Chapter 6: The Library Punishment
The restricted archives room smelled like a hundred years of dust and secrets.
Maya had been coming here for two weeks now, ever since the night at Jaxon's apartment. It was the only place on campus where she could think. No cell service. No distractions. Just her and the leather-bound journals she needed for her senior thesis on enzymatic catalysis in prebiotic environments.
She'd told herself the isolation was about focus. That she needed the quiet. That the archives room had nothing to do with the fact that Jaxon couldn't find her here.
Except he had.
The door creaked open behind her, and she didn't have to turn around to know who it was. She could feel him. The shift in air pressure. The faint smell of motor oil and cedar that had somehow embedded itself in her memory like a splinter.
"Thought you might be here."
His voice was flat. No warmth. No teasing. Just cold, controlled anger that made the hair on her arms stand up.
Maya kept her eyes on the journal in front of her. A 1923 treatise on protein folding. The pages were brittle, yellowed at the edges, and completely illegible because her brain had stopped processing words the moment she heard his footsteps.
"I'm busy," she said.
"I can see that."
He walked around the desk. Pulled out the chair across from her. Sat down like he had all the time in the world, like he hadn't just tracked her to the one place she thought she'd be safe.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. Thirty-one text messages from him that she'd left on read. Three voicemails she'd deleted without listening. One hoodie she'd shoved to the back of her closet because she couldn't stand the way it smelled like him.
"You've been avoiding me," he said.
"I've been working."
"Bullshit."
She finally looked up. His face was unreadable. The scar through his eyebrow was more prominent in the dim light, a pale line against his skin. His jaw was tight. His hands were flat on the table.
"I don't owe you anything," she said.
"You owe me a favor."
"I cashed it in."
"The kiss was the start." His voice was quiet, dangerous. "You said so yourself."
She closed the journal. Slid it aside. If they were going to do this, she wasn't going to let a fragile manuscript get caught in the crossfire.
"What do you want, Jaxon?"
"I want to know why you're pretending I don't exist."
"I'm not pretending anything. I'm prioritizing."
"Prioritizing." He repeated the word like it tasted bad. "You're prioritizing your course load. Your thesis. Your application to med school. All the stuff that matters."
"Yes."
"And I don't matter."
She didn't answer.
"That's what I thought."
He stood up. Pushed the chair back. For a second, she thought he was going to leave. That he'd walk out of the archives room and out of her life, and she could go back to her color-coded planner and her future-proof trajectory and forget the way he'd made her feel.
But he didn't walk out.
He walked around the desk.
Maya's pulse spiked. She pushed her chair back, but he was already there, blocking her exit, one hand braced on the table behind her and the other on the back of her chair. He leaned in close, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough that his breath warmed her cheeks.
"You think I'm a distraction," he said.
"You are."
"You think if you ignore me long enough, I'll go away."
"Hopefully."
"You think you can bury yourself in textbooks and lab reports and pretend that night didn't happen."
Her throat tightened. "That's the plan."
"Here's the problem with your plan." He tilted his head. His voice dropped to a murmur. "It's not working."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're exhausted. You've been sleeping in your clothes. You forgot to eat lunch three days in a row because you were too busy studying to notice you were hungry." He paused. "And you still have my hoodie in your closet."
Her stomach dropped. "How do you know that?"
"Priya."
"I'm going to kill her."
"She's worried about you." He straightened slightly, but didn't move away. "Says you've been weird. Distracted. Checking your phone every five minutes but never answering it."
"I check my phone for academic emails."
"You check your phone because you're waiting for me to text."
"No, I'm not."
"You are." He reached up and touched her face. Just his knuckles, brushing against her cheek. The touch was so gentle it made her want to cry. "You can lie to yourself all you want, Maya. But you can't lie to me."
She jerked back. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't touch me. Don't look at me like that. Don't pretend you know what I'm thinking."
"I do know what you're thinking." His hand dropped, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. "You're thinking about that night. About what I did to you. About how it felt when you came on my face."
Her face burned. "Stop."
"You're thinking about the way I fucked you. The way you screamed my name. The way you squirted all over my sheets and then pretended it didn't mean anything."
