Chapter 2: The Wall That Was a Chest
The water scalded her skin, steam filling the stall until Ava could barely see her own hands in front of her face. She stood under the spray with her forehead pressed against the cold tile, letting the heat pound into the knots between her shoulder blades. The gym's water pressure was aggressive, almost punishing. That was why she liked it.
She reached for the soap and worked up a lather, then went to town on her back.
The scars didn't like being touched. The nerve endings were all wrong back there, some dead and some firing off sparks like live wires. The doctors had told her it would improve with time, that the hypersensitivity would fade, that she'd get used to the way her skin felt like a map of someone else's disaster. Eighteen months later, she was still waiting.
Ava scrubbed harder, dragging the washcloth across the raised tissue until it stung. The pain was clean. Honest. It didn't remind her of anything except itself. She closed her eyes and let the water run over her face, washing away the sweat and the shame and the memory of Jake's fingertips brushing her shoulder.
That touch. God, it had been nothing. A graze. The kind of contact that happened a thousand times a day between strangers on a bus, in a hallway, at a fucking farmer's market. It shouldn't have mattered.
But her body didn't know the difference between a casual brush and a bomb fragment tearing through her shoulder. Her nervous system had been rewired in the space of a single heartbeat, and now it screamed danger at the most innocent things.
The memory of his face flashed behind her eyelids. Gray eyes, confused and concerned. The way his smirk had faltered when she'd flinched away from him. He'd looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve.
She hated that look. She'd seen it on too many faces—her mother's, her therapist's, Mia's. The look that said what happened to you? and how broken are you, exactly? and can I fix you, or should I just back away slowly?
Ava turned off the water and stood in the sudden silence, dripping and alone. One tear escaped before she could stop it, hot and useless, mingling with the shower water on her cheeks. She wiped it away with the heel of her hand and grabbed her towel.
Dressing was a blur. Sports bra, tank top, jeans, sneakers. Hair twisted up in a wet bun. She didn't bother with makeup. She just wanted to get out of here before anyone else tried to talk to her.
The locker room door swung open, and Ava stepped through with her head down, already reaching for her phone to text Mia.
She collided with something solid and warm.
"Shit—"
"Whoa—"
Hands caught her elbows, steadying her. The grip was firm but not forceful, and it released the instant she found her balance. Ava looked up into Jake's face, and her stomach dropped through the floor.
He was standing in the corridor outside the locker room, hair still damp from his own workout, wearing a fresh t-shirt and joggers. His expression was careful. Guarded. Like he was trying not to spook a deer.
"Sorry," he said. "I wasn't—I was just—" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair, and let out a breath. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."
Ava stared at him. Her heart was hammering, but not from panic this time. Something else. Something she didn't have a name for.
"I'm fine," she said. The words came out flat.
"You're not, though." Jake's voice was quiet. "And that's okay. I just—I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. Whatever it was."
The corridor smelled like sweat and chlorine, and somewhere beneath that, the faint metallic tang of something older. Blood, maybe. Or just the building's bones showing through. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and Ava felt the familiar urge to run.
But she didn't.
"You didn't do anything," she said. "It's not you. It's—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It's a me thing."
Jake nodded slowly. He didn't push. He didn't ask for details. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at her like she was a person and not a problem to be solved.
"That's fair," he said. "I just wanted to make sure I didn't completely fuck up. I'm not usually that guy."
"What guy?"
"The guy who makes girls run away from him." A ghost of his earlier smirk crossed his face, but it was softer now. Less performance. "I'm usually the guy they run toward. It's a whole thing."
Ava felt something loosen in her chest. Not much. Just a fraction. But enough.
"I'm sorry I bolted," she said. "That wasn't about you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
Jake studied her for a long moment. His gray eyes were steady, patient. He didn't look like he was trying to charm her anymore. He looked like he was trying to understand.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Depends on the question."
"Can I get your number?"
Ava blinked. "What?"
"Your number. So I can text you. Not to ask you out or anything—well, maybe eventually, but not right now. Just so you know I'm not a complete asshole who makes girls flee gyms."
