Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
WARNING: this chapter contains explicit sexual content!!!
Aaron
Nothing happens.
No yelling.
No immediate reaction.
Just silence.
The kind that feels wrong, like the world skipped a beat and forgot to start again.
Mason is the first one to move, but it's barely anything, just a small shift of his weight, his hand dragging down his face like he's trying to physically reset his brain.
Lexi, on the other hand goes completely still.
"You... what?" Mason finally says, slow, careful, like if he says it too fast it might turn into something real.
I let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but there's nothing funny about it.
"We kissed," I repeat, because apparently I enjoy making bad decisions tonight.
"Okay—no," Mason says immediately, shaking his head, pointing at me like he's correcting something obvious. "No, you didn't."
I blink at him.
"...we did."
"No," he insists again, firmer this time, like if he says it enough it'll magically rewrite reality. "You think you did. That's not the same thing."
"Mason—"
"It doesn't count," he cuts in quickly, talking over me now, his voice picking up speed as he paces a step. "You were probably both pissed, you were fighting, adrenaline's high, people do dumb stuff in that situation all the time, it's like—like when guys shove each other and it gets weird for a second, that doesn't mean anything."
I stare at him.
"You think I accidentally kissed him?" I ask flatly.
"I think it was a fucking mistake," he shoots back without missing a beat. "A dumb, heat-of-the-moment, shouldn't-have-happened mistake."
"Right," I mutter, even though something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten instead of ease.
Because it didn't feel like a mistake.
"Aaron."
Lexi's voice cuts in, sharp enough to pull my attention away from Mason immediately.
She hasn't moved.
Still standing in the same spot.
But now she's looking at me like she's trying to see something she missed.
"Tell me you're joking," she says.
I don't answer.
Her jaw tightens.
"Aaron."
"I'm not joking," I say, quieter this time, but steady.
She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she finally starts pacing.
"No," she mutters. "No, that's—that's not—"
She gestures vaguely between me and... nothing.
"That's Tyler," she finishes, like that alone should explain everything.
"I'm aware," I snap, irritation creeping back in.
"No, I don't think you are," she fires back immediately, turning to face me fully now, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. "Because Tyler? Out of everyone? That's who you decide to—what, experiment with?"
"It wasn't like that," I argue, even though I don't actually have a better explanation.
"Then what was it like?" she shoots back.
Oh, wait. Is she mad cause she used to hook up with him? Does she feel something for him? No, right..?
I open my mouth
and close it again.
Because I don't know.
And I hate that.
Mason exhales loudly, stepping back in like he's trying to mediate something that's already spiraling.
"Okay, everyone needs to calm down," he says, holding his hands up. "We're blowing this out of proportion. It was one kiss. One. That doesn't suddenly mean—anything."
"Exactly," I latch onto that immediately, too quickly, like I've been waiting for someone to say it out loud. "It doesn't mean anything."
Lexi's eyes snap back to me.
"You don't even sound like you believe that," she says.
"I do," I insist, even as my voice comes out a little too tight, a little too forced. "It was a mistake. Like Mason said. We were fighting, things got heated, it just—it happened."
"People don't just happen to kiss, Aaron," she mutters under her breath.
I ignore that.
"It doesn't change anything," I keep going, louder now, like if I say it enough it'll stick. "I'm still me. I'm still—"
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
And they both notice.
"I'm straight," I finish anyway, the words landing a little harder than they should.
Mason nods immediately, almost relieved.
"Exactly," he says. "That's what I've been saying. This doesn't change that. You've been into girls your whole life, one weird moment doesn't rewrite everything."
"Right," I agree quickly. "Exactly."
Lexi doesn't look convinced.
She studies me for a long second, her expression unreadable, like she's trying to decide whether to push or let it go.
"...You're sure?" she asks finally, quieter now, but more serious.
And there it is.
Am I?
Because the answer should be easy.
It should be automatic.
It should be yes.
So why does it feel like I have to force it out?
"I am," I say anyway, holding her gaze this time, even if it feels like I'm bracing myself for something. "It didn't mean anything. It was just—"
I gesture vaguely, like that explains it.