"It didn't."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
He leaned in again. His lips brushed her ear, and she shivered despite herself.
"You think about me every time you touch yourself," he whispered. "Every time your fingers slide between your legs, you picture my mouth on your pussy. You picture my cock inside you. You picture the way I said your name when I came."
Her breath caught.
"Tell me I'm wrong."
She couldn't. She hated that she couldn't.
"You don't know anything," she managed.
"I know you haven't been with anyone else." His hand found her knee under the table. Squeezed. "Kyle asked you out again, didn't he? For coffee? And you said no."
"How do you—"
"Because I saw him in the dining hall. He looked like someone had kicked his puppy."
"That doesn't mean—"
"And you've been wearing your hair down." His fingers traced up her thigh, slow and deliberate. "Every day for the past week. Even though you always wear it up when you study. Because you know I like it down."
She swallowed hard. "That's a coincidence."
"You don't believe in coincidences. You're a scientist."
His hand was at her hip now. Sliding under her sweater. Touching bare skin.
"Jaxon—"
"Tell me to stop." His voice was rough. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk out of here. I'll leave you alone. You'll never have to see me again."
She should tell him to stop.
She should tell him she didn't want this.
She should tell him to leave her alone, to let her focus, to stop making her feel things she'd spent two weeks trying to bury.
But the words wouldn't come.
"You can't," he breathed. "Can you?"
She shook her head. Barely.
"Good." He pulled her to her feet. His mouth found hers in the dark, and the kiss was nothing like the first one. It wasn't hungry or desperate. It was slow. Deliberate. A reclaiming.
His tongue slid against hers, unhurried, tasting her like he had all the time in the world. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, and she melted into him before she could stop herself.
When he finally pulled back, her knees were weak. Her hands were gripping his jacket. Her glasses were fogged.
"Don't ignore me again," he said.
It wasn't a request.
"It's not that simple."
"It is that simple." He pressed his forehead to hers. "You want me. I want you. Everything else is just noise."
"The noise is my future."
"The noise is your fear." He kissed her again, softer this time. "I'm not asking you to marry me, Maya. I'm not asking you to drop out of school or give up your dreams. I'm just asking you to stop pretending I don't exist."
She closed her eyes. The archives room was silent except for their breathing, the distant sound of laughter from the courtyard below, the slow creak of the door that he hadn't closed all the way.
"I don't know how to do this," she admitted.
"Do what?"
"Any of it. You. Whatever this is." She opened her eyes. "I don't do casual."
"Who said anything about casual?"
She stared at him.
"I'm not good at this either," he said. "I've never had a girlfriend. I've never wanted one. But I want you. And not just for one night. Not just for the sex."
"The sex was pretty good."
"It was incredible. But that's not the point."
She laughed. A real laugh, the first one in two weeks. It felt like cracking open a window in a stuffy room.
"The point," he continued, "is that I've been going crazy without you. I've been riding past your dorm at night just to see if your light was on. I've been checking your Instagram to make sure you were still alive. I've been—" He stopped. Jaw tight. "I've been pathetic."
"You have."
"Shut up."
She smiled. Small. Tentative. The first real smile she'd given anyone in weeks.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she said. "I don't know if this is going to work. I don't know if I'm going to wake up tomorrow and regret this."
"Me neither."
"But I'm tired of pretending."
"So don't."
He kissed her again. And this time, she kissed him back. Not because she'd been outmaneuvered. Not because she owed him a favor. But because she wanted to.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, he took her hand.
"Come on," he said.
"Where?"
"My place. I'll make you dinner. You can study while I cook. And then I'll drive you home."
"That's it?"
"That's it." He tugged her toward the door. "For now."
She grabbed her thesis notes and shoved them into her bag. The journal stayed on the table, forgotten. The flickering bulb buzzed overhead.
At the door, she paused.
"Jaxon."
He turned.
"What happens when I mess this up?"
He considered the question. Then he shrugged.
"Then I'll mess it up too. And we'll figure it out from there."
He held the door open. She walked through.
And behind her, the archives room fell back into silence.
