Chapter 6: Daylight Pretenses
The taste of Kate still lingered on his tongue, metallic and wrong, as he drove home through the quiet streets. The windows of his apartment glowed amber in the darkness, a warm invitation he didn't deserve. He sat in the car for a long moment, his forehead resting against the steering wheel, the leather cool against his skin.
He was a bastard. A genuine, grade-A bastard.
The thought should have made him feel something—shame, maybe, or guilt. Instead, he just felt hollow. Empty in a way that no amount of physical release seemed to fill.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, squinting at the bright screen.
Paris: "Goodnight, Justin. Hope practice goes well tomorrow."
It was such a simple message. So earnest, so trusting. He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He wanted to type something back—I'm sorry, I'm a piece of shit, you deserve better than me—but the words wouldn't come.
He typed "Goodnight, beautiful" and hit send before he could second-guess himself.
The lie sat heavy in his throat as he climbed out of the car and made his way up to his apartment.
---
Three days passed in a haze of practice, class, and carefully curated distance. He texted her regularly—good mornings and good nights, the occasional photo of his dog, a meme he thought she'd find funny. But he made excuses not to see her. Practice ran long. He had a team meeting. He needed to catch up on sleep.
Each excuse was a small knife in her gut, and he knew it. He could hear it in her voice when they talked—that careful neutrality she adopted when she was hurt. But the prospect of seeing her again, of looking into those amber eyes while carrying the stain of Kate on his skin, was more than he could bear.
So he avoided. And he hated himself for it.
---
By Thursday, Paris had had enough.
She found him in the campus courtyard, sitting alone on a bench beneath one of the ancient oaks. His practice gear was slung over the backrest, his hair still damp from the shower. He was scrolling through his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration.
She approached quietly, her footsteps muffled by the carpet of fallen leaves. He didn't look up until she was standing directly in front of him, casting a shadow across his screen.
"Hey, stranger."
He flinched—a subtle twitch she might have missed if she hadn't been watching for it. Then he looked up, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Hey, you. What are you doing here?"
"Came to find you." She sat beside him, close enough that their thighs brushed. She felt him stiffen, just slightly. "You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't been—"
"Don't." Her voice was soft, but firm. "Don't lie to me, Justin. I know when someone's pulling away."
He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. His shoulders sagged, a weariness settling over him that made him look older than his twenty-two years.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I've just been... going through some stuff."
"Stuff?" She turned to face him fully, her textbooks forgotten in her lap. "What kind of stuff?"
He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on the damp curls. "I don't know how to explain it. It's just... everything feels like a lot right now."
"Try me."
He looked at her then, really looked. His eyes searched hers for a long moment, as if weighing something. She saw the internal battle playing out behind his gaze—the war between what he wanted to say and what he thought he should.
"You're not going to like it," he said finally.
"Probably not. Tell me anyway."
He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie. "I think I'm in over my head with you."
The words landed between them like stones dropped in still water. Paris felt her stomach clench, a cold dread spreading through her veins.
"What does that mean?"
"It means..." He trailed off, his jaw working. "It means I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be whatever you need me to be."
"I'm not asking you to be anything."
"Maybe that's the problem." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You're not asking me for anything. And I keep trying to convince myself that I don't want to give you anything. But I do. I want to give you everything. And that terrifies me."
Paris blinked, the confession hitting her like a physical blow. She'd expected him to say he was losing interest, that he wanted to call it off. Not... this.
"Justin—"
"I know." He held up a hand, cutting her off. "I know. I'm not making any sense. But that's what I've been trying to figure out. That's why I've been pulling away. I'm scared of letting you in because I know once I do, I'm not going to be able to let you go."
She stared at him, her mind racing. He looked so raw in that moment, so unguarded. The golden boy stripped bare.
"Who hurt you?" she asked softly.
He flinched. "What?"
"Whoever taught you that letting someone in is dangerous. Who was it?"
He looked away, his jaw tight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." She reached out, her hand resting on his arm. He didn't pull away, but he didn't lean into it either. "I see you, Justin. I see the walls you've built around yourself. And I'm asking you, for once, to let someone help you tear them down."
He was quiet for a long moment. The wind stirred the leaves around them, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and wet earth. A group of students passed by, their laughter distant and muffled.
"My parents," he finally said. The words came out halting, as if forced through a narrow passage. "They split up when I was twelve. I watched my dad destroy my mom over the course of five years. Cheating, lying, making her feel like she was never enough." He swallowed hard. "And then he left. Just packed his bags and was gone. I've never seen her cry like that. I never want to see anyone cry like that again."
Paris's hand tightened on his arm. "That's not you, Justin. You're not your father."
