Kota woke to the shrill buzz of his phone alarm at exactly 7:00 a.m., the sound slicing through the fog of exhaustion that still clung to every limb.
His body felt like it had been disassembled and put back together wrong muscles stiff, lower back throbbing, thighs burning with that deep, post-marathon ache that made even rolling over feel like a negotiation. The sheets were damp with old sweat. He lay there for a long minute, staring at the ceiling where the pre-Vanishing football posters stared back at him with frozen triumph. Eight times.
He dragged himself upright anyway. The mattress creaked in protest. He swung his legs over the side, feet hitting the cool linoleum, and stood slowly wincing as every joint reminded him of the ottoman, the sectional, the rug, the relentless rhythm of hips and hands and mouths. The clock on his phone blinked 7:02. School started at 8:15. He had time, but not much.
The bathroom light felt too bright. He stripped off the boxers and T-shirt he'd slept in both still carrying faint traces of sweat and lube and other people's scents and stepped under the showerhead. The water came out lukewarm at first, then scalding, and he stood under it until steam clouded the mirror. He scrubbed hard soap lathering thick across his chest, down his abs, between his legs with careful, wincing strokes.
He wanted to look good. Not for anyone in particular just to feel like himself again after a night that had stripped him down to raw nerves and spent flesh. He dug through his dresser for the black compression shirt he rarely wore the one that hugged every ridge of muscle from shoulders to waist, the fabric thick enough to smooth out the post-workout pump but thin enough to show the outline of pecs and abs when he moved. He pulled it on, the material clinging like a second skin, then tucked it firmly into a pair of dark olive cargo pants. The pants were baggy through the legs, low enough on his hips to show the waistband of his black boxer briefs when he bent, but structured enough to look intentional. He checked the mirror broad shoulders, tapered waist, the compression shirt carving out the V of his torso. Clean fade, fresh shave along the jaw. He looked sharp. Controlled. Like someone who hadn't just spent the night as the living centerpiece of a sex cult ritual.
He stepped out of his room at 7:38, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in hand. Khalil was already in the kitchen, broad back to the doorway, pouring coffee into a travel mug. The smell of dark roast hit Kota like a memory of normal mornings. Khalil turned, saw him, and his tired eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Morning, kiddo. Looking sharp. First day of the week you aiming to impress somebody?"
Kota shrugged, forcing a half-smile. "Just felt like it."
Khalil nodded, satisfied. "Good. Start strong." He reached into the fridge and pulled out a foil-wrapped shawarma wrap—still warm, garlic sauce seeping through the edges.
Kota took the wrap, the heat bleeding through the foil into his palm. "Thanks, Dad."
Khalil grabbed his keys from the hook by the door. "I'm heading that way anyway. Let me drop you. Save you the walk."
Kota hesitated for half a second walking would've given him time to breathe, to shake off the lingering soreness but the thought of sitting in the truck with the radio low and Khalil's steady presence felt safer than the crowded city bus. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks."
They stepped out together. The hallway smelled like old carpet and someone else's breakfast. The elevator ride down was quiet, Khalil humming tunelessly under his breath, Kota staring at the glowing floor numbers and trying not to think about the eleventh floor above them. Outside, the morning air was crisp, Houston still waking up. Khalil's old Ford F-150 sat in its usual spot, exhaust puffing white in the cool air. Kota climbed into the passenger seat, the familiar smell of motor oil and leather wrapping around him like a blanket. Khalil started the engine, pulled out of the lot, and merged onto the main road toward Westfield High.
The radio played low some classic hip-hop station Khalil always kept on. Khalil took a sip of coffee, then glanced over with quiet pride.
"Got some news," he said, voice gravelly from years of construction dust. "Talked to the financial guy yesterday. College fund's hit three hundred percent quota this quarter. That bonus from the overtime, plus the side jobs I picked up enough for most of the Texas Ivies now. Tuition, books, maybe even room and board if we're smart. You keep your grades up, you're set. No loans hanging over your head. Real man builds his own way, but he doesn't turn down a solid foundation when it's there."
Kota stared out the windshield, the city blurring past strip malls, billboards for lube brands with cartoon asses, early traffic crawling along the freeway. He forced his face into something happywide smile, quick nod. "That's… that's awesome, Dad. Really. Thank you."
Inside, guilt twisted like a knife. He didn't need the money. Not anymore. Theo had already promised a recommendation letter to any Ivy he wanted, Harvard, Yale, Princeton, whatever. Theo's family name alone opened doors Kota's grades never could. And Theo was loaded Hawthorne money, the kind that didn't just pay tuition; it bought buildings. Kota could've coasted on that promise alone and never touched the fund Khalil had scraped together over years of double shifts and sore backs. The knowledge sat heavy in his chest, sour and unspoken.
Khalil kept talking, voice warm with rare excitement. "Told your uncle too. He said he'd match whatever's short if we need it. Between us, you're walking into any school you want with your head up. No debt. No excuses. That's how it should be."
Kota nodded again, smile still plastered on. "Yeah. Sounds good."
They hit a red light. Khalil drummed his fingers on the wheel. "You okay, son? Look a little worn out."
Kota shrugged. "Late night. Homework."
Khalil grunted, accepting it. "Just don't burn out. You got a future ahead of you. Keep that head on straight."
The light turned green. They rolled forward, the high school sign visible in the distance now—Westfield High, brick and chain-link, same as always. Kota stared at it through the windshield, the normalcy of it almost surreal after last night. He shifted in the seat, wincing as sore muscles protested.
Khalil glanced over again. "You sure you're good?"
"Yeah," Kota lied, voice steady. "Just ready for the week."
The truck kept moving, the school getting closer with every turn. Khalil kept talking—plans for the fund, maybe investing some of the surplus, how proud he was—but Kota only half-listened, mind drifting between the ache in his body and the clock ticking toward ten o'clock last night, when he'd finally escaped the eleventh floor.
They weren't there yet. The drive stretched on, Khalil's voice steady beside him, the city sliding past like nothing had changed.