The weeks that followed tasted like stolen hours and cold coffee.
Maya didn't move into his apartment. She didn't drop out of school. She didn't abandon her planner or her thesis or her application deadlines. But she stopped pretending.
She studied at his kitchen table while he rebuilt carburetors on the floor beside her, grease smeared across his forearms and a pencil tucked behind his ear. He quizzed her on metabolic pathways while she straddled his lap, textbook open against his chest, his hands wandering beneath her shirt. They fucked in his bed, on his workbench, against the shower wall until the water ran cold and her knees gave out.
It wasn't casual. It wasn't a relationship either. It was something in between—messy and undefined and terrifying in a way Maya couldn't articulate.
Priya had opinions.
"He's literally a tattooed motorcycle mechanic who stole your mail," she said one Thursday afternoon, sprawled across Maya's bed with a bag of pretzels. "This is not the future-proof plan."
"The plan changed."
"The plan was pre-med. The plan was Kyle. The plan was—"
"Boring." Maya closed her laptop. "The plan was boring."
Priya stared at her. Then she laughed.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. I'm just saying—if he breaks your heart, I'm keying his bike."
"Fair."
The party happened on a Friday.
Priya's cousin was graduating, and there was a house on the edge of campus—three stories of peeling paint and sagging porches—where the celebration spilled out into the yard. Maya hadn't wanted to go. She'd spent the week buried in lab reports, and her eyes ached from fluorescent lights and hours of pipetting.
But Priya had begged. And Liam had asked.
Liam was in her biochemistry seminar. He was tall, clean-cut, and wore glasses that made him look like he belonged in a catalog for academic ambition. He'd asked her to coffee twice. She'd said no both times. The third time, he'd asked her to the party, and something in his earnest, uncomplicated smile made her say yes before she could think.
He was nice. That was the word. Nice and safe and future-proof in all the ways that used to matter.
The party was loud. Bass thrummed through the floorboards, rattling the windows in their frames. The air tasted like cheap beer and sweat and the faint chemical tang of vape smoke. Maya stood near the kitchen counter with a plastic cup of something pink and too sweet, watching Priya disappear into the crowd.
Liam found her ten minutes later.
"You look nice," he said. His hand found the small of her back. "I'm glad you came."
She smiled. It felt polite. Forced. She took a sip of her drink to hide it.
They talked about coursework. About professors. About the symposium in the spring. His hand stayed on her back, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of her dress—a simple black thing, fitted at the waist, falling just above her knees. She'd worn it because it was comfortable. Because it didn't mean anything.
The music shifted. Something slower. Something with a beat that made bodies move closer together.
"Dance with me," Liam said.
She should have said no.
But Priya was somewhere in the crowd, and the pink drink was making her head buzz, and Liam's smile was so uncomplicated that saying no felt cruel. So she let him lead her to the center of the living room, where bodies pressed close and lights swept across the walls in lazy arcs of color.
He danced like he did everything else—competent, measured, slightly stiff. His hands settled on her hips. Hers found his shoulders. They moved together in a rhythm that was pleasant and forgettable.
She closed her eyes. Let the music fill her head. Tried not to think about the way a different set of hands felt on her body. The way a different voice sounded when it whispered her name.
She was failing.
Then the front door opened.
She didn't see him at first. The crowd had thickened, and the lights were strobing, and Liam was spinning her in a slow circle that made her dizzy. But she felt it—a shift in the air, a prickle at the back of her neck, the sudden certainty that someone was watching.
She opened her eyes.
Jaxon stood in the doorway.
He was with his friends—three guys she vaguely recognized from the bike shop, all of them wearing leather jackets and expressions that suggested they'd rather be anywhere else. But Jaxon wasn't looking at them. He was looking at her.
His face was a mask. Flat. Cold. But she knew him well enough now to read the fury underneath. The way his jaw tightened. The way his hands curled into fists at his sides. The way his eyes flickered from her face to Liam's hands on her hips and back again.
The music kept playing. The crowd kept dancing. And Maya stood frozen in the middle of it, watching Jaxon watch her.
