Chapter 6: Caught in the Act
The door clicked shut. Mia's wink still burned behind Ava's eyelids, her cackle echoing through the thin walls. But the silence that followed was thicker—heavy with the weight of two people standing in a room that suddenly felt much smaller.
Ava locked the bedroom door. The deadbolt slid home with a soft, final thunk.
She turned.
Jake had moved closer. His tall frame filled the space between her and her bed, his compression shirt and sweatpants clinging to every muscle, still damp from the gym. He smelled like salt and cedar and something deeper—something that made her mouth water. Her tank top and shorts felt impossibly thin, the fabric barely registering against her skin. Her gym socks were still on. She hadn't even taken off her sneakers.
The space heater hummed beneath her desk. The fairy lights cast pale gold across the room. The air smelled like lavender and old paper and the ghost of her own sweat.
She looked up into his eyes.
The tenderness she found there made her ache. Not the hunger she'd expected. Not the cocky smirk he wore like armor. Something softer. Something that looked almost like wonder.
"What?" he asked. His voice was low, barely above a whisper.
"Nothing." She shook her head. "Just—you're looking at me like I'm something special."
"You are."
She didn't let herself think. Thinking was the enemy. Thinking was what kept her trapped in the past, replaying the blast, the screaming, the blood.
She pulled him down.
The kiss was deep and immediate, no hesitation, no warm-up. Her tongue swept against his mouth and she tasted him—salt and coffee and something sweet underneath. He groaned into her, a low sound that vibrated through her chest.
Their sweaty bodies pressed close. Her hands roamed over his muscled chest, fingers tracing the hard planes of his pecs, the ridges of his abs through the compression shirt. She tugged at the hem, desperate for skin.
His hands found her ass. Palms cupped her through the tight shorts, squeezing, pulling her against him. She felt his cock hardening against her stomach and something molten pooled low in her belly.
She reached down. Her fingers brushed the obvious outline of him through the sweatpants—thick, hot, impossibly hard. He hissed through his teeth.
"Fuck," he breathed against her mouth.
She grinned. Moved her hand around to squeeze his ass through the fabric. He was solid everywhere. Built like something carved.
They made out like that, fierce and passionate, her back hitting the door with a soft thud. His knee slid between her thighs and she ground against him without thinking, chasing friction, chasing the heat building between her legs.
Then Jake lifted her.
A startled giggle escaped her as her feet left the floor. Her thighs wrapped around his hips instinctively, her ankles locking behind his back. Her lips stayed locked to his, unwilling to break contact, even as he carried her across the room.
He set her down on the desk.
The wood was cold through her shorts. She barely noticed. Her hands were already at the hem of his compression shirt, pulling, tugging.
"Off," she said. "Take it off."
He reached behind his head and grabbed the collar. The shirt came off in one smooth motion, revealing broad shoulders and a chest that made her mouth go dry. Scars and ink and muscle. A trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.
Ava ran her hands over his abs. Slow. Reverent. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his chest, kissing along his pec, circling his nipple with her tongue.
"Jesus," he muttered. His hand tangled in her ponytail.
She bit down gently. He jerked. She smiled.
"My turn," he said.
He tugged at her tank top. She raised her arms and let him peel it off. The fabric was damp with sweat, her skin flushed beneath.
His eyes dropped to her sports bra. Pink. Ridiculous. A thin band of fabric that barely contained her small breasts.
"Fuck me," he whispered.
He pushed the bra up, exposing her. The air hit her nipples and they hardened instantly, tight and aching. Then his mouth was on her, hot and wet, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers teased the other.
Ava arched. A moan tore from her throat before she could stop it. Her head fell back against the wall, her hips grinding against nothing, desperate for contact.
"Jake—"
She had never been touched like this. Never. Her ex-boyfriend had been tentative, awkward, always stopping when she flinched. She'd never let anyone this close. Never let herself want like this.
His mouth moved to her other breast. He sucked hard. She cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
"You like that?" His voice was rough.
"Yes." She was panting. "Yes, don't stop."
He didn't.
His hand slid down. Fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts, then into her panties. She felt his knuckles brush against her slick heat and her entire body shuddered.
So wet. She was so fucking wet.
"Shit, Ava." He pulled back, looking down at her. His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the color. "You're drenched."
"Shut up and touch me."
He laughed. Low and dark. Then his fingers slid through her folds, spreading her wetness, circling her clit with a feather-light touch that made her hips buck.