"A mistake."
The word sits there.
Mason nods again.
Lexi doesn't. But she doesn't argue either.
"Okay," she says after a moment, even though she still looks unsure. "If you say so."
I do.
I said it.
So it has to be true.
Right?
I shove my hands into my pockets, rolling my shoulders like I can physically shake the tension off, like I can just move on from this and everything will go back to normal.
"Can we just drop it now?" I mutter. "Please."
Mason exhales. "Yeah. Yeah, we can drop it."
Lexi hesitates.
Then nods.
"Fine," she says. "We'll drop it."
But the way she looks at me...
like she doesn't quite believe me.
And as we stand there in the cold, the noise of the party muffled behind the door, I tell myself over and over again that they're right.
It was a mistake. It didn't mean anything. It doesn't change anything.
So why does it still feel like everything already has?
⸻
The days after that night fall back into place like nothing ever happened.
Or at least that's what it looks like from the outside, like everything has snapped back into its usual rhythm, predictable and steady and easy to follow, like there isn't something underneath it all constantly pulling me off balance.
I go back to the shop, to the smell of oil and metal, to the sound of engines and tools and my dad's constant expectations hanging in the air.
I go back to training, to the track, pushing harder than I need to, riding longer than I should, chasing that familiar burn in my muscles because it's the only thing that drowns everything else out, even if only for a little while.
Mason drops it, mostly.
Lexi pretends to.
And me?
I do what I've always done.
I bury it. I ignore it. I act like it never mattered.
It doesn't quite work.
Because the moment I'm alone, the second there's nothing demanding my attention, no noise, no distraction, no movement—
he's there.
Tyler.
In flashes, in memories, in moments I didn't ask to relive but somehow can't stop replaying, like my brain has decided that this is important even if I don't want it to be.
It's in the way my thoughts drift when my hands are busy but my mind isn't, in the way I'll catch myself staring at nothing, completely gone, stuck somewhere between what happened and what it meant.
And the nights are worse.
Because sleep used to be an escape, something easy, something quiet.
Now it's a trap.
Every time I close my eyes, it's like my brain takes over completely, dragging me back to that moment, stretching it out, twisting it into something bigger, something heavier, something that doesn't stop where it should.
Something that feels too real.
I wake up tense, restless, already frustrated before the day even starts, like I've been fighting something in my sleep and losing every single time, like I can't even control my own head anymore.
And I hate it.
I hate that it's him.
Out of everyone—it had to be him.
Tyler.
I don't tell anyone.
Not Mason.
Not Lexi.
It was already bad enough admitting what happened.
I'm not about to admit that it didn't just go away.
So I deal with it the only way I know how.
I ignore it.
Or at least—
I try.
A few days later, I'm at the shop, sleeves rolled up, hands covered in grease, leaning over a bike with my focus locked onto something simple, something mechanical, something that makes sense in a way nothing else does right now.
My dad had left not long ago, tossing me a list of things to fix before heading out to deal with something he didn't bother explaining, leaving me alone with the low hum of the place and the steady rhythm of work.
It's quiet.
The kind of quiet that should be peaceful.
I'm halfway through tightening something when the door slams open hard enough that the sound echoes through the entire shop, sharp and sudden and completely out of place.
I barely have time to look up—
before a fist connects with my jaw.
"What the—"
The impact is immediate and brutal, snapping my head to the side as pain bursts across my face, metallic and sharp, the taste of blood flooding my mouth before I can even process what just happened.
I stagger back, my hand coming up instinctively, my vision sharpening as adrenaline hits all at once—
and then I see him.
Tyler.
"You fucking told them!"
He comes at me again, faster this time, his movements all anger and momentum, like he's been holding this in and finally let it loose.
I barely manage to block the next hit, catching his arm and shoving him back, but he doesn't stay there, doesn't pause, doesn't give me a second to breathe before he's pushing forward again, driving into me hard enough that my back slams into the workbench behind me.
Tools scatter everywhere, metal clattering against concrete, something small rolling across the floor, but none of it matters because the second I recover, I swing back.