He moved.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a slow, deliberate walk through the crowd, shoulders cutting through bodies like a blade. People stepped aside without knowing why. He reached her in seconds.
Liam noticed. His hands tightened on her hips.
"Hey," he said. "Can we help you?"
Jaxon didn't look at him. His eyes stayed on Maya.
"Dance with me."
It wasn't a question.
"I'm kind of in the middle of—" Liam started.
Jaxon's hand shot out. Not violent. Not aggressive. Just firm. He caught Maya's wrist and pulled her away from Liam with a casual strength that made the other man stumble.
"Hey—"
"One dance." Jaxon's voice was low. Controlled. "Then she's all yours."
Liam looked at Maya. She should have said something. Should have told Jaxon to back off. Should have stood her ground and refused to be pulled around like a piece of property.
But her mouth wouldn't work. Her brain wouldn't work. All she could feel was the heat of his hand on her wrist and the weight of his stare and the way her heart was hammering against her ribs.
Jaxon pulled her into him.
One hand found her hip. The other slid up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. He pressed her close—closer than she'd been to Liam all night—until her chest was flush against his, until she could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his shirt.
Then he moved.
It wasn't dancing. It was something older. Something primal. He guided her with his hips, a slow grind that made her breath catch, his thigh sliding between her legs with deliberate pressure. His mouth found her ear.
"You've been busy," he murmured.
"It's a party."
"You're here with him."
"He asked."
"And you said yes."
She didn't answer.
His hand tightened on her hip. Pulled her closer. The friction of his thigh against her core made her bite her lip.
"I've been watching you," he said. "Since I walked in. The way you move. The way you smile at him. The way you let him touch you."
"It's just dancing."
"It's not just dancing." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "You're mine, Maya. And I don't share."
Her heart stuttered.
"Jaxon—"
"I'm cashing in my favor."
She pulled back. Just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, jaw set.
"Now?" she hissed.
"Right now."
"You can't be serious."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
He didn't. He looked like a man who'd reached the end of a very short rope. Who'd spent weeks watching her from a distance, waiting for her to come back to him, and had finally decided to stop waiting.
"The favor was the kiss," she said. "You said so yourself."
"The kiss was the start." His voice was flat. "You agreed to one request. No time limit. No expiration. I'm cashing it in now."
"That's not—"
"You can argue with me later." He took her hand. "Right now, you're coming with me."
He pulled her off the dance floor. Through the crowd. Past Liam, who stood frozen with his mouth open and his hands hanging useless at his sides. Past Priya, who caught Maya's eye from across the room and raised an eyebrow but didn't intervene.
Down a hallway. Past a bathroom where someone was throwing up. Past a bedroom where a couple was already tangled on the bed.
He opened a door at the end of the hall. Pushed her inside. Locked it behind them.
The room was small. A guest bedroom, maybe, with a stripped mattress and a single window looking out at the dark yard. The music from the party thudded through the walls, muffled and distant.
Maya turned to face him.
"You can't just—"
"I can." He stepped closer. "And I am."
"This is insane."
"This is me cashing in a favor you agreed to."
"I didn't know you'd use it like this."
"You didn't ask." Another step. "You just said yes. Same as you said yes when I offered you the deal in the first place."
She backed up. Her shoulders hit the wall.
"You're jealous," she said.
"I'm not jealous."
"You are. I saw your face when you walked in. You looked like you wanted to kill him."
"I wanted to kill him." His hands found her waist. "But that's not why I'm here."
"Then why?"
He leaned in. His mouth hovered over hers, not quite touching.
"Because I've been thinking about you for weeks," he said. "Because every time I close my eyes, I see you. Because you've been avoiding me again—don't think I haven't noticed—and I'm tired of waiting for you to figure out what you want."
"I'm not avoiding you."
"You are. You've been distant. Distracted. You canceled dinner twice last week."
"I had lab."
"You had excuses." His hands slid down to her hips. "And I'm done accepting them."
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't asking. It was a claiming—hard and demanding, his tongue pushing past her lips without hesitation. She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.
His hands found the zipper of her dress. Pulled it down in one slow, deliberate motion. The fabric loosened. Slid off her shoulders. Pooled at her feet.
