Break Me To Love You

Chapter #2 {Partners}

AP Literature is supposed to be my sanctuary.

Books have always been my escape, my armor, my way of making sense of a world that never quite made sense to me. Ms. Chen's class is legendary at Rosewater Creek High, she's tough, brilliant, and doesn't tolerate bullshit. The reading list is ambitious: Brontë, Shelley, Poe, Morrison. The kind of literature that demands something from you, that doesn't let you hide.

I'm three pages into the opening of Jane Eyre, finally starting to breathe normally again, when I hear it.

That laugh.

Low, easy, the kind of laugh that says the world bends around you instead of the other way around.

I don't look up. I don't have to.

The energy in the room shifts as Ezekiel Weston walks in, thirty seconds before the bell, like he's timed it for maximum effect. I can feel the attention pivot toward him, the way it always does. The way it always has.

"Mr. Weston," Ms. Chen says dryly, not looking up from her attendance sheet. "How gracious of you to join us."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Ms. Chen." His voice is warm, respectful, with just enough charm to avoid being obnoxious. "Sorry I'm late. Guidance office ran long."

"Mm-hmm. Take a seat."

I keep my eyes locked on my book, on Jane's defiant words to Mrs. Reed, willing him to sit anywhere else. Anywhere in this entire classroom except..

The desk directly in front of me scrapes against the linoleum.

Of course.

Of course he sits there.

I can see the back of his head now, those dark locks that look like he's run his hands through them too many times. The breadth of his shoulders in that gray t. The way he settles into the desk like he owns it, owns this space, owns everything.

I hate him.

I hate him so much my teeth hurt from clenching my jaw.

"Alright, people," Ms. Chen says, closing her attendance book with a decisive snap. "Let's talk about Gothic literature and the concept of the past that refuses to stay buried."

For the next twenty minutes, I take notes with mechanical precision, my handwriting tight and controlled. Ms. Chen discusses the Gothic tradition, the way these novels explore psychological darkness, forbidden desire, the return of repressed trauma. She's talking about Wuthering Heights, about Heathcliff and Catherine, about love that destroys.

I'm so focused on not looking at the back of Zeke's head that I almost miss it when Ms. Chen starts assigning partners.

"This unit will be a six-week deep dive," she says, pulling up a list on the projector. "You and your partner will analyze the Gothic elements in Wuthering Heights, present on the psychological complexity of the central relationship, and write a joint analytical essay. I've assigned partners based on complementary strengths."

My stomach drops.

No.

No, no, no.

"Dakota Rivers and Ezekiel Weston."

The universe hates me.

There's no other explanation.

Zeke turns around in his seat, and the smile he gives me is slow, devastating, and entirely too pleased. "Guess we're partners, Kota."

Don't call me that.

"Don't call me that," I say, my voice flat.

"What should I call you, then? Dakota?" He tilts his head, studying me with those unsettling hazel-green eyes. "That seems awfully formal for partners."

"It seems appropriate for people who aren't friends."

"We were friends once."

The words hit like a slap.

"We were never friends," I say quietly, and I watch something flicker across his face, something that might be hurt, if I believed he was capable of being hurt. "You made sure of that."

Ms. Chen's voice cuts through before he can respond. "I expect you all to exchange contact information and set up your first meeting by the end of the week. This is forty percent of your grade, people. Take it seriously."

The rest of class passes in a blur. I take notes. I participate when called on. I do everything right, everything normal, while my entire body feels like a live wire.

When the bell rings, I'm out of my seat immediately, shoving my books into my bag.

"Dakota, wait-"

"No." I don't look at him. I can't look at him.

But Zeke is faster than I remember, and suddenly he's in front of me, blocking my path to the door. Not touching me, not threatening, just... there. Taking up space. Making it impossible to ignore him.

"We need to talk about the project," he says.

"We can email."

"Ms. Chen said meet in person."

"Then we'll meet in the library. During school hours. With other people around."

Something in his expression shifts, hardens. "You're really going to make this difficult, aren't you?"

"I'm going to make this bearable," I correct, finally meeting his eyes. "There's a difference."

We're standing too close. The classroom has emptied around us, other students flowing out into the hallway, and it's just us and Ms. Chen at her desk, pointedly not paying attention.

"Fine," Zeke says. "Library. Tomorrow after school."

"Fine."

But neither of us moves.

I can smell him again, that cedar and laundry detergent scent, and I hate that I notice. Hate that my body is aware of his in ways my mind refuses to acknowledge. He's taller than I remembered, I have to tilt my head back slightly to maintain eye contact, and that feels like giving him something I don't want to give.

"I'm not the same person I was," he says quietly, and there's something raw in his voice that makes my chest tighten. "I know you don't believe that. But it's true."

"People don't change that much."

"Some do."

"Not the ones who matter."

I push past him, and this time he lets me go.

****

I make it through three more classes on autopilot. Calculus, Chemistry, Spanish. I eat lunch in the library, alone, with my headphones in and my head down. I'm good at being invisible when I need to be.

But I can't stop thinking about tomorrow. About being alone with him in the library. About six weeks of forced proximity, of having to look at his face and hear his voice and pretend that it doesn't affect me.

The final bell rings at 3:15. I have fifteen minutes before the buses leave, and I need to grab my gym clothes from my locker before I head home. The junior-senior hallway is chaos, people shouting, locker doors slamming, the percussion of teenage noise.

