Chapter 2: The closet
Joseph walked a few paces behind, the weight of his backpack a familiar pressure on his shoulder. The neighborhoods had shifted from worn student housing to wide, quiet streets where the trees were professionally trimmed and the cars in the driveways gleamed under the evening sun. The silence between them was filled only by the scuff of their shoes on pavement and the distant drone of a lawnmower.
The mansion came into view like a sudden, imposing fact.
It wasn't just big; it was a statement carved in stone and choked with ivy, with windows that looked like dark, watching eyes. It loomed against the twilight, a gothic whisper in a neighborhood of polite smiles.
Kenzie glanced back at him, noting the way his steps had slowed. “Come on, come on, never seen a nice house before?” she said, her voice cutting through the thick air. They walked up the broad stone steps. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your very own room,” she said, digging in her purse for keys.
“Nice,” he replied, the word flat.
“My walk-in closet,” she finished, not looking up. He stopped on the top step. “Are you for real?”
“Yeah, it’s very big. Just to hide you from my dad. But so long as we’re in my room by ten it’s no big deal. He’s a workaholic. And before you ask, no, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel abandoned and I actually like the independence.” The speech came out in a practiced, defensive rush.
He let out a small, airless laugh. “Right. What’s your dad do again?” he asked, his eyes tracing the imposing facade.
“He’s a district attorney,” she said, finally finding the key. A cold wire tightened around Joseph’s ribs. “Mother fucker,” he whispered, the words lost under the sound of the heavy oak door swinging open.
She held it open, a sliver of warmth and light escaping into the dusk. “Don’t worry, you can trust me. I’m not a snitch.”
“Do I have a choice?” he said, his voice low.
She walked inside, looking over her shoulder with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “No.”
He followed, the door closing behind him with a soft, final thud that echoed in the cavernous space. The grand foyer felt hollow, its marble floors worn smooth in paths that spoke of lonely circulation. The air was cool, scented with old roses and something faintly metallic, like cold water in copper pipes. A staircase wider than his old kitchen curled upwards into shadow.
“You’re bossy, you know that,” he said, his gaze dropping from the impossible height of the ceiling back to her.
“You know, that’s what people always say about girls who know what they want,”
He remained standing on the marble, an intruder in a museum.
Kenzie took a step closer. He looked at her.
She looked at him as he stepped closer, she caught her own breath looking up at him. “You want me in your shower?” he said, his voice a low, challenging rumble.
She looked at him. “You wish. I just don’t want you tracing blood and dirt all over the house.” She turned, the movement abrupt. “Come on.”
She headed upstairs without checking if he followed. He did, his boots heavy on the curved staircase, each step feeling like a trespass into a world of plush carpets and framed portraits of unsmiling people. She led him into her room, a space so large it seemed to swallow the concept of privacy. It was all soft whites and pale pinks, a stark, perfumed universe away from the gritty warehouse.
She led him straight through it to the ensuite bathroom. It was done in marble again, but warmer, with a massive glass shower stall. He stood in the doorway, his backpack dropping to the floor with a thud.
He took his shirt off, looking around. He looked at her pink silk robe hanging on the back of the door, feeling it between his thumb and forefinger. The fabric was absurdly soft. Then he walked over to the shower, a confusing panel of chrome and buttons. “How does this thing work?” he yelled out.
She walked in. “What, you’ve never used a shower before?” she says, walking past him and grabbing the handle. She looks at him. “On.” She says, turning it on. A torrent of water erupted from a wide, ceiling-mounted head. Turning the handle the other way, she says, “Off.”
He looks at her, tilting his head. She looks at him up and down, her gaze lingering on the bruise blooming over his ribs, the old scars, the lean lines of his torso. She licks her lips, a quick, unconscious gesture.
“You gonna watch or something,” he says, not moving.
“Nothing to see,” she says, her voice quieter now.
He takes a step closer, invading the space she’d just occupied near the shower. The steam from the brief rush of water hadn’t yet faded. “You sure about that?”
She threw a towel at him. It hit his chest, soft and thick. “Enjoy your shower,” she says, walking out and closing the door behind her with a firm click.
He watched her go, a faint, surprised smile tugging at his lips. Then he shook his head, stripping the rest of the way and getting in. The water was instantly, perfectly hot, pounding the ache from his shoulders. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes.
Outside, Kenzie leaned against the closed bathroom door, listening to the rush of water. She pressed her palms flat against the wood, her own breath coming a little too fast. The image of his torso, marked with violence and hard living, was seared behind her eyelids. She pushed off the door and walked to her closet, the one he’d be sleeping in.