She should say no. She should walk away, go home, forget this ever happened. That was the smart thing. The safe thing.
But something about the way he was standing there—awkward and earnest and nothing like the smooth-talking playboy from the treadmill—made her hesitate.
"Give me your phone," she said.
Jake's eyebrows shot up. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a sleek black iPhone, unlocked it, and handed it over. Ava typed her number in, saved it under "Ava (Gym Girl)," and handed it back.
"Gym Girl?" Jake read the screen and laughed. "That's the best you could come up with?"
"Would you prefer 'Six-Minute Mile'?"
He grinned, and for a second, he looked exactly like the guy from before—charming and ridiculous and impossible to take seriously.
"I'll text you," he said. "Just so you have my number. No pressure."
"Okay."
"And Ava?"
She was already turning away. "What?"
"I'm glad you didn't break your nose on my chest. That would've been a bad first impression."
Ava shook her head and walked away, but she couldn't quite stop the smile that tugged at her lips.
The apartment was a disaster when she got home, but not the kind she was expecting.
Ava pushed through the front door and stopped dead in the hallway, keys still in her hand. The living room was empty, but the sounds coming from Mia's bedroom were unmistakable—a low, breathy moan, followed by the creak of bedsprings and a muffled thwack.
"Oh my god," Ava muttered.
She should have turned around and left. She should have gone to get coffee, or run errands, or done literally anything else. Instead, she kicked off her shoes and padded toward the kitchen, because her water bottle was in there and she was too thirsty to care about her roommate's questionable life choices.
The kitchen was separated from Mia's bedroom by a thin wall. The sounds were very, very clear.
"Please," a male voice whined. "Please, Mia, I'll do anything—"
"Shut up," Mia said. Her voice was calm, almost bored. "You don't get to beg until I say you can beg."
Ava opened the fridge and grabbed her water bottle. She was halfway through her first gulp when Mia's bedroom door swung open and her roommate emerged, barefoot and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Her dark curls were wild, her lips were swollen, and she had a look in her eyes that Ava recognized as I'm in the middle of something and you're interrupting.
"Mia," Ava said.
"Ava." Mia crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. "You're home early."
"I live here."
"I know. It's inconvenient."
From inside the bedroom, the male voice whined again. "Mia? Are you coming back?"
"In a minute," Mia called over her shoulder. Then, to Ava: "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Ava set down her water bottle and rubbed her temples. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Too bad. You're going to." Mia gestured toward the kitchen table. "Sit. I'll be right back."
She disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a strip of black silk in her hands. Ava heard the guy protest, then a muffled grunt, then silence.
"What did you do?"Ava asked.
"Gagged him with his own tie. He's fine." Mia dropped into the chair across from Ava and propped her feet up on the opposite seat. "Now spill."
Ava stared at her. "You have a guy tied to your bed."
"And?"
"And you just left him there."
"He's fine. He likes it." Mia waved a dismissive hand. "He's my boytoy. We have an arrangement. He begs, I deny, he begs harder, I give him exactly what he wants. It's very healthy. Now tell me what happened at the gym."
Ava sighed. She didn't want to talk about it. She wanted to crawl into her own bed and pretend this morning hadn't happened. But Mia was looking at her with that sharp, knowing expression, and Ava knew from experience that resistance was futile.
So she told her. All of it. The treadmill, the flirting, the joke about the elliptical, the way Jake had made her laugh despite herself. And then the touch—the brush of his fingers on her shoulder, the way her body had seized up, the flight to the locker room, the shower, the tear.
And then the collision in the corridor. The apology. The number.
Mia listened without interrupting, which was rare for her. When Ava finished, she let out a low whistle.
"So this guy—this hot, rich, charming guy—watched you run away from him, followed you to the locker room, apologized for something that wasn't his fault, and then asked for your number so he could prove he wasn't an asshole?"
Ava nodded.
"And you gave it to him?"
"I don't know why."
"I do." Mia leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Because you liked him. Because he made you laugh. Because for five minutes, he made you feel like a normal person instead of a walking trauma case."
