could physically strangle the smirk out of him through fabric.
He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. But then—
"I don't like lying," he said.
Not smug. Not playful. Just... quiet. Honest.
"Especially to your parents," he added after a beat. "Or you."
That stopped her. Really stopped her.
She turned to face him, expecting more mischief—another jab, a wink, anything. But instead, she found his gaze fixed on her, calm and serious.
No games. No act.
Just those too-sharp eyes, intense and direct. The kind of look that reached straight into her gut and stayed there. The kind of look that said I see you. All of you. And I still want more.
Her throat tightened. Her breath hitched. Heat bloomed beneath her skin, slow and deep, curling low in her stomach.
Of course he had to go and be genuine. Of course he had to say something real just when she'd worked herself up into a righteous fury.
Her face flushed hot all over again.
So she punched him.
Lightly. Fist to chest. More warning than pain.
He grinned. "Ow," he said, like it tickled.
It probably did. She could feel the muscle beneath his shirt—solid, warm, way too inviting for someone she was supposed to be mad at.
"You're still an ass," she muttered.
"I know."
He said it without apology, like it was carved into his DNA.
So she punched him again.
They kept walking. The night air was crisp, cool against the fire still simmering in her skin. And as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her gaze caught on the shirt again.
It was still so strange.
Fitted. Clean lines. Deep blue that pulled out every fleck of green in his eyes.
Ethan had always been striking. But this? This was disarming.
Gone was the black hoodie. The jacket. The darkness that usually wrapped around him like armor. Now, he looked almost... normal. Still intense. Still lethal in that quiet, unreadable way. But more human.
More reachable.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes, suspicion blooming like smoke. "So," she said slowly, "what's with the outfit change?"
Ethan shrugged, his voice neutral. "Would've looked out of place. All black, hood up, in a restaurant like that?"
She frowned.
That sounded like a logical answer. But it didn't feel right. Because Ethan didn't care what people thought. He never had. And he'd never made a single fashion concession before—not for school, not for parties, not for anyone.
So why now?
Her grip on his arm tightened slightly. She looked up at him, searching his face.
But Ethan was unreadable. A picture of calm. Still, somewhere deep in her chest, something whispered—
Maybe... it was for you.
And she didn't know what to do with that.
Ethan kept his face carefully still, his footsteps measured. But his thoughts were a chaos of contradiction.
He hadn't told her the real reason. He had lied after what he had just said but he couldn't. Not yet. Not like this.
It wasn't about blending in.
It had never been about blending in.
It was the way her voice had sounded when she'd invited him to the dinner—equal parts hopeful and unsure. Like she wasn't entirely convinced he would show up. Like part of her expected him to ghost the moment it got too real.
And something about that...
Something had snapped in him.
He'd stared at his closet for hours. Hating every second. Every piece of clothing that wasn't black felt like betrayal. Like peeling back a layer of skin. Like walking into a room naked.
But he had done it.
Because of her.
Because a boyfriend—her boyfriend—shouldn't show up looking like a ghost at her celebration And the moment he'd walked in and seen her face light up—
That smile. So pure. So unfiltered.
For just that moment, the shirt hadn't felt so terrible.
Still uncomfortable. Still not him. But... worth it.
Even if it would never happen again.
That was what he told himself.
Tomorrow, the hoodie was coming back.
But then she had to go and say it.
"I still can't believe you actually have normal clothes for public," she teased, swinging their arms slightly.
Ethan rolled his eyes. "I do. I just don't wear them at school."
She smiled slyly. "Well, you should."
He stopped. Dead in his tracks.
"...Excuse me?"
She turned to him, all innocence and mischief. "I'm just saying," she said casually, "you look better like this."
Ethan blinked, startled. "Better?"
She gave him a slow, deliberate once-over. "Yeah. More... approachable. Less like the Grim Reaper's long-lost son."
A sharp exhale escaped his nose—his version of a laugh.
"You do know I have no intention of changing my wardrobe, right?" he said flatly. "This was a one-time thing."
Vanessa gave him a look.
A look that said you have no idea what you've just started.
Ethan sighed. Deeply. But he didn't argue.
Because deep down, he knew she'd keep pushing. She always did.
And worse?
Part of him might let her.
Because if there was one thing he'd learned about loving Vanessa—
—resistance was completely, hopelessly futile.
Ethan had known it would happen.