"How do you know?" He turned to face her, his eyes raw with pain. "I've spent my whole life convincing myself I'm not him. But how do I know? I'm charming, I'm charismatic, I'm good at telling people what they want to hear." His voice cracked. "Those are all the same things he was."
"Except you're aware of them," she said softly. "That makes all the difference."
He looked away, his chest heaving. She didn't push him further. She just sat there, her hand on his arm, letting the silence speak for itself.
"Just be honest with me," she said eventually. "Whatever's going on, just... tell me. I can handle it. What I can't handle is being shut out without understanding why."
He met her eyes then, and something shifted in his gaze. Regret, shame, a flicker of something darker. But he forced a smile, a pale approximation of the dazzling grin that had won her over.
"Nothing's going on," he said, his voice steady once more. "I'm just being a dramatic asshole. Practice has been kicking my ass, and I missed you."
The lie slid off his tongue too easily. She felt it, knew it for what it was, but she didn't call him out. Instead, she nodded, letting him have the illusion of control.
"I missed you too."
He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. The gesture was tender, but she felt the distance behind it. Like he was going through the motions of a script he'd memorized, rather than acting on genuine feeling.
"Come over tonight?" he asked. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."
She should say no. She should demand the truth, push him until he cracked open and revealed what he was hiding. But she was tired—so tired of fighting for scraps of his affection. So she nodded, forcing a smile of her own.
"Yeah. Tonight."
---
He was buried inside Kate again by nine o'clock.
It was pathetic, he knew. Disgusting. He'd spent the afternoon convincing Paris he was fine, that there was nothing wrong, that she was the one he wanted. And here he was, an hour later, chasing oblivion in the body of a woman he didn't even like.
Kate moaned beneath him, her nails raking down his back. "God, Justin. You really know how to make a girl feel special."
He didn't respond. He just drove into her harder, faster, trying to outrun the voice in his head that kept whispering Paris's name.
Kate's legs wrapped tighter around his waist, her heels digging into his ass. "Fuck," she breathed. "You're fucking me harder than usual."
He grunted, his jaw tight.
She tilted her hips, meeting his thrusts with a practiced rhythm. "Thinking about her?"
He froze. His hands, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, tightened until his knuckles went white.
"Shut up," he hissed.
Kate smiled, slow and knowing. "Hit a nerve, did I?"
He pulled out abruptly, ignoring her gasp of protest. He flipped her onto her stomach, yanking her hips up until she was on her hands and knees. Then he slammed into her from behind, burying himself to the hilt.
She cried out, her fingers digging into the sheets. "Oh, fuck—"
He pressed his palm against her mouth, silencing her. "I said shut up."
He fucked her with a raw, desperate energy, each thrust fueled by guilt and self-loathing. He imagined it was Paris beneath him—her wild curls spread across the pillows, her amber eyes dark with desire. The thought made him harder, more frantic.
Kate was just a body. Just a warm, willing vessel for his sins. He used her without mercy, chasing a release that seemed perpetually out of reach.
When he finally came, it was with Paris's name caught in his throat.
He collapsed beside her, spent and hollow. Kate rolled onto her back, her chest heaving, a satisfied smirk on her face.
"Feel better?"
He didn't answer. He stared at the ceiling, his mind a battlefield of guilt and want.
"You know," she said, propping herself up on one elbow, "if you're this hung up on her, maybe you should just tell her the truth."
"And what truth is that?"
"That you're falling for her." Kate's voice was matter-of-fact, like she was commenting on the weather. "That you're terrified of it. That you keep coming back to me because I'm safe—I don't want anything from you."
He closed his eyes. "You're not wrong."
"I'm rarely wrong." She traced a pattern on his chest. "But here's the thing, Calloway. This arrangement? It's fun. But I'm not going to be your emotional crutch forever. Eventually, you're going to have to woman up and face your feelings."
"Man up."
"Whatever. Same concept." She climbed out of bed, pulling on her discarded dress. "Figure it out, or lose her. Those are your choices."
She left without another word, the door clicking shut behind her.
Justin lay alone in the darkness, her words echoing in his head.
Figure it out, or lose her.
He didn't know which terrified him more.
He didn't know which terrified him more: losing her or finally having her. The apartment felt cavernous after Kate left, the silence pressing in on him like a physical weight. He lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment with Paris in vivid detail. The way she laughed when she was genuinely amused, the way her nose scrunched when she was deep in thought, the way she looked at him like he was worth seeing.
He'd never had anyone look at him like that.
By the time his alarm went off the next morning, he'd made a decision. He was going to tell her the truth. All of it. Every ugly, shameful piece. And if she walked away, at least he'd have the dignity of having been honest for once in his goddamn life.