"Right there?"
"Yes—fuck, yes—"
He circled again. Pressed. She was climbing, climbing, the pressure building behind her eyelids, her thighs trembling, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Gonna come for me?" he murmured against her ear. "Gonna soak my fingers?"
"I—I'm close—"
And then a car backfired.
The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
Ava's entire body went rigid.
The blast was instant. Not the pleasure—the other thing. The thing that lived in her bones, in her scars, in the part of her brain that never slept. Her vision blurred. The room tilted. The fairy lights flickered and she was back there, seventeen years old, the bass thumping through her chest, the crush of bodies, the white-hot flash—
She couldn't breathe.
Her hands shoved against Jake's chest.Hard. He stumbled back.
"Get off," she gasped. "Get off me, get off—"
"Ava?"
She was shaking. Her whole body. Her teeth chattered. The walls were closing in. The desk beneath her felt like concrete. The scars on her back burned like they were fresh.
"Ava, hey—"
She scrambled off the desk. Her knee hit the chair. Pain lanced up her leg. She didn't care. She needed space. Needed air. Needed to get out, get away, get somewhere safe.
Hands grabbed her shoulders.
"No!" She twisted. Swung. Her fist connected with something solid—his jaw, his chest, she didn't know—and he let go.
"Okay." His voice was calm. Grounded."Okay. I'm not touching you. See?" He held his hands up. Stepped back. "I'm right here. Not touching you."
She was shaking so hard she could barely stand. The room was spinning. Her chest was so tight she couldn't draw breath.
"Ava, look at me."
She couldn't. Her eyes were squeezed shut.
"Look at me. Please."
She forced her eyes open. The room came back in fragments. The fairy lights. The space heater. The faded floral quilt. Jake, six feet away, hands up, face pale.
He was okay. He was fine. He wasn't hurt. The car backfiring was just—just a car.
But her body didn't know that. Her body was still there, on the floor of that concert venue, ears ringing, blood on her face, her back on fire.
"I'm sorry." The words came out broken. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Don't." He shook his head. "Don't apologize."
She sank down onto the floor. Her back hit the side of her bed and she pulled her knees to her chest. Rocking. She was rocking. She hadn't done that in years.
"Can I come closer?" he asked.
She shook her head. Then nodded. Then shook her head again.
"Okay." He stayed where he was. "That's okay. I'm not going anywhere."
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time was broken. She focused on the space heater's hum. The low whine of the radiator. The distant sound of traffic outside.
The shaking slowed. Her breath started to even out.
"I'm sorry," she said again, quieter this time.
"You don't have to be sorry."
"I ruined—we were—"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does." Her voice cracked. "It always matters. Every time. This is why I don't—I can't—"
"Hey." His voice was firm. "Look at me."
She did. Reluctantly.
"I don't care about the sex," he said. "I care about you. And you're sitting on the floor having a panic attack. That's what matters right now."
She stared at him. The tightness in her chest loosened.Just a little.
"How'd you know?" she whispered. "What it was."
"I've seen it before." He paused. "My mom. She was in a car accident when I was twelve. She gets like this sometimes. Loud noises. Crowds. I know the signs."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
Silence stretched between them. Comfortable and thick.
"I should go," he said finally.
"No." The word came out sharp. She softened it. "No, don't. Not yet."
"Ava—"
"Please."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he lowered himself to the floor. Slow. Careful. He sat on the other side of the bed, back against the wall, close enough to see but not close enough to touch.
"I'm right here," he said again.
Ava closed her eyes. The tears came then. Silent. Hot. Streaming down her cheeks.
She didn't try to stop them.
They sat like that for a long time. The space heater hummed. The fairy lights flickered. Outside, the sun climbed higher and the morning turned to afternoon.
When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse.
"I was seventeen.At a concert. The bomb—it was in the crowd. I lost hearing in my left ear for three months. The scars are from the shrapnel." She swallowed. "I was a different person before. Outgoing.Loud. I had friends. I went to parties. I was—happy."
"And after?"
"After, I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Every loud noise sent me right back. I started therapy. Medication. I got better. Sort of. But I never—" She gestured vaguely at the space between them. "I never let anyone close."
"Why me?"
"I don't know." She opened her eyes. Looked at him. "You didn't push. You didn't run. You saw the scars and didn't flinch."