He wasn't stupid. He'd braced himself the second he pulled the familiar hoodie over his head that morning, fingers curling tight around the edges like it was armor—because to him, it was. A shield. A cocoon. A barrier between himself and the noise, the judgment, the stares.
But even with all that mental preparation... the look on her face still hit harder than it should have.
It was subtle. No tantrum, no biting comment, no playful nudge or sarcastic jab. Just... a soft, near-imperceptible sag in her shoulders. A glance that flickered over him, and then quickly away. Like she was trying to pretend it didn't bother her. Like if she acted like it was fine, maybe it would be.
But Ethan noticed.
He always noticed when it came to Vanessa.
And it sat with him—quiet at first, like a whisper in the back of his head. But by second period, it had grown teeth. By third, it was gnawing at his gut.
By lunchtime?
It was a weight.
He'd told himself it didn't matter. That she knew who he was. That this—the hoodie, the jacket, the cold detachment—was part of the package she'd signed up for.
But guilt didn't listen to logic.
So he left.
Without a word, without explanation, he slipped out of the building like a shadow.
Now, Ethan stood in front of the mirror in his room, scowling.
The shirt clung to his frame just right. The jeans were clean, casual. To anyone else, he looked fine. Normal. Maybe even attractive.
But to Ethan?
He felt wrong.
Stripped.
Like he'd peeled off his skin and left the raw underneath out for everyone to see.
Still, he grabbed his bag, ran a hand through his hair, and headed back.
And the moment he stepped onto campus—he regretted it.
The shift was immediate.
Heads turned. Eyes locked onto him like lasers. Whispers started before he even made it past the front quad.
He was used to being invisible. Or at least forgettable. He'd built his entire identity around being left alone. Now, he felt like a damn billboard.
And it was unbearable.
But then—he saw her.
Vanessa was seated at their usual lunch table, her tray in front of her, untouched. She was twirling her fork without looking at it, distant, distracted. Like her body was there, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.
And then her eyes found him.
The second their gazes met, time shifted.
Her whole expression changed.
Her eyes widened, lips parting ever so slightly, and then—
That smile.
It bloomed across her face like sunrise.
Warm. Unfiltered. Real.
And just like that, the knot in Ethan's chest loosened a little.
It still sucked.
But it was worth it.
He forced his feet forward, closing the distance between them while doing his best to ignore the eyes following his every step. His hands stayed in his pockets, shoulders stiff.
He dropped into the seat across from her with his usual deadpan expression.
Vanessa, however, looked like Christmas had come early.
"Well, well," she drawled, resting her chin on her palm, eyes gleaming. "Look who decided to ditch the reclusive vampire look for a day."
Ethan exhaled through his nose, stabbing at his food. "Don't get used to it."
"Oh?" Her smirk widened. "So this isn't permanent?"
"No," he said flatly. "I just—" He paused, jaw tightening. Then he sighed. "I figured you wouldn't shut up about it if I didn't at least try."
Vanessa placed a hand over her chest in mock shock. "Ethan William , acting on his own free will? Be still, my heart."
He rolled his eyes. Hard. But the corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it.
She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping just enough to turn the air between them warmer. "Tell me," she said, teasing, "did you run home just to change because I looked sad?"
Ethan froze.
Just for a second.
A blink, a breath, the smallest flicker of hesitation. Most people would've missed it.
But Vanessa didn't miss anything.
Her grin deepened. Her eyes sparkled like they were holding a secret.
"You totally did," she whispered, triumphant.
Ethan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like he could physically squeeze the conversation out of existence. "Believe whatever you want."
She giggled. And not her usual dry, sarcastic laugh.
A real one.
Bright. Unrestrained.
And in spite of everything—the suffocating attention, the discomfort in his own clothes, the sense that he was balancing on the edge of something unfamiliar—Ethan felt himself relax.
Just a little.
Unfortunately, the rest of the school wasn't even trying to be subtle. Not like Vanessa.
No, they stared.
Wide-eyed, slack-jawed, neck-craning stared.
Like Ethan had stepped out of a different dimension and landed in their cafeteria.
Whispers buzzed around them like a swarm of flies—constant, irritating, impossible to tune out no matter how hard he tried.
He was used to it.
Used to the sideways glances. The occasional hushed speculation about who he really was, how he had so much money, what he was hiding under all that black. People had theories. Stupid ones. Conspiracies that would make your head spin. And he'd always let them think whatever they wanted.
But today?
Today it was different.
