Chapter Nine— Detention
897 Words
If Ivy was trying to shake me, she succeeded.
Everywhere I went, she was there.
Smiling. Watching. Waiting for something to snap.
And honestly? I was close.
Because the more she lingered, the more doubt slithered into my thoughts. Every time Alexander touched me, I found myself wondering if he used to touch her the same way.
The hallway glances.
The low whispers.
The way people looked at us like we were a ticking bomb.
They weren’t wrong.
We were.
---
It all exploded in third period.
We were in chemistry, and of course, Ivy just had to be assigned to our lab table that day — right beside me, like fate was mocking me.
Alexander wasn’t in class. He was “sick,” according to the teacher.
But I knew better.
He was avoiding her.
Avoiding me.
I was already holding back when she leaned in and said, “You know… you’re just his rehab project.”
I turned slowly. “Excuse me?”
She smiled. “Every bad boy needs someone to fix him, right? You’re the sweet little blonde with big eyes and a savior complex. Textbook.”
“You don’t know me,” I snapped.
“Oh, honey,” she said, tucking a strand of her perfect hair behind her ear. “I was you. Until I realized he doesn’t need saving. He needs burning.”
My hand tightened around the pencil I was holding.
“And I bet when he gets bored,” she added, “he’ll crawl right back to me.”
I saw red.
Before I could even think, I stood — fast, loud, desk scraping across the tile floor.
“What did you say?” I hissed.
The entire class froze.
“I said—”
I didn’t let her finish.
The next thing I knew, I had thrown my pencil right at her.
It didn’t hit her — thank God — but it landed close enough to shut her up and send gasps echoing across the room.
“Miss Albert!” the teacher barked. “Detention. Now.”
I didn’t argue.
I just grabbed my bag and walked out, fists clenched, heart racing.
---
The detention room was cold and smelled like old textbooks and cheap air freshener.
I sat in the back, trying to calm down.
But twenty minutes in, the door creaked open.
And in walked Alexander.
Leather jacket. Hoodie. Hands shoved deep into his pockets like he owned detention.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, stunned.
He slid into the seat beside me.
“Started a fight in the locker room,” he said casually. “Thought I’d keep you company.”
My jaw dropped. “You got detention… on purpose?”
He shrugged. “Felt like you could use me.”
I stared at him, lips parted. “You’re insane.”
He grinned. “You like it.”
I tried not to smile. I really did.
But I failed.
---
We sat in silence for a few minutes before I whispered, “She said I’m just your rehab project.”
He didn’t even flinch. “She’s not wrong.”
My chest twisted.
“But not for the reason she thinks,” he added. “I don’t need you to fix me, Ava. I need you to remind me who I am when I’m not trying to destroy everything.”
I looked at him. “And what if I destroy myself trying to hold you together?”
His eyes locked onto mine — intense, raw.
“Then we burn together,” he said.
His hand brushed mine under the table, fingers tangling with mine.
It was the softest he’d ever touched me.
And it hurt in all the best ways.
---
After detention, we didn’t go home.
We rode his motorcycle to the edge of town, where the abandoned train tracks cut through a grove of trees and wildflowers.
He helped me off the bike, then pulled out a blanket from the saddlebag and laid it on the grass.
We sat in silence for a while, watching the sky turn orange and pink.
“Why me?” I asked suddenly.
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“Because you looked at me like I was more than a monster.”
I turned to him. “And what if I stop?”
“Then I’ll become exactly what everyone says I am.”
He said it like a fact, not a threat.
I laid back, staring up at the clouds.
“I hate that you make me feel this much,” I whispered. “It’s like I’m addicted.”
“You are,” he said, lying beside me. “So am I.”
He turned his head toward me, eyes soft but wild.
And then he added, “And I don’t want to stop.”
---
We kissed again under the fading sky.
This one was slow. Deep. A promise, and a warning all in one.
His hands in my hair. My fingers gripping his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping me from floating away.
When we pulled apart, breathless, he whispered, “No more hiding.”
“Even if it gets worse?” I asked.
He smiled.
“It will get worse.”
But neither of us backed away.
Because whatever this was…
It was already too late to stop.
- Writer
