I went to Tristan's the next night. I owed him, after all.
Now he's gone, and I'm still lying in his bed, staring at his ceiling, replaying the disgust in his voice when he pulled away.
He tried again — hands pushing beneath my shirt without asking, mouth on my neck while he murmured about how long he's been waiting. How patient he's been. How much I owe him for that patience.
And I froze. The way I always do.
My body locked up the moment his fingers reached the waistband of my panties, every muscle going rigid beneath skin that refused to cooperate.
"Six months," he said, rolling off me with a sigh. "Six fucking months, Nora. This is getting ridiculous."
I did not answer. I never know what to say when he is like this.
"My ex would have…" He stopped himself, jaw tight. "Never mind. I have an early meeting anyway."
He dressed in the dark and did not even kiss me goodbye. Then the door closed behind him with a click that sounded like judgment.
We have been together for six months, and I have never let him past a certain point. He expected it to happen by now — most girls in his world give themselves freely, and he made it clear he chose me despite my hesitation.
A favor, the way he tells it. Patience he did not have to offer.
I should be grateful, that is what I have been taught. Men like Tristan do not wait. Men like Tristan have plenty of options.
But my body does not care about gratitude. It locks up every time he touches me, and I do not understand why. He is handsome, wealthy and exactly what my parents wanted for me, what I was raised to want for myself.
I should feel lucky. I should feel desired.
I feel nothing instead. Nothing except the vague nausea of being handled like property.
I am twenty-one years old and still a virgin, and everyone acts like that is my failure. Tristan's frustration. My mother's pointed questions about grandchildren. My father's jokes about sealing the deal.
They all expect me to perform, to deliver, to stop being difficult.
And I cannot explain that my body refuses to give itself to someone who has never once asked what I want.
Ghost's voice drifts through my memory. What do you want?
My pulse jumps at the thought of him, and something complicated twists in my stomach. He asked me a question no one else has ever asked. He listened to the answer. He made me feel like my wants mattered.
Maybe that is why my body locks up with Tristan.
Maybe it knows something I am too trained to admit.
I throw off the covers and grab my keys. The city unfolds outside my windshield, block by block, and I take the long route without meaning to.
The one that cuts through West Side territory before looping back to neutral ground.
Graffiti-tagged walls blur past my windows as flickering streetlights cast orange shadows across cracked sidewalks. A cluster of motorcycles gleams outside a late-night diner, chrome catching the neon glow.
West Side College sits at the center of it all — underfunded buildings, chain-link fences, students who work three jobs to afford textbooks.
A few blocks later, the landscape shifts and gated apartment complexes with doormen. Manicured hedges trimmed to geometric perfection. A coffee shop I recognize, the one that charges eight dollars for a latte and twelve for avocado toast.
Two different worlds sharing the same city, pretending the other does not exist.
The rivalry is not official.
North Side University and West Side College share accreditation boards, funding committees, a city council that wishes they would just get along. But everyone knows the truth.
It started decades ago — some say a scholarship dispute, others say a fight over a girl, most say it does not matter anymore because the hatred has become its own reason.
North Side students call West Side dangerous, criminal, trash.
West Side students call North Side fake, entitled, soft.
They do not date each other. They do not befriend each other. They barely acknowledge each other exists except to sneer.
I grew up hearing my father talk about West Side the way he talked about pests — something to avoid, something beneath us. I never questioned it. I never had reason to.
That is why I study at North Side, why I live in a gated building. Why my world has clean edges and his approval stamped on every corner.
Iron Hour appears through the windshield, and I pull into the parking lot.
The gym sits on neutral ground, technically belonging to neither campus, but claimed by both. Twenty-four hours. No membership fees. The kind of place where I can disappear without anyone reporting back to my parents.
I claim a treadmill in the back corner and start running.
The noise in my head quiets, replaced by the rhythm of my own breathing, the mechanical whir of the machine and distant clang of weights.
I run until my legs shake. Until my shirt sticks to my back. Until I cannot think about Tristan's entitled hands or Ghost's gentle questions or the war between what I was taught to accept and what I am starting to suspect I deserve.
I slow the treadmill, gasping, and that is when I hear it — the rhythmic thud of fists against leather from the heavy bag in the back corner.
I turn before I can stop myself.
A guy works the bag with controlled violence — dark hair damp with sweat, sharp jaw, leather jacket discarded on a bench nearby. Tattoos peek from his collar, black ink disappearing beneath his shirt.
His stance is too narrow as his guard drops between combinations. But there is something in the way he moves — raw, unpolished, alive in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
Danny Vega. I know him by reputation.
West Side, motorcycle club — one of the leaders, according to the whispers. Everything North Side students trade warnings about at parties and in dining halls. Stay away from the bikers. They are dangerous. They are criminals.
They are everything we are not.
He catches me looking and his fists still against the bag. A grin spreads across his face — slow, knowing, infuriating.
"See something you want, sweetheart?"
I roll my eyes and step off the treadmill, grabbing my water bottle. "Your form is sloppy. And the stance is too narrow."
His eyebrows rise. "You box?"
"I hit things when I'm stressed."
"Must be stressed a lot." He tilts his head, dark eyes seeing too much. "North Side, right? Let me guess — business major, daddy's money, boyfriend who drives a BMW."
"Do you practice being this charming, or does it come naturally?"
He laughs — rough, warm, nothing like Tristan's polished chuckle. Something in my chest responds before I can shut it down.
I turn toward the locker room, but the broken handle catches my bag strap. I yank it free, muttering, "This place is falling apart. Would it kill them to fix anything?"
Danny's laugh dies. "Sorry the gym isn't up to your five-star standards, princess."
I spin around. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He steps closer, unwrapping his hands slowly. "Broken locker handle. Tragic. How will you survive?" His voice drips venom. "Must be rough, having problems like that. Meanwhile some of us work double shifts just to afford the membership."
"I wasn't—"
"You North Side girls are all the same." He's not smiling anymore. "You float through life complaining about chipped nails and slow wifi while people like me are trying to keep the lights on. But sure, tell me more about the broken handle. I'm fascinated."
Heat floods my face — fury and something worse. Shame.
"You don't know anything about me," I snap.
"I know enough. Designer leggings. Forty-dollar water bottle. Probably never worked a day in your life." He tilts his head. "How's it feel, princess? Being handed everything and still finding reasons to complain?"
The words land like a slap. Because part of me knows he's right — and I hate him for seeing it.
"At least I don't have a chip on my shoulder the size of a motorcycle," I fire back. "Must be exhausting, hating everyone who has more than you. Maybe if you spent less time judging people you don't know, you'd actually get somewhere."
His jaw tightens. For a second, something flickers in his eyes — hurt, maybe. Then it's gone, replaced by cold amusement.
"Run along, princess. Daddy's probably waiting."
I don't answer. I walk toward the locker room, hands shaking, throat tight. Narcissistic. Arrogant. Cruel. Everything I expected and worse.
But for one treacherous moment, my mind wanders. I wonder what Ghost looks like. If his hands are rough. If his shoulders are that broad. If he would ever look at me with that much contempt.
I shut the thought down hard.
Tristan is my future. Tristan is the plan. Tristan is what I am supposed to want.
But wanting has never been part of the equation.