She pulled down a spare comforter and a pillow, the linen smelling of lavender and impersonal luxury, and tossed them into the deep, carpeted corner. The shower cut off abruptly.
Silence seeped back into the room, broken only by the distant groan of the mansion’s plumbing.
Joseph turned off the shower and wrapped the pink towel she’d given him around his waist. He walked out looking around, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. “Real princess room, huh,” he said, his voice echoing softly in the large space.
“Am I the first girl that’s ever let you see her room?” she asked, not turning from where she was fluffing the pillow.
He touched something frilly on a decorative cushion, his rough fingers catching on the lace. “You’re the first one that’s so frilly.”
“Mm, let me guess. You’re a ‘no frills’ kind of guy,” she said, finally glancing over. Steam still curled from his skin.
“Oh no, I’m scary, remember,” he said, a dry challenge in his tone.
She rolled her eyes .“Please.I remember you thumb-sucking your way through kindergarten. I’m not scared of you.” She sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping slightly.
He walked over, leaning down slightly so his face was closer to hers. The clean scent of her soap clung to him, an incongruous note over his rawness. “Yeah well, oral fixation. What can I say.”
A faint blush warmed her neck. She stood up abruptly, closing the small distance so she was right in front of him. “Your clothes were filthy, so we’re gonna have to go shopping tomorrow.”
“I don’t need your charity,” he said, his blue eyes holding hers. “No. You need a makeover.” Her gaze drifted down to the pink towel knotted at his hips, then snapped back up. The bruise on his ribs was a dark bloom against his tan .“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping. “So what are you gonna do to me?”
“You’ll see,” she said, walking past him toward the closet. She needed space, a barrier against the strange, magnetic heat he brought into the chilled room.
She retreated to the sanctity of her bed, a vast island of white linen in the center of the room. Kenzie laid on her bed, staring at the ceiling’s intricate molding, listening to the rustle from the other side of the open closet door. The house settled around her with a series of ancient creaks.
Joseph stood in the closet doorway for a long moment, looking from her still form to the small nest on the floor. He went into the closet, laying down on the carpet with the comforter pulled over him. The dark enclosed him, smelling of lavender and cedar, and he listened to her breathing until it evened out into sleep.
The next morning, Joseph woke to a sliver of light cutting across the closet floor. He sat up, the muscles in his side protesting the night on hard ground, and emerged into the quiet bedroom. An outfit was laid out on the bed: black jeans, a simple grey shirt, and a black jacket.
He picked up the shirt, feeling the soft, new cotton between his fingers. He put on the black jeans, grey shirt, and the black jacket that was there, the clothes fitting him with an unnerving precision. For a second, he studied his reflection in her full-length mirror, the clean lines making him look like a stranger, someone who belonged in a place like this.
Kenzie was already by the door, backpack slung over one shoulder. “You clean up less scary,” she said, her tone light. “I thought you’d fight me on the clothes.”
“Would’ve been a waste of energy,” he said, shouldering his own worn bag. They headed off to campus in her silent luxury car, the only sound the hum of the engine and the low morning news radio. She parked in a faculty lot with a casual disregard for the rules.
The moment their feet hit the main brick pathway, her posture changed.Her shoulders tightened as she scanned the crowd flowing toward the main lecture halls. Then she saw him, leaning against a bike rack, holding court with a few guys and a girl who clung to his side.It was Tristan.
Kenzie wrapped her arm around Joseph’s, her grip surprisingly firm. He didn’t pull away, falling into step beside her as they descended a short flight of stairs into a sunken courtyard.
“So what’s our plan?” he asked, his voice low near her ear.
“Just stay with me,” Kenzie said, her gaze fixed ahead, a brittle smile on her face.
Tristan looked up as they passed, his green eyes flicking from her linked arm to Joseph’s face. A wide, mocking grin spread across his face.“Wow, Kenzie. You had the Wagyu, now you’re with this Top Ramen,” he said, his arm tightening around the girl next to him.
Joseph looked at him, his expression utterly blank, a kind of void. The girl under Tristan’s arm giggled, a high, nervous sound.
“Look at this brokey,” Tristan sneered, nodding at Joseph’s new, but undeniably basic, outfit.
Joseph slowly removed his arm from Kenzie’s. He took a single step toward Tristan. The small crowd around them went still. “What, you gonna do something about it?” Tristan challenged, puffing out his chest but not quite straightening from his slouch against the rack.
