Chapter Five — Rumors, Bruises, and Fire
962 Words
Ava
The kiss haunted me all night.
Not the soft, slow kind you replay in your head with a smile — no. This one burned. Alexander had kissed me like he wanted to break me. And God, I let him. I wanted more. I wanted him.
But the silence that followed?
That was worse than anything.
No texts. No calls. Not even a glance at school the next day.
It was like the kiss never happened.
Cresthill buzzed louder than ever. Whispers turned into full-on conversations behind my back.
> “Did you hear? She was seen coming out of a classroom with him.”
“He kissed her? That’s not possible.”
“He’s never kissed anyone at school. Not like that.”
Even the teachers acted weird around me — like they’d heard something too.
By second period, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in, and I had no idea where to hide.
I spotted Tessa at her locker between classes and rushed over.
She took one look at my face and narrowed her eyes. “Okay. What the hell happened?”
I leaned in, voice low. “He kissed me.”
Her jaw dropped.
“In a classroom. After he got in a fight or something near the stairwell.”
She blinked. “You kissed Alexander Kings?”
“No. He kissed me.”
Tessa slammed her locker shut. “That boy is a human red flag parade. Do you want to be the next broken girl in his story?”
I sighed. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No one ever does,” she muttered.
During lunch, I ate alone under the same tree we always sat by. Tessa said she’d join me, but I knew she was giving me space — or maybe just protecting her own reputation by not being too close.
I couldn’t blame her.
That’s when I saw him again.
Alexander.
He was leaning against his black motorcycle near the school gates, sunglasses low on his nose, a cigarette tucked behind one ear. He looked like a villain straight out of every bad decision I was trying not to make again.
Our eyes met.
But he didn’t come over.
Didn’t even nod.
Just… looked.
Then turned away and hopped on his bike.
My chest twisted.
Why did he always come so close, only to pull away like I was some kind of bad habit he was trying to quit?
After school, I took the long way home.
I didn’t want to face the silence of my bedroom or the thoughts spinning through my head. I walked aimlessly until the sun started to dip, turning the sky gold and violet.
When I finally got back to my street, I stopped dead in my tracks.
Because there he was.
Sitting on the hood of a black car, arms folded, hair messy, that same cigarette unlit between his fingers.
Alexander.
Waiting.
“I needed to see you,” he said as I approached.
“Then why ignore me all day?” I snapped.
He jumped off the hood, standing tall in front of me. “Because I’m trying to do the right thing for once.”
I scoffed. “Kissing me and ghosting me the next day is your definition of right?”
His jaw clenched. “I told you, Ava. I’m not good for you.”
“And I told you to stop deciding that for me.”
He looked at me — really looked at me. And then did something I didn’t expect.
He dropped the cigarette, stepped closer, and reached into his jacket.
He pulled out a small, wrinkled envelope and held it out.
“What’s this?” I asked, suspicious.
“My truth,” he said.
I took it. Slowly opened it.
Inside was a photo.
Of a younger boy — maybe fourteen — bruised, sitting on a hospital bed with a stitched eyebrow and hollow eyes. Beside him was a man with the same jawline, holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a belt in the other.
My throat closed up.
“That’s my father,” Alexander said quietly. “And me.”
I looked up, tears stinging the back of my eyes. “What happened to him?”
“He left,” he said. “Eventually. But not before teaching me how to hit harder than him.”
I stared at the picture. “You’re scared you’ll turn into him.”
He nodded once. “That’s why I don’t do relationships. Why I push everyone away.”
“Why you warned me,” I whispered.
He stepped closer, so close I could feel the heat radiating off him.
“But you’re not like the others, Ava. You don’t just see the mask — you see me. And that terrifies the hell out of me.”
I dropped the photo, grabbed his face with both hands, and forced him to look at me.
“You’re not your father,” I said. “And I’m not scared of your broken pieces.”
His breath hitched.
“I’m scared of what I’ll do if you walk away again,” I admitted.
Something in him cracked. The walls. The guilt. The fight.
And he kissed me.
This time, it wasn’t desperate.
It was real.
His lips were softer, slower. His hands cupped my face like I was something fragile, something worth saving. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let the moment consume us.
No games. No pushing away. Just us — messy and imperfect and real.
When we finally pulled apart, I looked into his eyes and whispered:
“This is going to get messy, isn’t it?”
He smirked. “It already is.”
- Writer