She stood in front of him in nothing but a black lace bra and matching underwear. Her face burned. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so beautiful."
"I hate you."
"You don't." He unhooked her bra. Tossed it aside. "You wish you did. But you don't."
He knelt.
Maya's heart stopped.
"What are you—"
"Shut up."
His hands found her hips. Pulled her underwear down. She stepped out of them, legs trembling, and then she was naked, completely naked, pressed against the cold wall while he knelt in front of her like a supplicant at an altar.
He looked up at her. His eyes were dark. Hungry.
"I'm going to eat your pussy now," he said. "And you're going to be quiet. Because there are people in the next room, and I don't want them to hear you scream."
"Jaxon—"
His mouth found her.
She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. His tongue slid through her folds, slow and deliberate, tasting her like he had all the time in the world. He licked up one side, then the other, then circled her clit with a pressure that made her knees buckle.
"Fuck," she whispered.
He didn't respond. Just kept working her with his mouth, his tongue flicking and sucking, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her steady. She fisted her hands in his hair. Tugged. He groaned against her, the vibration making her gasp.
He slid two fingers into her without warning.
She arched off the wall. Her hips bucked against his face, and he took it, took everything she gave him, his tongue never stopping, his fingers curling just right inside her.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, Jaxon, I'm gonna—"
He pulled back.
She whimpered at the loss. Looked down at him with desperate eyes.
"Not yet," he said. His chin was wet. His lips were swollen. "I want to be inside you when you come."
He stood. Unbuckled his belt. His jeans hit the floor with a heavy thud, and his boxers followed, and then his cock was free—hard and thick and already leaking.
"Turn around," he said.
"What?"
"Turn around. Hands on the wall."
She obeyed. Her palms pressed flat against the cold plaster. Her legs spread slightly, instinctively. She could feel him behind her, the heat of his body, the weight of his stare.
He kicked her legs wider apart.
"This is what you get," he murmured against her neck. "For letting him touch you. For letting him dance with you. For pretending you don't belong to me."
"I don't belong to anyone."
"You belong to me." He positioned himself at her entrance. "And I'm going to remind you."
He thrust inside her.
Maya cried out. The sound was loud in the small room, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle it. He was big. He was always big. But this angle—bent over, hands on the wall, legs spread—made him feel enormous.
"Fuck," he groaned. "You're so tight."
He pulled out. Slammed back in. The force of it pushed her against the wall, her cheek scraping against the plaster.
"Harder," she gasped.
He gave her harder.
He fucked her like he was trying to prove something. Like every thrust was a statement, a claim, a brand. His hips slapped against her ass. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. His breath came in harsh, ragged grunts that matched the rhythm of the music bleeding through the walls.
"You think he could do this?" he demanded. "You think Liam could make you feel like this?"
"No—"
"You think anyone else could fuck you the way I do?"
"No—"
"Say my name."
"Jaxon—"
"Louder."
"Jaxon."
He reached around and found her clit. Circled it with his thumb, rough and fast, timing it with his thrusts.
"You're gonna come," he said. "You're gonna come on my cock, and then you're gonna tell me you're mine."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He thrust deeper. Harder. "Say it."
"I'm—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
The words broke something loose inside her. She came with a shudder, her whole body convulsing, her pussy clenching around him so hard he groaned. He fucked her through it, relentless, until her legs gave out and she sagged against the wall.
He wasn't done.
He pulled out. Spun her around. Lifted her by the thighs and pinned her against the wall, her back flat against the plaster, her legs wrapped around his waist.
"Again," he said.
"I can't—"
"You can."
He pushed inside her.
She was still sensitive. Still trembling. Every thrust sent sparks up her spine, too much and not enough all at once.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
His eyes were wild. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His jaw was tight, and there was something raw in his expression—something vulnerable underneath the anger.
"I hate him," he said. "I hate that he touched you. I hate that you let him. I hate that you said yes when he asked."
"It was just a party."
"It wasn't just a party." His hips stuttered. "It was you trying to prove you don't need me."
"I don't need you."