Ava flinched. "That's not—"
"It is, though." Mia's voice softened. "Ava, you haven't let anyone near you since the bombing. Not really. You go to class, you go to the gym, you come home. That's it. That's your whole life."
"I have you."
"You have me. And I love you. But I'm not enough." Mia reached across the table and took Ava's hand. "You deserve more than this. You deserve someone who makes you laugh and doesn't run away when things get complicated."
From the bedroom, a muffled moan escaped through the gag. Mia ignored it.
"What if I freak out again?" Ava whispered. "What if I can't—what if he tries to touch me and I just—"
"Then you tell him. And if he's worth anything, he'll listen."
Ava looked down at their joined hands. Her fingers were trembling. "I don't know if I can do this."
"You don't have to know. You just have to try."
The bedroom door creaked open, and the boytoy emerged on his hands and knees, still blindfolded, the tie hanging loose around his neck. He was naked and hard and clearly desperate.
"Please," he gasped. "Please, I need—"
Mia stood up and grabbed Ava's gym bag from the floor. She pulled out the socks Ava had worn during her run—still damp, still ripe—and shoved them into the guy's open mouth.
"Chew on these and shut up," she said. "I'm having a moment with my roommate."
The guy moaned and collapsed onto his side, legs twitching.
Mia turned back to Ava. "Where were we?"
"Your boytoy is eating my gym socks."
"He's fine. He loves it." Mia sat back down. "So. Are you going to text him back?"
Ava looked at her phone. There was already a message waiting, from a number she didn't recognize.Hey. It's Jake. The guy with the stellar gym jokes. Just making sure you got home okay. No pressure. Just checking.
She stared at the screen for a long moment. Then she typed out a reply.
I got home. Thanks for checking. Sorry again for bolting.
Mia raised an eyebrow. "You're texting him."
"He texted me first."
"Same thing."
Ava hit send and set the phone face-down on the table. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably." Mia shrugged. "But bad ideas are the best kind. Ask my boytoy."
The guy on the floor moaned in agreement, socks still stuffed in his mouth.
Ava laughed—a real laugh, the kind that started in her chest and pushed its way out before she could stop it. It felt strange. Foreign. Like her body had forgotten how to do it.
But it also felt good.
Her phone buzzed again. She turned it over.
No need to apologize. You're allowed to have boundaries. Just let me know if you want to get coffee sometime. Friend coffee. No pressure coffee. Just coffee.
Ava stared at the message. Her heart was doing something complicated—a mix of hope and fear and something else she couldn't quite name.
She typed back.
Coffee sounds nice.
Then she set the phone down and looked at Mia, who was grinning like she'd just won the lottery.
"See?" Mia said. "Progress."
Ava didn't answer. She just reached for her water bottle and took a long drink, letting the cool water wash away the taste of panic that had been lingering in her throat all morning.
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she'd end up hurt, or embarrassed, or both.
But for the first time in eighteen months, she was willing to find out.
But for the first time in eighteen months, she was willing to find out.
Mia leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms overhead until her spine popped. The movement pulled her oversized t-shirt tight across her chest, and she caught Ava's glance with a knowing smirk. "You're staring."
"I'm not staring. I'm observing."
"Same thing." Mia dropped her arms and drummed her fingers on the table. "So. Coffee with Jake. When?"
"I don't know. I just said it sounded nice. I didn't commit to a time."
"You committed to the idea. That's half the battle."
Ava picked at the label on her water bottle, peeling the edge with her thumbnail. The kitchen smelled like stale coffee and something else—something musky and intimate that she didn't want to identify. The sounds from the floor had faded to occasional muffled groans, but the guy was still there. Still waiting.
"Can we talk about something else?" Ava asked.
"Like what?"
"Like your boytoy. What's his deal?"
Mia's eyebrows shot up. "You want to hear about my sex life?"
"I want to hear about anything that isn't my own disaster of a morning." Ava gestured vaguely toward the bedroom. "He's been in there for a while. What did you do to him?"