"Is that Ethan?"
"No way. Ethan Smith?"
"He actually looks... good. Like, really good."
"Wait—Vanessa's dating him?"
He clenched his jaw, fingers curled under the table until the knuckles whitened.
This wasn't curiosity anymore. This was exposure.
Like someone had ripped the curtain open and left him under a spotlight he'd never asked for.
Every bite of food turned to ash in his mouth. He barely chewed. Barely breathed. Every voice chipped away at the fragile calm he'd built before walking back into school.
He was seconds away from leaving again.
And then—
Her hand.
Just the lightest touch. Her fingers brushing against his like a whisper.
It shouldn't have meant anything.
But to him? It was an anchor.
It reminded him why he'd come back. Why he'd changed.
Why he was still here.
His breath left him in a slow, shaky exhale. He forced his hands to loosen.
"You're lucky I like you," he muttered under his breath, not looking at her.
Vanessa's lips curved in that maddening, all-knowing smirk. "I know."
And for the first time that day—
He smirked back.
Not much. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. But it was real. And somehow, it made the rest of the day a little more bearable.
Until the final bell rang.
That was when it got worse.
The moment the classrooms emptied and students flooded into the halls and out into the courtyard, the whispers doubled. No—tripled.
Like the entire school had collectively decided he was today's main attraction.
Ethan didn't flinch, didn't glance around, but he felt it. The gazes. The speculation hanging thick in the air like smoke.
He adjusted his backpack with a little more force than necessary, lips pressed into a thin line.
Vanessa walked beside him, calm as ever, chewing on the last bit of gum she'd stolen from his pocket during lunch. She tossed him a sly glance, eyebrows raised, clearly enjoying this far more than she should.
"I think you broke them."
Ethan scoffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Not my problem."
"Oh, but it is," she teased. "They're staring because the infamous Ethan Smith owns non-black clothing. You've single-handedly dismantled their entire worldview."
He rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a headache. "Still not my problem," he muttered again.
Vanessa just hummed, amusement dancing in her voice.
But then—
They hit the parking lot.
And everything escalated.
Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys, flipping them around his fingers as he walked toward his motorcycle.
A sleek, matte-black beast that looked as untouchable as its owner.
The murmurs started low—then grew.
"Holy shit."
"Ethan William...owns a bike?"
"He actually rides that thing??"
"Dude, what is going on right now?"
Ethan tuned it out as best he could, slipping the helmet on like it was another piece of armor. But the tension in his shoulders said otherwise.
Every step felt like walking through glass.
He hated this. Hated the attention. The exposure. The eyes that looked, not saw, but gawked.
But not Vanessa.
Vanessa moved like she was born to be looked at.
Effortless. Confident. A smirk in every step. She didn't just walk—she owned the space around her. The same guy who had once been just another face in the crowd was now causing jaws to drop.
And when she climbed onto the bike behind him—
Wrapped her arms around his waist like it was second nature—
The silence cracked.
Turned to outright chaos.
He could feel the disbelief radiating off everyone around them.
The whispers had no filter now.
"They're kidding, right?"
"Vanessa's on his bike?"
Ethan sighed, low and tired, fingers curling around the handlebars. "You'd think these people have never seen a damn bike before," he muttered.
Vanessa leaned in, her breath warm against his shoulder. "You forget," she murmured, voice thick with amusement, "no one actually knows you. They only know the moody loner in the black hoodie. They had no idea what was underneath."
Ethan didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Because even as the roar of the engine drowned out the world, her words stayed with him.
What was underneath?
And why—when she said it like that—did he suddenly want her to be the only one who ever got to find out?
"Let them look," she said, tightening her grip around his waist. "They'll get over it."
He glanced at her in the side mirror, caught the smug little smirk tugging at her lips, and finally—
He smirked, too.
A real one.
Sharp. Private. A little dangerous.
"Hold on tight, princess."
The engine snarled beneath them as he twisted the throttle.
And just like that, he tore them away from the crowd—
—leaving behind the stunned silence, the whispered rumors, and the girl clinging to him like she belonged there.
He didn't say it out loud.
But in that moment, Ethan knew—
She just might.
The ride to the gym was quiet—eerily quiet. For Ethan, the hum of the engine and the feel of Vanessa's arms around his waist were just background noise, a silent reprieve from the chaos of the school day. His mind was still chewing on the weight of the stares, the unspoken questions, the way eyes had burned into his skin like he was something new—something worth staring at.