"I meant what I said that morning. You're not broken."
"I feel broken."
"That's not the same thing."
She didn't have an answer for that.
More silence. Then Jake shifted. Reached into his pocket. Pulled out his phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Playing some music." He tapped the screen. "Something quiet. Something you can focus on. My mom says it helps."
The first notes filled the room. Soft. Acoustic. A slow guitar melody that she didn't recognize.
It was nice. Grounding.
"Thanks," she whispered.
"Anytime."
She let her head fall back against the bed. Her body was exhausted. Her mind was quiet. Not peaceful—not yet—but quiet.
"Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"I want to try again. Not today. But. I want to."
He smiled. Small and real.
"Me too."
The music played on. The sun moved across the floor. And for the first time since the blast, Ava didn't feel alone.
Her tears had dried on her cheeks. The salt left stiff tracks behind. The music from Jake's phone had shifted to something else—still soft, still acoustic, but with a woman's voice now, low and aching.
Ava's breath came steady. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. The room had stopped spinning twenty minutes ago.
The weight in her chest had loosened. Not gone. Never gone. But manageable.
She looked at Jake.
He was still on the floor. Back against the wall. Knees bent. His gym shirt was still off, his chest bare and rising slow. His eyes were closed. He hadn't moved since he'd sat down.
He'd stayed.
Everyone else had left. Her ex-boyfriend had left. Her high school friends had left. Even her parents had eventually stopped calling. But this man—this ridiculous, cocky, beautiful man—had planted himself on her floor and hadn't moved.
She crawled toward him.
Her palms pressed into the wood floor. Her knees dragged across the cold boards. She didn't stand. Standing felt too far. Too formal. She wanted to be close.
Jake's eyes opened.
She was already there. Straddling his lap. Her bare thighs bracketed his hips. Her chest was still covered by her sports bra, but barely—the fabric had ridden up during their earlier frenzy, and her breasts were practically spilling out.
She grabbed the hem of the bra. Yanked it over her head. Tossed it somewhere behind her.
Jake's breath caught.
Her small breasts were bare. Tight nipples. Pale skin. A faint constellation of freckles across her chest.
She took his hands. Guided them to her breasts. Pressed his palms flat against her.
"Touch me," she said.
He did. His thumbs brushed her nipples. She shivered. His fingers kneaded gently, reverently, like he was holding something fragile.
She didn't want fragile. She wanted him.
She fisted her hands in his hair. Yanked his mouth to hers.
The kiss was nothing like before. No hesitation. No softness. It was teeth and tongue and desperation. She was starving. She was dying. She needed him to erase the last hour. To burn the panic out of her skull.
Jake kissed her back. His hands slid from her breasts to her hips. Pulled her closer. She felt his cock through their layers—sweatpants, shorts, the thin scrap of her thong—and she ground against him.
A moan rumbled in his chest.
She did it again. Harder. She was so fucking wet. She could feel it soaking through her shorts. Her clit throbbed against the seam of her panties.
"Yeah," she breathed against his mouth. "Fuck, yeah."
His hands squeezed her ass. She liked it. She wanted more.
She kissed down his jaw. His neck. She bit his collarbone and he hissed. She licked the sting away and moved lower.
"Ava—"
She kissed his chest. The hard line of his pec. The dip between them. She ground her hips against his cock and felt it twitch through the fabric. Big. So fucking big. She wanted it inside her.
She wanted him to fuck the broken pieces back together.
"Ava."
His hands caught her shoulders. Gently but firmly. He pushed her back.
She resisted. Kept grinding. Kept kissing.
"Ava.Stop."
"No."
She reached for his neck. He caught her wrists.
"Stop."
She looked at him. Really looked. His pupils were blown but his jaw was set. His chest was heaving. He wanted this. She could feel how much he wanted this.
"Jake—"
"We can't."
"Why not?"
"Because."
"That's not a reason."
He let go of her wrists. But he didn't let her move. He held her by the hips. Firm. Keeping distance between their bodies.
"We can't," he repeated.
"I was already gone. I had a panic attack. I'm back now. I'm fine."
"You cried for half an hour."
"So?"
"So you're not fine. You're not. And I'm not going to fuck you while you're still shaking."
She wasn't shaking. She was pretty sure she wasn't shaking.
"Please." The word came out cracked. Desperate. She hated it.
"No."
"Jake—"
"No." His voice was hard. Softer than before. But hard.