Mia's grin turned predatory. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered her voice like she was sharing state secrets. "I picked him up at that bar on Fifth last night. The one with the awful karaoke. He was cute, desperate, and had that look—you know the one. The look that says 'I'll do anything you tell me to do.'"
"And you brought him home."
"I brought him home." Mia nodded. "And then I spent the next four hours making him prove it."
Ava took a sip of water, trying to look unimpressed. "Four hours?"
"Give or take." Mia counted on her fingers. "First, I had him strip down and kneel by the bed while I finished my wine. Made him watch me. No touching. No talking. Just waiting."
"That sounds boring."
"For you, maybe. For him, it was torture." Mia's smile widened. "He was hard before I even finished my glass. Leaking all over himself. Begging me to let him touch me."
Ava felt heat creep up her neck. "Okay, I get the picture—"
"No, you don't. You asked." Mia held up a hand. "So I let him touch me. But only my feet. He had to kiss every toe, lick between each one, worship them like they were made of gold. And he did. He was fucking pathetic about it—moaning and whimpering and telling me how beautiful they were."
"Your feet?"
"My feet." Mia wiggled her toes for emphasis. "He's got a thing. I'm not judging."
From the floor, a muffled whine drifted. The guy was still gagged, but he was clearly listening. Ava wondered if he was getting off on being discussed like this. Probably.
"Then what?" Ava asked, despite herself.
"Then I bent him over the bed and spanked him until his ass was pink." Mia's voice was matter-of-fact. "He cried a little. Not real crying—the good kind. The kind that means he was sinking into it."
Ava shifted in her chair. Her face was definitely red now. "And you didn't wake me up?"
"I shoved his face into my pillow every time he got too loud." Mia shrugged. "You sleep like the dead anyway. A bomb could go off and you wouldn't—"
She stopped. The word hung in the air between them.
Ava's grip tightened on her water bottle. The familiar cold crept up her spine, that icy prickle that lived just beneath her skin. "Don't."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."
"You never think."
"I know. I'm an asshole." Mia reached across the table, her fingers brushing Ava's knuckles. "I'm sorry."
Ava pulled her hand away. "Just—finish the story. What happened after the spanking?"
Mia hesitated for a beat, then nodded. "I pegged him. Strap-on, lots of lube, took my time. He screamed into the pillow for about twenty minutes. Came twice without me touching his dick."
"That's possible?"
"Apparently." Mia shrugged. "Then I rode him until he begged me to stop. And when he was done—completely spent, shaking, barely coherent—I made him crawl to the bathroom and clean himself up. Then come back and do it all again."
Ava stared at her. "You're a monster."
"I'm a generous lover." Mia stood up and stretched again. "He got exactly what he asked for. And he'll be back next week for more."
The floorboards creaked. The boytoy picked himself up and crawled over on his hands and knees, still blindfolded, the tie trailing from his neck like a leash. Ava's gym socks were still stuffed in his mouth, damp and dark with saliva. He moved slowly, deliberately, his muscles trembling with exhaustion.
He found Mia's feet by touch. His nose nudged against her ankle, then her arch, then her toes. He let out a low, pathetic moan and pressed his face against her sole, breathing her in.
Mia rolled her eyes. "Unbelievable. I just told you to wait."
The guy didn't respond. He just kept nuzzling her feet, rubbing his cheek against her skin like a cat begging for attention.
"Okay, that's enough." Mia grabbed the tie hanging from his neck and yanked. "Up. We're going back to the bedroom."
The guy scrambled to follow, still on his hands and knees, his erection bobbing between his legs. Ava caught a glimpse of something dark and metallic nestled between his ass cheeks. Her brain took a second to process what she was seeing.
"Is that—" she started.
"A butt plug." Mia didn't even look back. "Keeps him plugged and ready for round three."
Ava's face went nuclear. "Mia!"
"What? He likes it." Mia tugged the tie again, leading him toward her bedroom like a dog on a leash. "Don't judge."
"I need my socks back."
Mia paused at the door. "Your socks?"
"The ones you shoved in his mouth. Those are my gym socks. I need them."