"You do." He thrust harder. "You need me like I need you. And you're scared. So you push me away. So you pretend you're fine. So you go to parties with guys who don't know the first thing about you."
"He's nice."
"He's boring." He kissed her neck. Bit down. "He doesn't know how you take your coffee. He doesn't know you hate the sound of people chewing. He doesn't know that you cry during sappy movies and pretend you don't."
"How do you—"
"Because I pay attention." He pulled back to look at her. "Because I want to know everything about you. Because I've been paying attention since the day you walked into Lanahan's class."
She kissed him.
Not because she wanted to shut him up. Because she wanted him.
He groaned against her mouth. His thrusts became erratic, desperate, losing rhythm as he chased his release.
"Come with me," he said.
"I already—"
"Again."
She didn't think she could. But then he shifted his angle and hit something deep inside her, and the pressure built again, sharp and sudden.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Good." He fucked her harder. "Come for me, Maya. Come on my cock."
She did.
The second orgasm was sharper than the first, almost painful, ripping through her like lightning. She screamed his name, and he didn't bother to muffle it, didn't bother to care about the people in the next room or the music or anything except the way she was clenching around him.
He came with a guttural groan, burying himself deep, his whole body shuddering. She felt the heat of it, the pulse, the way he held her like she might disappear if he let go.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he lowered her to the ground. Her legs were useless. She slid down the wall, landing in a heap on the floor. He sank down beside her, back against the wall, chest heaving.
"That was—" she started.
"Yeah."
"I didn't—"
"I know."
She looked at him. His face was softer now. The anger was gone, replaced by something she couldn't name.
"You're still jealous," she said.
"I'm always jealous." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's a problem."
"Maybe you should work on that."
"Maybe you should stop giving me reasons."
She laughed. Weak. Breathless. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"I'm not with Liam," she said. "I'm not with anyone. I went to the party because Priya asked. He asked me to dance, and I said yes because—"
"Because you were trying to prove something."
"Maybe." She closed her eyes. "Or maybe I was just tired of waiting for you to show up."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I'm here now," he said.
"I know."
"Are you going to run away again?"
She didn't answer. Not right away.
Outside, the music shifted. Something faster. Something that made the floor vibrate and the walls hum.
"I don't know," she said finally. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be with someone without a plan. Without a guarantee."
"Life doesn't come with guarantees."
"That's not helpful."
"It's true." He turned his head. Kissed her temple. "You're a scientist. You should know that better than anyone."
She laughed again. Tired. Real.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"Now we get dressed." He stood. Offered her his hand. "And we go back out there. And I walk you home."
"That's it?"
"That's it." He pulled her to her feet. "For now."
She looked at him. At the sweat drying on his skin. At the marks she'd left on his shoulders. At the bruise forming on his neck where she'd bitten him.
"Okay," she said.
They dressed in silence. Her dress was wrinkled. Her hair was a disaster. There was a red mark on her cheek from where the wall had scraped her.
She didn't care.
Jaxon opened the door. The hallway was empty. The music was still playing. Somewhere, someone was laughing.
He took her hand.
"You ready?"
"No."
"Me neither."
They walked out together.
Priya found her ten minutes later, standing by the front door with Jaxon's jacket around her shoulders. She took one look at Maya's face and burst out laughing.
"I knew it," she said. "I fucking knew it."
"Shut up."
"You're glowing. You literally look like you just got fucked."
"I did."
Priya's eyes went wide. Then she laughed harder.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. I need details. But first—Liam is looking for you."
Maya glanced across the room. Liam stood by the kitchen, scanning the crowd with a confused expression. He spotted her. Raised a hand.
She waved back. Then she turned to Jaxon.
"Take me home," she said.
He didn't argue.
They left through the back door, past the kegs and the folding chairs, out into the cold night air. The Ducati was parked at the curb, waiting.
She climbed on behind him. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Pressed her cheek to his back.
The engine roared to life.
And as they sped through the empty streets, the wind whipping her hair and the city lights blurring past, Maya realized something.
She wasn't afraid anymore.
Or maybe she was. But it didn't matter.
Because for the first time in her life, she didn't have a plan. And she was okay with that.