Joseph’s hand shot out, too fast to follow. He grabbed Tristan’s hand, bending the wrist back just enough to force him forward. He pushed him back three stumbling steps until his shoulders hit the rough brick wall beside the stairs. “Leave her alone,” Joseph said, his voice a flat, cold plane, “or I’ll have to put effort into this.”
He released Tristan’s wrist with a slight shove. Tristan cradled his hand, his face mottled with anger and humiliation, but his eyes held a flicker of real fear. Joseph turned his back on him, a deliberate dismissal. He grabbed Kenzie’s arm and walked away, pulling her with him through the gathering crowd of onlookers.
They didn’t stop until they rounded the corner of the library, the ivy-choked bricks swallowing the sound of whispers and Tristan’s fading outrage.
Kenzie let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, a shaky, laughing sound. She leaned against the sun-warmed stone, her books clutched to her chest. “That was so good.” Kenzie said laughing.
He didn’t smile. He watched the path behind them, his body still coiled. “You’re gonna need to learn to protect yourself, Princess.”
“Why, when I have you?” she asked, the laughter drying up in her throat.
He finally looked at her, his blue eyes sharp. “Yeah, and when this deal ends?” he says.
Her playful expression faltered. “You’re leaving me already?”
“I’m just saying there’s always gonna be more Tristans.” He says. The truth of it hung between them, ugly and practical. He glanced over his shoulder toward a recessed, weathered door marked ‘Maintenance.’ “Come on, I’ll show you something.”
He didn’t wait for agreement. He just took her hand. His palm was calloused, warm, and completely engulfed hers.
“I have AP Psych,” she protested, her feet moving anyway, following his lead.
“Skip it,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He pulled her toward the door, its green paint flaking under his touch. It opened with a groan onto a narrow staircase that smelled of damp concrete and old rubber. The air grew cooler as they descended into the school’s underbelly.
The underground old gym was a time capsule of sweat and dust. Weak light from high, grime-covered windows sliced through the gloom, illuminating floating motes. The mats were faded, the once-blue wrestling circle now a vague greyish stain. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the cavernous silence.
He let go of her hand, the sudden absence of his grip feeling strangely like a loss. He shrugged off his new black jacket and tossed it onto a rusting bleacher.
“What’re you doing?” she asked, her voice small in the vast space.
“Fighting clean won’t work when you’re up against someone like Tristan,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “So we’re gonna go dirty.”
He walked to the center of the main mat, his sneakers whispering on the canvas. She hesitated, then placed her bag carefully on a bench beside his jacket. The act felt like a commitment.
“Come here, I’ll show you your first move,” he called, his voice bouncing softly off the distant walls.
She walked over to him, the old floorboards creaking under her weight. He seemed both larger and more focused here, a creature in its natural habitat. “Are you secretly smart?” she asked, smiling nervously.
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “Sure. You be Tristan. I’ll be you.”
He stood before her, hands loose at his sides.
His blue eyes held hers, intense and unwavering. “Try and kiss me.”
She laughed, a nervous, airy sound that echoed in the quiet gym. Then she leaned in, arching her back and closing her eyes, her lips parting slightly in a caricature of expectation.He didn’t move. “What’re you doing?” he asked, his voice flat.
Her eyes snapped open. “When are you gonna do the move?” she says, embarrassed.
“When you actually try and kiss me.” A challenge glinted in his stare.
“Are you messing with me?” Her brows knitted together, the playfulness evaporating.
“One way to find out.” He remained perfectly still, a statue waiting for a real touch.
“Okay.” She took a steadying breath. This time, she took a step forward, placing her hand softly on his cheek. Her palm was warm against his skin. She slowly leaned in, her focus entirely on his mouth, her intention clear and genuine.
His hand shot up, grabbing her wrist. In one fluid motion, he twisted her arm behind her back, using the leverage to bend her forward at the waist. She gasped, more from surprise than pain.
“Watch it, Joseph, this isn’t the Alaia,” she grunted, using the name of the underground fight ring she’d witnessed, her voice muffled.“This is a joint lock. It’s about leverage.” He adjusted his grip, not hurting her but demonstrating absolute control. “So even a little thing like you can use their body against them.”
He released her arm only to grab her waist, quickly spinning her around. He walked her backward until her shoulders met an old, cold support post. He pinned her there, his hand slapping the wood beside her head. “Like this,” he said, his face inches from hers.
She looked down at his lips, her breathing shallow. He looked down at her, his own breath a quiet rasp in the sudden, charged silence between them. They both let out a tight, shared breath, and he stepped back quickly, breaking the spell. “Work on that. You’re gonna do it to me now.” He turned his back to her, presenting himself.