"I need this." Her eyes burned. God, she hated this. "You have no idea. I need you to fuck it away. Just for tonight. Just this once."
"I can't."
"You won't."
"Same thing."
She shoved at his chest. He didn't move.
"You're just like everyone else." Her voice was rising. "You say you care and then—"
"I do care."
"Bullshit. If you cared you'd—"
"You'd what?" He leaned forward. Eyes locked on hers. "You'd what, Ava? Fuck you while you're still crying? Let you use me to bury something that won't stay buried?"
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"That's not—" she started.
"That's exactly what you're asking."
Silence. Her throat was tight. Her eyes burned.
"I'm trying to hold you together," he said. "I'm not trying to fix you. I can't. But I can be here. And that means not letting you do something you'll regret in the morning."
"I won't regret it."
"You will. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe next week. But you will."
She hated him. She hated how kind he was being. She hated that he was right.
"I'm broken," she whispered.
"No."
"I am."
"You're not."
"I am. I'm fucked up. I can't even—" Her voice cracked. "I can't even have sex without losing my mind. I can't do anything normal. I can't go to parties. I can't be in crowds. I can't—"
"Stop."
She stopped. But only because she couldn't breathe.
Jake pulled her against his chest. His arms wrapped around her. Her forehead pressed into his shoulder. Her fists clenched against his back.
"I don't want normal," he said. "I want you."
"You can't."
"I can."
"How?"
"I don't know yet."
She laughed. A wet, broken sound.
"Look at me," he said.
She did. Her eyes were swollen. Her nose was red. She was a mess.
He thought she was beautiful.
"You are not broken," he said. "You are hurt. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes."
Silence. The music had stopped. The room was quiet.
"I want to try again," she said. "Not tonight. But I want to."
"Okay."
"A date. A real one. Not the gym."
"Okay."
"In two days."
"Okay."
"Stop saying okay."
"Okay."
She hit his chest. He laughed.
It was still there. That sound. That warm, low laugh. It made her chest ache.
He lifted her. Easily. Like she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct.
He carried her to the desk chair. Lowered himself into it. Settled her on his lap. Her knees bent on either side of his hips. Their chests pressed together. Bare skin. Just bare skin. Nothing more.
She didn't know when she'd stopped shaking. At some point, she just had.
"Better?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Good."
He reached over and pulled a blanket from the bed. Wrapped it around her shoulders. She hadn't realized she was cold.
"You should eat something," he said.
"Not hungry."
"Bullshit. You barely ate yesterday."
"I'll eat later."
"Ava."
"I'll eat later."
He sighed. But he didn't push.
They sat in silence. Her head on his shoulder. His hand on her back. Tracing slow circles. The blanket was soft against her skin.
"What's your major?"she asked.
"What?"
"Your major. You've never told me."
He paused. "Business."
"Of course."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just—of course you're a business major. You have that vibe."
"What vibe?"
"Rich kid who's going to inherit dad's company."
He went still.
She felt it. The shift. Like a door closing.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "That was—I didn't mean—"
"It's fine."
"It's not."
"No." His voice was quieter now. "It's not."
She lifted her head. Looked at him.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Jake."
"I just—" He stopped. Started again. "You're not wrong. My dad owns a company. I'm supposed to take it over. That's the plan."
"And?"
"And sometimes I wonder if anyone actually sees me. Or if they just see my name."
She was quiet.
"It's why I go to the gym," he said. "It's the one place where I'm not Jake Richardson, heir to Richardson Industries. I'm just—Jake. The guy who spots you on bench."
"Is that why you started talking to me?"
"What?"
"At the gym. Was it because I didn't know who you were?"
He hesitated.
"Yes."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Good."She pressed her forehead to his. "I don't care about your name. I don't care about your money. I don't care about any of it."
"What do you care about?"
"You."
He didn't say anything. But his arms tightened around her.
"Can I tell you something?"she asked.
"Yeah."
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of this. Of you. Of letting someone in."
"Me too."
"You? Scared?"
"Yeah." He laughed. No humor in it. "I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Actually cared."
She kissed him. Soft this time. Slow. No hurry.
When she pulled back, his eyes were bright.
"Two days," she said.
"Two days."
"Dinner."
"Dinner."
"And then?"
A pause. He ran his thumb across her jaw.
"Then we'll see."
"Promise?"
"Promise."