Mia looked down at the boytoy, who was still chewing on the socks in question. "He'll wash them and bring them back. Promise."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Maybe the day after." Mia shrugged. "Depends on how long he lasts."
The guy moaned around the socks, his hips twitching.
"See? He's excited about it." Mia stepped through the doorway and glanced back at Ava. "Text Jake. Set up the coffee. And for fuck's sake, don't overthink it."
She shut the door behind her. A moment later, the sounds resumed—the creak of bedsprings, the slap of skin, the muffled cries of a man who was clearly in over his head.
Ava stood alone in the kitchen, her water bottle clutched to her chest. The apartment smelled like sex and sweat and Mia's stupid lavender candle. She felt like she'd just watched a nature documentary about a species she didn't understand.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked down. Jake again.
Hey. Just so you know, I'm not a serial killer. I'm a business major. That's almost the same thing, but with better networking opportunities.
Ava snorted. She couldn't help it. The laugh just escaped, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the tension in her chest.
She typed back.
That's reassuring. I'm a psych major. So I'll know if you're lying.
His response came fast.
A psych major who runs six-minute miles and has a mysterious shoulder thing. You're basically a superhero.
She smiled. Then she frowned. Then she smiled again.
Ava refilled her water bottle from the tap and headed to her room. The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the sounds from Mia's bedroom to a dull rhythm. She kicked off her shoes, dropped onto her bed, and pulled her laptop from her bag.
Studying. That's what she needed. She had a paper due on Thursday, a quiz on Friday, and a mountain of reading she'd been avoiding all week. She opened her notes on cognitive behavioral therapy and tried to focus.
The words blurred. She read the same paragraph three times and couldn't remember a single sentence.
Mia's bed creaked through the wall. A rhythmic thump. A muffled cry.
Ava grabbed her earphones and jammed them in. She pulled up a study playlist—instrumental, no lyrics, just white noise and piano keys. She stared at her screen and willed herself to concentrate.
It didn't work.
Her mind kept drifting. Not to the sounds coming from Mia's room, though those were hard to ignore. Not to the paper she was supposed to be writing. Not even to the quiz she was probably going to fail.
No. Her mind kept sliding back to the gym. To the weight of Jake's hand on her elbow, steadying her when she stumbled. To the way his gray eyes had softened when he apologized. To the stretch of compression fabric across his chest, the way it hugged every ridge of muscle.
She remembered the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. The way his sweat-damp hair curled at the ends. The low rumble of his voice when he said her name.
Her fingers drifted to her shoulder. The scars were hidden beneath her tank top, but she could feel them—the raised ridges, the tight pull of skin. She traced the outline of the worst one through the fabric.
He'd touched her right there. Just a brush. A casual graze that shouldn't have meant anything.
Her body had betrayed her. It always did.
But Jake hadn't run. He hadn't looked at her like she was broken. He'd just stood there, patient and confused, and asked for her number so he could prove he wasn't an asshole.
That was something. Wasn't it?
Ava closed her laptop and lay back on her bed. The ceiling was cracked in the corner, a jagged line that looked like a lightning bolt. She'd stared at it a thousand times before, but tonight it looked different. Less like damage. More like possibility.
Her phone lit up on the nightstand.
One more thing. What's your favorite coffee order? I'm asking for a friend.
She smiled. Typed back.
Oat milk latte. Extra shot.
His reply came almost instantly.
Your friend has good taste. See you soon, Gym Girl.
Ava set the phone down and pressed her palm flat against her chest. Her heart was beating fast. Not panic-fast. Not fear-fast. Just... fast.
Through the wall, Mia's bed creaked in a steady rhythm. The boytoy was still gagged, but his moans leaked through the drywall anyway—low and desperate and shameless. Ava should have been disgusted. Should have been annoyed. Should have cranked up her earphones and buried herself in her notes.
Instead, she closed her eyes and let herself imagine.
Gray eyes. A crooked smile. The heat of a hand on her elbow, steadying her when the world tilted.
She fell asleep like that. Smiling.