He showered, dressed, and drove to her dorm before he could talk himself out of it. The walk to her room felt like a death march, each step heavier than the last. He knocked, his heart hammering against his ribs.
She opened the door in her pajamas—an oversized t-shirt and cotton shorts, her curls wild and unbound. She blinked at him, confusion flickering across her features.
"Justin? It's eight in the morning. What are you—"
"Can I come in?"
Something in his voice must have warned her. Her smile faded, replaced by a careful neutrality that made his stomach drop. She stepped aside, letting him into the cluttered space.
Maya was nowhere to be seen—probably already at the library. The room was quiet except for the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant sound of someone's music through the wall.
"What's going on?" Paris asked, crossing her arms. "You look like someone died."
"Someone did." He forced a laugh, but it came out hollow. "Me. I'm the someone."
She didn't smile. She just watched him with those intelligent amber eyes, waiting.
He took a deep breath. The words felt like broken glass in his throat, sharp and cutting on the way up.
"I lied to you. Yesterday, in the courtyard. I told you I was just tired, that nothing was going on."
Her arms tightened slightly. "I know."
"You know?"
"I've known since Monday." Her voice was flat, carefully controlled. "You've been different. Distant. I thought maybe you were losing interest, or that I'd done something wrong. But I knew there was more to it."
He closed his eyes. "Paris, I..."
"Just say it, Justin. Whatever it is, just say it."
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. He didn't want to see the light die in her eyes. But he'd done this. Him and his cowardice and his pathetic inability to face his own feelings.
"Kate," he finally said. "I... I slept with Kate. While we were seeing each other."
The name hung in the air like a curse. Paris's face went still—utterly, terrifyingly blank. For a moment, he thought she might not have heard him. Then she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.
"Kate. Your ex."
"Yes."
"Multiple times?"
He wanted to lie. Every instinct screamed at him to soften it, to make it sound less deliberate. But he'd promised himself he'd be honest. She deserved that much.
"Yes."
She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. "And you kept seeing me. You texted me goodnight. You told me you missed me. You fucked me in your bed and told me I was beautiful."
"Paris—"
"Don't." Her voice cracked, and she held up a hand to stop him. "Don't you dare try to explain. Don't you dare tell me this was some mistake, or that you were confused, or any other fucking excuse."
"It wasn't an excuse. It was—"
"You made me feel like I was crazy." She laughed, but it was sharp and bitter. "I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. But I told myself I was overthinking, that you were just stressed, that you'd come around. And all along, you were—" She broke off, her jaw tight. "You were fucking her."
"I know. I can't take it back. I wish I could, but I can't."
"You're damn right you can't." She turned away, her hands shaking at her sides. "Get out."
"Paris, please. Let me explain—"
"Get out!" She whirled to face him, and he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. "You don't get to explain. You don't get to make this better. You made your choice. Now live with it."
He took a step toward her, his hand outstretched, but she recoiled like she'd been burned. "Paris..."
"I said get out, Justin. Now."
He opened his mouth to argue, but the look in her eyes stopped him cold. There was no warmth there, no hint of the woman who had laughed at his jokes and traced patterns on his chest. Just a quiet, devastating hurt that he had put there.
He turned and walked out. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the empty hallway.
His car was a blur of tears he refused to shed. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. He sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a collapsing ceiling.
She was gone. He'd known it would happen, known he didn't deserve her, but knowing didn't make it hurt any less.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, expecting a message from Paris telling him to go to hell. Instead, he found Kate's name on the screen.
"You up? I could use a distraction."
He stared at the message, his jaw tightening. She was the only one who understood him. The only one who didn't want anything more than what he could give. He should delete her number. He should tell her it was over, that he was done using her as a bandage for wounds he was too scared to let heal.
Instead, he typed back two words.
"On my way."
---
She opened the door in nothing but a silk robe, her lips curved in a knowing smile. "That was fast."
"Don't." He pushed past her into the apartment, his body thrumming with a restless energy he didn't know what to do with. "Don't say anything."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't push. She simply watched him pace the length of her living room, his hands raking through his hair.
"Did you tell her?"
"Yes." The word came out like a gunshot. "And she left. She walked out on me and I don't—" He stopped, his chest heaving. "I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do."
Kate studied him for a long moment. Then she crossed the room, closing the distance between them. Her hand came up, cupping his jaw, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"You're supposed to feel it," she said softly. "You're supposed to let it hurt."
"I don't want to feel it. I want to make it stop."
She smiled, but there was no mockery in it. Just a weary understanding.
"I know."
She kissed him then. It wasn't tender—nothing about Kate was gentle—but there was a familiarity to it that was almost comforting. She tasted like cigarettes and cheap wine, and it was grounding in its ordinariness.
Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. Her robe fell open, revealing the sharp lines of her collarbones, the curve of her breasts. She pressed her body against him, urging him backward toward the bedroom.
He didn't resist.
---
She pushed him onto the bed, climbing on top of him with a possessive grace. Her thighs straddled his hips, her hands flat against his chest. She leaned down, her mouth finding his throat.
"Don't think about her," she murmured. "Just feel."
He tried. He closed his eyes and let her take what she wanted. His hands found her thighs, gripping the yielding flesh as she ground against him.
She was already wet. He could feel it through the thin fabric of his boxers, the heat of her seeping through. She reached down, freeing him from his briefs, guiding him to her entrance.
She sank onto him with a slow, deliberate movement, a low moan escaping her lips. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging deep enough to leave bruises.
"Fuck," he growled. "Move."
She rode him hard, her nails raking across his chest. The sensation was sharp and grounding, and for a moment, he was able to forget. Forget the look on Paris's face. Forget the hollow ache in his chest. Forget the way he'd managed to lose the only woman who had ever made him want to be better.
Kate lowered herself onto him, her breasts brushing his chest. Her lips found his ear.
"Fuck her. Fuck Paris and her doe eyes and her perfect fucking curls. What you need is a real woman who knows how to handle you."
The words hit him wrong, igniting a fury he didn't know he was capable of. He flipped them, pinning her to the mattress with his weight. Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed in challenge.
"Better," she breathed. "Now show me what you've got."
He slammed into her with enough force to drive her into the mattress. Her gasp turned into a moan, her legs wrapping around his waist.
"That's it," she urged. "Fuck me like you mean it."
He didn't mean it. He was trying to work through something, some ugly tangle of guilt and rage and longing that he couldn't put words to. He fucked her like it was a punishment—for her for knowing, for himself for being so weak.
Each thrust was a scream he couldn't voice. Each groan was a prayer to a God he didn't believe in. He was lost, drowning in sensation, his thoughts spiraling into darkness.
Kate whispered, her voice ragged. "You're still thinking about her."
He didn't deny it. He couldn't.
"Fine." She surged up, wrapping her hands around his throat. "Then think about this. Think about me taking you apart, piece by piece. Think about how good it feels to be loved, Calloway, and stop pretending you don't deserve it."
"I don't deserve anything," he snarled.
"Bullshit. You deserve everything."
She tightened her grip, cutting off his air. For a terrifying moment, his vision went white. Then she released him, and he surged forward, driving into her with renewed purpose.
He came with her name on his lips—but it wasn't hers. It was Paris's. It would always be Paris's.
---
The aftermath was silent. He rolled off her, his chest heaving, his mind racing. Kate propped herself up on an elbow, studying him with an expression he couldn't read.
"She's not worth it, you know."
"Don't."
"I'm serious. She's just some uptight bookworm who doesn't even know what she wants. You'd be miserable with her."
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's rich, coming from the woman I use like a punching bag."
Kate's eyes flashed. "At least I know where I stand with you. Paris thinks she can save you. She thinks she can fix you." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You can't be fixed, Justin. None of us can."
He stared at her, the truth of her words settling over him like a shroud.
She wasn't wrong. He was broken. Too broken for Paris, with her bright eyes and her grand ideals and her stubborn belief that people could change. He was cracked all the way through, fractures running deep and dark.
He pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck. She smelled like someone else's perfume, and he found himself wishing it was vanilla and sin. Wishing it was wild curls on his pillow and amber eyes searching his for something real.
But wishing didn't make it so.
So instead, he lost himself in Kate again. He fucked her with a desperate, driving rhythm—not making love, not even really having sex. Just two broken people using each other to dull the edges of their loneliness. She took everything he gave her and asked for more, her body a vessel for his rage.
He went at her deep and rough, chasing a climax that seemed determined to elude him. His mind raged with images he couldn't escape—Paris's face when he told her the truth, her tears, the way her voice cracked when she told him to leave. He slammed into her, trying to physical force the thoughts away.
The guilt was eating him alive.
"You feel that?" Kate gasped, her body tightening around him. "That's not her. That's me. I'm the one making you feel good. Not her."
"Shut up," he grunted.
"No." She clenched her muscles, and he groaned. "Say my name, Justin. Say it."
"Kate." The word tasted like ash in his mouth.
"Louder."
"Kate!" He roared it as his orgasm crashed over him, a violent wave of release that left him shaking. She came with him, her body convulsing around his as she cried out.
When it was over, he collapsed onto her, spent and trembling. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.
But he knew, even as she held him, that it wasn't enough. That nothing would ever be enough.
He'd lost her. The one woman who had made him want to be better. And he had no one to blame but himself.