My fist connects with his ribs, solid and hard, the impact jolting up my arm, but it barely slows him down, barely fazes him before he's grabbing onto my shirt, twisting the fabric tight in his fist as he yanks me forward and slams me into the wall.
The force knocks the air out of me for a second, my lungs protesting, but I don't stay there—I shove him off hard, turning the momentum against him as I drive him backward, both of us crashing into a stack of tires that topple instantly, rubber hitting the ground in heavy thuds around us.
We stumble, lose footing and go down.
The concrete hits hard, unforgiving beneath us as we grapple, rolling, each of us trying to gain control, to pin the other, to land something that actually sticks.
His elbow catches me in the shoulder, sharp and painful.
My knee drives into his side in response, forcing a grunt out of him.
He grabs my shirt again, dragging me closer just to slam his forehead into mine.
Pain explodes behind my eyes, white and blinding for a split second, but it only fuels the anger already burning through me.
I shove him off with everything I've got, scrambling up just as he does the same, both of us breathing hard, chest heaving, bodies already moving again before there's even a second to think.
He swings.
I duck.
Counter.
Another hit lands.
Another shove.
Another crash into something that wasn't meant to be part of this.
The workbench rattles violently behind us, a wrench skidding loudly across the floor, glass shattering somewhere in the chaos as we collide again, fists flying, no rhythm, no control, just raw, unfiltered force.
And neither of us stops.
Not when I catch him across the jaw hard enough to send him stumbling.
Not when he comes right back, tackling me low, driving us both to the ground again with enough force to knock the breath out of both of us.
We struggle, shifting, fighting for leverage, hands gripping, pushing, dragging—
until finally I get the upper hand.
I twist, using his momentum against him, forcing him onto his back as I shift over him, pinning him down hard, my knee pressing into his side, one hand gripping his shirt to keep him there.
My other hand is already raised.
Fist clenched.
My chest is heaving, breath coming fast and uneven, my entire body tense, every muscle locked as I hover there, just inches above him, everything in me screaming to finish it.
To hit him again.
For a second everything freezes.
Just me.
On top of him.
I should hit him. That's the only thing that makes sense.
That's what this is supposed to be—what it has been from the second he walked in and swung first.
My fist is already there, raised, ready, every muscle in my arm tense, coiled, just waiting for the follow-through.
But I don't move.
Because now that I've got him pinned, now that everything's slowed down just enough
I actually see him.
Breathing hard.
Chest rising and falling fast under my grip.
Eyes locked on mine, not backing down, not looking away, still burning with the same anger that dragged him in here in the first place, but there's something else there too.
Something that hits too close to what's been messing with my head for days.
And suddenly it's not just the fight anymore.
It's everything.
The nights.
The thoughts I couldn't shut off.
The way he keeps showing up in my head no matter how hard I try to push him out.
The way I've been running from it, denying it, forcing it down until it feels like it's tearing me apart from the inside.
My fist trembles slightly.
"Just do it," he snaps, desperate, frustrated, trying to force me back into something simple, something I understand.
But I can't.
Because this is what I've been trying to avoid.
And it's right here.
He's right here.
Too close.
Too real.
My grip on his shirt tightens.
My breathing gets heavier, uneven, like my body's already decided something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.
And before I can stop myself—
before I can think it through, or make sense of it, or shove it back down where it belongs—
I move.
Not forward with my fist.
But down.
And I kiss him.
It's not soft or hesitant.
It's rough, sudden, all the tension from the fight crashing into something else entirely, something just as intense but completely different at the same time.
It's anger.
It's frustration.
It's everything I've been holding back with nowhere else to go.
For half a second, it's just me—like I've completely lost it, like I've finally snapped—
And then he responds.
Just as rough.
Just as immediate.
His hand fists in my shirt, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away, and that's all it takes for whatever control I had left to completely disappear.
The fight shifts into something else entirely.
Still messy.
Still heated.
But different.
Our movements lose that sharp, violent edge, turning into something just as intense but less about hurting and more about—something I don't even have a word for.
My hand slides from his shirt to his jaw, gripping tight, keeping him there as I kiss him again, harder this time, like I'm trying to prove something, like I'm trying to figure it out through force alone.