But Vanessa?
Vanessa was practically vibrating with energy.
Her cheeks were still warm, and she couldn't keep the smug satisfaction out of her expression, even if she tried. She knew she shouldn't be enjoying it this much, but damn it—it had been satisfying. The way the school collectively stopped breathing when Ethan walked in that afternoon? Iconic. The way girls had subtly craned their necks to get a better look, like they were suddenly seeing him for the first time? Priceless.
And then there was the bike. The clothes. The confidence, even when it was obvious he hated every second of it. Ethan might've been trying to hide behind his indifference, but Vanessa knew better. She could feel the discomfort buzzing under his skin. She could see the way he barely spoke, like silence was his last defense.
But he still did it.
For her.
That knowledge sat warm and heavy in her chest as they parked and made their way into the gym.
The moment the glass door swung shut behind them, Vanessa noticed it.
A hitch.
Just for a second—but it was there.
A momentary shift in the atmosphere. Like the air itself paused.
It wasn't overt. No gasps. No dramatic stares.
But she saw it.
The slight falter in a fighter's jab mid-punch. The flick of a head turning a second too long to be casual. The raised brow from the girl at the front desk, who usually couldn't be bothered to look up from her phone.
And then there was Coach Harris—gruff, no-nonsense, always annoyed.
The man blinked. Literally did a double take.
Vanessa had to fight the urge to burst out laughing. Her lips twitched as she leaned over, voice low. "You're breaking records today, Smith."
Ethan's response came through a clenched jaw. "Not my problem."
But oh, it was.
She could see it.
He hated this. Hated the attention. Hated that he had no hoodie to vanish into. Hated that his defenses were gone and the world was looking.
Coach Harris stomped over, towel slung over his shoulder. He looked at them both like they'd personally offended his entire lineage. "You kids are late," he snapped, then turned his gaze on Ethan, brows furrowing. "And Smith—what the hell happened to your wardrobe?"
Ethan didn't flinch. "Laundry day."
Vanessa bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from losing it. Classic.
Harris narrowed his eyes, like he didn't believe him for a second—but he let it go with a grunt. "Get to work."
They hit the changing rooms. Ethan emerged in his usual gym gear—black shorts, a fitted athletic shirt—and Vanessa followed in leggings and her sports bra, tying her hair back with practiced ease.
Warm-ups started like usual.
Stretches. Jump rope. Agility drills.
On the surface, everything was normal.
But beneath it?
There was a current.
Ethan moved with mechanical precision, each motion sharp and controlled, but Vanessa saw it immediately—he wasn't present. Not really. There was a tension to him. Not the usual tightly-coiled focus he brought to training, but something more... brittle.
He felt exposed.
Like he was still wearing that button-up shirt in his head, still hearing those whispers echoing around the room.
Vanessa watched him, amusement tugging at her mouth as she began wrapping her hands. "What's the matter, Smith?" she asked, tone light, teasing. "Feeling a little self-conscious?"
Ethan leveled a flat look at her, unimpressed. "You're annoying."
She grinned. "I know."
Then, without warning, she launched a kick.
Fast.
Sneaky.
He dodged—but just barely.
"Sloppy," she taunted, bouncing on her toes. "Is this because you were not wearing your security blanket today?"
His jaw tensed.
There it was.
That little crack in the mask.
He rolled his shoulders, breath coming out through his nose in a slow, steady stream—and then, without a word, he struck.
Fast. Controlled. Brutal.
She blocked, but the impact still echoed up her arms. She stumbled back half a step, lips parting in surprise.
Okay.
So now we're playing for real.
Vanessa braced, heart hammering with a wild sort of thrill.
They trained.
Sweat beading. Muscles tightening. Every move precise, sharp, personal.
And though nothing about his technique changed—Ethan wasn't the same. Not really.
There was something unfiltered in his energy. Something rawer.
She wasn't used to seeing him like this. Not in the ring. Not without his usual invisible walls.
There was no hoodie to disappear into. No jacket pulled tight around his frame.
Just him.
Exposed.
Stripped down.
Ethan Smith—the guy the whole school whispered about—was now standing in front of her, panting lightly, fists up, and more real than she'd ever seen him.
And it fascinated her.
More than it should've.
And she knew, without a doubt—
This version of Ethan?
The one without the armor?
The one who was still fighting, even without the safety of shadows?
He was the one she wanted to understand.
To unravel.