She swallowed, her heart hammering against her ribs. She took a step forward, breathing deeply to steady her nerves. He turned back to face her, and for a moment, they just looked at each other.
Then he put his hand on her cheek, leaning in slightly as if to initiate the kiss himself. It was the trigger. She grabbed his wrist, her fingers finding the right points as he’d shown her. She pivoted, using her hip as a fulcrum, and pinned his arm behind his back. She didn’t bend him over, but she had him, immobilized and facing away from her.
“There you go,” he said, a note of approval in his strained voice.
“It’s about leverage,” she said in a comically deep voice, trying to mimic his instructional tone.
He twisted free from her hold with an easy shrug of his shoulders, the motion making her grasp feel childish. “Not bad for a first try,” he said, a real smile touching his eyes this time. “But you’re all finesse. You need some base strength, too. You ever throw a real punch?”
“I don’t think that’s very ladylike,” she said, half-joking, half-serious.
“Ladylike won’t stop him.” He stepped back and raised his own fists, elbows tucked, chin down. “Copy me. Get that elbow up.”
She mirrored his stance, her hands looking small and fragile in the air between them. He reached out and adjusted her right elbow, his fingers firm on her skin. “Higher. Protect your ribs.”
She tried, her muscles unfamiliar with the tension. “Like this?”
“Better.” He dropped his hands. “Now try and swipe my foot from under me.”
She lunged forward, aiming a clumsy kick at his ankle. He simply lifted his foot and let her miss, her balance wavering. He got out of the hold and took a step back, shaking his head. “You need to work on that. It’s not a dance move. It’s a kick. Commit.”
“I am committing!”
“Sure you are.” He looked her up and down, assessing. “Do you know how to do a push-up?”
“I do Pilates,” she said, a defensive edge creeping into her voice.He let out a short laugh. “Yeah, you look it.” The smirk was back, but it felt different now—less mocking, more challenging. “Let’s see one.”
She got on the ground, eager to prove she could. She lowered herself, arms trembling, and tried pushing back up. She failed, collapsing onto the dusty mat with a grunt.
He let out a smile, a genuine one that crinkled the skin around his scar. Without a word, he got on the ground beside her. He did a push-up, clean and strong, his body a straight, powerful line. “That’s one.”
“Show-off,” she muttered, pushing herself to her knees.
“Put your foot on my back,” he said, already in position again. “What? No.”
“Do it.”
She placed a hesitant foot on his lower back. He still pushed up, the muscles in his arms and back corded and solid under her weight. He did three more, each one controlled and deliberate, before she pulled her foot away like she’d been burned.
“Okay,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing his hands on his jeans. “Do you know how to do a pull-up?”
“Obviously not.”
He walked over to a rusty pull-up bar bolted between two steel supports. He grabbed it, his knuckles white, and performed a pull-up, his chin clearing the bar with inches to spare. He dropped down lightly.
She went to the bar, reaching her hands up. She could barely grip it, her feet dangling comically far from the floor. He walked behind her. “I’m gonna help you. Just try and hold on.”
His hands settled just above her waist, warm and sure through the thin fabric of her shirt. He lifted her easily until her hands could grab the bar properly. “Now, pull.”
He helped her up, her laugh echoing in the empty gym as she rose and fell, rose and fell, three times. It was less a pull-up and more her being hoisted, but the sensation of flight, of his hands supporting her, sent a giddy thrill through her. He gently put her back down on the ground, his hands lingering for a second before he stepped away.
The air between them was charged, thick with shared breath and the smell of old dust and their effort. He broke the gaze first, grabbing his jacket from the bleacher. “We should go. This place gives me the creeps.”
They drove back to her house, the sky darkening prematurely with the threat of rain, the missed classes a forgotten afterthought. The silence in the car was comfortable, filled with the low thrum of the engine and the soft patter of the first drops on the windshield.
Back in the vast, cold kitchen, they sat at the small table in the breakfast nook, a large pizza box open between them. The only light came from a pendant lamp overhead, pooling gold on the marble and leaving the rest of the room in swallowing shadow. She took a bite, watching him.
He ate like he fought: efficiently, without fanfare, wholly focused on the task.
“I’m sorry Tristan called you Top Ramen,” she said, the words tumbling out into the quiet.
He looked up from his slice, a flicker of something unreadable in his blue eyes. He shrugged, swallowing. “Yeah, it’s whatever. I know what you people think of me.”