Page 108 of Puck Your Feelings
Kane rises to his feet, hands spread in that placating gesture people use when they're trying to calm down someone they think is being irrational. "Look, all I'm saying is—"
"All I'm hearing," I cut in, voice trembling with rage, "is you're a coward. Your father got in your head and you're too fucking scared to fight back."
A flash of something I can’t name crosses his face. "This is me fighting for what I want," he says, voice so low I almost miss it.
I turn around, half-dressed, fully furious. "Yeah? And what's that?"
***
Kane
THE HURT IN Becker's eyes is a knife twisting in my chest, carving out pieces I didn't know I could lose.
I've taken hits that cracked ribs. Blocked shots that left bruises for weeks. Fought guys twice my size and walked away bleeding.
Nothing—nothing—has ever hurt like this.
Because I'm the one holding the knife. I'm the one doing the cutting.
"My career," I force the words out, each one tasting like ash. "Without complications."
The words hang in the air between us, ugly and false. Becker blinks once, twice, like he's trying to process what I've said.
"I'm a complication?" His voice cracks on the last word, and it takes everything in me not to reach for him.
Every instinct I have screams at me to take it back. To tell him the truth. To explain that he's the least complicated thing in my life, that everything makes sense when I'm with him, that complicated is my father and his threats and this fucked-up situation I can't figure out how to fix.
But the words stick in my throat because if I start talking, I'll tell him everything. And if I tell him everything, he'll try to fight this battle for me. He'll put himself in my father's crosshairs, and I can't—Iwon't—let that happen.
So instead, I force myself to meet his eyes and say, "Yes."
He steps back like I've physically shoved him, and the silence that follows is deafening. Minutes. An eternity compressed into heartbeats.
Then he moves, sharp and sudden, grabbing his t-shits from where it’s crumpled on the floor. He dresses with jerky movements, yanking his hoodie over his head, and I watch because I'm a masochist who needs to memorize every detail of this moment for future self-torture.
His duffle bag appears from under his bunk. He starts throwing things in—shirts, socks, his toothbrush from the bathroom, his phone charger still plugged into the wall. No order, no organization, just controlled chaos that matches the storm building behind his eyes.
"Fine," he says, and the word lands like a verdict.
I open my mouth. Close it. My hands are shaking, so I shove them in my pockets. "I don't know what else to say."
Becker stops, his hand frozen on a hoodie he was about to stuff into the bag. He straightens, turns, and looks at me with an intensity that makes me want to confess everything—every lie, every fear, every desperate reason.
"Why won't you just tell me the truth?" His voice cracks again. "What did he threaten you with? What hold does he have?"
Everything.You.Your career, your future, everything you've worked for.
"He doesn't have any hold," I lie, and I hate myself for how easily it comes. "I'm making my own choice."
"Then you're making the wrong one."
He goes back to packing, movements more violent now, and I watch him destroy the small space we'd started to build together. The sheet we fucked on last night is still on the floor. His t-shirts crumpled in the corner.
Few hours ago, I was inside him. Then was falling asleep on top of me, his weight comfortable and right.
Now I'm watching him leave, and I'm the reason why.
My eyes burn with unshed tears, and I blink rapidly to keep them at bay. I will not cry. Not yet. Not until he's gone.