I spin my combination, yank open my locker, and I'm reaching for my gym bag when I feel it.

That awareness. That prickling at the back of my neck.

I turn, and Zeke is there, leaning against the locker next to mine, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can't read.

"Are you following me?" I demand.

"My locker's down the hall."

"Then go to your locker."

"I wanted to talk to you."

"We talked. Tomorrow. Library. We're done."

I try to close my locker, but his hand shoots out, catching the door, holding it open. Not aggressive, just... present. Immovable.

"Dakota-"

"Move."

"Not until you listen."

"I don't owe you anything. Especially not my time."

The hallway is emptying out now, people rushing to catch buses or head to practice or club meetings. In another minute, we'll be alone.

Zeke seems to realize this at the same time I do.

"Come with me," he says. "Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

"No."

"Please."

The word sounds foreign in his mouth, like he doesn't use it often. Like it costs him something.

Against every instinct, every ounce of self-preservation, I hear myself say, "Five minutes. That's it."

He nods, then turns and walks down the hallway. After a moment's hesitation, I follow.

He leads me past the main corridor, past the science labs, to a section of the school that's usually empty after hours, the old language wing that's being renovated next summer. There's an alcove here, a recessed doorway that leads to a storage room, and Zeke stops there, turning to face me.

We're alone now. Completely alone.

The noise of the school feels distant, muffled. It's just us and the fluorescent lights humming overhead and the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.

"Talk," I say, crossing my arms. "You have four minutes left."

Zeke runs a hand through his hair, and I hate that I track the movement, hate that I notice the way his bicep flexes under his sleeve.

"I know I f****d up," he says finally. "I know I was a shitty kid. I know I hurt you."

"You don't know anything about what you did to me."

"Then tell me."

"Why?" The word comes out sharp, jagged. "So you can feel better about yourself? So you can apologize and move on and sleep well at night? I don't owe you my trauma, Ezekiel. I don't owe you closure."

"I'm not asking for closure. I'm asking for a chance."

"A chance to what?"

"To prove I'm different."

I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to my own ears. "You want to prove you're different? Fine. Leave me alone. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Pretend I don't exist. That's what you can do."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

He takes a step closer, and I take a step back, my shoulders hitting the wall behind me. I'm trapped now, caught between a cold cinderblock and the heat of his body, and my pulse is racing for reasons I don't want to examine.

"Because I've thought about you every day for seven years," Zeke says, his voice low and rough. "Because I've hated myself for what I did to you. Because seeing you walk into that school this morning felt like getting punched in the chest and coming up for air at the same time."

"That's not my problem."

"I know." He's closer now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. "I know it's not your problem. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I'm asking anyway."

"You're asking for something I can't give you."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "It does."

We're staring at each other now, and the air between us feels electric, charged with something I don't want to name. His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second, and my breath catches.

No.

No, absolutely not.

"Don't," I whisper.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want something from me."

His jaw tightens. "What if I do?"

"Then you're going to be disappointed."

But I don't move. I should move. I should duck under his arm and walk away and never look back. But my body feels frozen, pinned by the intensity of his gaze, by the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.

"You're scared," he says, and it's not a question.

"I'm not scared of you."

"I didn't say you were scared of me."

The implication hangs between us, heavy and undeniable.

I'm not scared of him. I'm scared of this. Of the way my body responds to his proximity, the way my heart races when he's near, the way some traitorous part of me wants to close the distance between us and find out what his mouth tastes like.

I'm scared because I should hate him.

I do hate him.

But my body doesn't seem to have gotten the message.

"Your five minutes are up," I manage, but my voice sounds breathless, unsteady.

"Dakota-"

"Let me go."

For a long moment, he doesn't move. We're so close I can see the pulse jumping in his throat, can feel the heat of his breath on my face. His hand comes up, slowly, giving me time to pull away, and his fingers brush against my jaw, feather-light.

The touch sends electricity racing down my spine.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and he sounds like he means it. "For everything. For all of it. I'm so f*****g sorry."

I should say something cutting. Something that puts him in his place. Something that reminds him exactly what he did and why sorry will never be enough.

But all I can think about is the way his thumb is tracing the line of my cheekbone, gentle and reverent, like I'm something that might break.

"Sorry doesn't fix anything," I say, but the words come out softer than I intended.

"I know."

"It doesn't change what happened."

"I know."

"It doesn't make us okay."

"I know." His eyes search mine, desperate and dark. "But maybe it's a start."

I should say no. I should push him away. I should do a thousand things that aren't standing here, trapped between his body and the wall, letting him touch me like this.

But I don't.

And when his gaze drops to my mouth again, when he leans in just slightly, just enough that I can feel the question in the movement-

I turn my head.

His lips brush my cheek instead, a ghost of contact that still manages to set every nerve ending on fire.

"Don't," I breathe.

He pulls back immediately, hands dropping to his sides, and I can see the frustration and want and something that looks almost like pain written across his face.

"Tomorrow," he says roughly. "Library. 3:30."

Then he steps back, giving me space, giving me air, giving me an escape route.

I take it.

I walk away on shaking legs, my cheek still burning where his lips almost touched, my heart pounding so hard I feel sick.

I don't look back.

But I can feel him watching me go, can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that some small, secret, traitorous part of me wishes I'd let him kiss me.

Just to see.

Just to know.

I hate that part most of all.