My mind is a mess.
Because this isn't supposed to be happening.
This doesn't make sense.
This doesn't fit into anything I thought I knew about myself.
And yet I don't stop.
I can't.
Everything I tried to ignore, everything I shoved down, everything I told myself didn't matter—
it's all here now, right at the surface, impossible to push away any longer.
So I don't.
I let it happen.
Even if I have no idea what it means.
My lips move over his, pressing and dragging, tasting, memorizing. His hands crawl up my arms, threading through my hair, tugging me closer, and I feel his chest rise and fall violently against mine. Every exhale from him makes my heart hammer harder, every moan like fire sparking somewhere deep in my chest I didn't know existed.
We don't stop.
I can't stop.
It's like the fight, the anger, the confusion, everything I shoved down for days, is all coming out through this one frantic, heated kiss. My hands roam—gripping his shoulders, the back of his neck, sliding along his spine. Tyler arches into me, presses against me, and suddenly it's not about anger anymore. It's about needing, needing him, needing this, needing to let it all out, raw and uncontrolled.
His hard rock under me.
I freeze—
Our mouths part for barely a second, gasping, eyes locked in chaos and heat,
My whole body tingled like every nerve in my skin was queuing. Tyler is just looking at me, eyes glossy, lips torn up from how we've been kissing.
I reached out, slow, worried.
He didn't stoped me, though.
I'm breathing hard, my hand landed— awkward but definitely there, Tyler hissed out a breath and let his head knock back against the ground.
I lean my face closer to his, making our lips brush,
He bites my bottom lip lightly, a sharp spark, and I groan into him, pressing my hand harder, sliding into the waistband of his pants, feeling him tense beneath me.
Tyler's fingers grip my shirt tighter, digging in as if holding on to me keeps him from disappearing, and I respond in kind, trailing kisses down his jaw, over his neck, feeling him shiver under my touch. Every movement, every gasp, every shudder, is a confession I can't put into words.
My brain immediately started running stat comparisons to the clumsy handjobs I'd give myself over the years, trying to remember how girls did it to me, but that was different—
It's Tyler now.
And I'm definitely not a girl.
I don't even waste any time undoing his pants. I just shove my hand under the waistband, his eyes rolling back as soon as I start stroking him.
Seeing him so blissed-out, so fucking gone for me, has me hurtling over the edge.
He cries out, a raw, delicate sound, and his hips buck upward, seeking even more. I hunch down, breathing sharp in my chest,
He's giddy, clutching at my hair, and the wet heat of him in my hand makes my own body clench, coiling tighter and tighter, until I'm shaking.
I feel dizzy.
Hot.
And I can feel him getting closer to the edge.
I almost forgot what my hand were supposed to be doing—god, my pulse roaring in my ears.
I tugged, loose then tight, fast then slow, hunting for the rhythm that would push him over.
I squeezed and twisted my grip, watched his breath catch in a helpless gasp, and flinched forward when he clawed at my arm, desperate.
I let up, slowed down, and he made an actual whimper.
So I pumped him faster.
I felt him stutter, and I got it, I got the way he'd lose it, with a sound that was all chest and no words, he came.
Tyler came so hard it shut him up.
He was so blissed out I could see in his eyes.
I pull back slightly, chest heaving, trying to catch my breath, and that's when I notice him moving.
Moving away from me.
Tyler gets up, suddenly alert, pulling away faster than I can react. Pulling his pants back up.
He steps back, eyes wide, and the tension snaps like a rubber band. Neither of us says a word.
I'm still on the ground, heart pounding, chest rising and falling as I watch him, frozen in a mix of shock, confusion, and whatever else I can't name yet. Tyler doesn't look at me. He doesn't even acknowledge I'm still here, looming over him.
Without another word, he turns and storms out, leaving me in the middle of the chaos we created, the heat of all still lingering on my body, my hands still shaking from the intensity of it all.
And just like that, I'm alone again, sitting there on the ground, the remnants of what just happened echoing in my chest, and I have no idea how to process it, or if I even want to.