The next day, Vanessa couldn't bring herself to wait for Ethan at his bike. The thought of standing there—feeling that familiar tug of unspoken words—felt too suffocating, too small for the weight of everything swirling inside her. No, she needed to find him. She needed to make this right, or at least try to.
She skipped lunch. Her stomach twisted in knots, an uneasy mix of nerves and guilt making every step heavier. The school halls seemed louder than usual, as though the world was pressing in on her, demanding answers she didn't have. But she knew exactly where he'd be. She didn't have to think twice. She knew him better than anyone else, or at least she thought she did. The old library wing—dim, forgotten, and somehow perfect for Ethan.
She pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The scent of old books and dust was thick, just the way she remembered it. And there, at one of the wooden tables, sat Ethan, his face half-lit by the sunlight filtering through the high, narrow windows. A thick book was sprawled out in front of him, its pages worn and dog-eared, but his eyes never once moved from the text as she approached.
Vanessa's heart pounded as she stood in the doorway, watching him for a moment. How do I start? she wondered. What could she say? Her mouth felt dry. For a second, she almost turned and walked away. But she couldn't. She needed to know. She needed to understand.
Finally, she cleared her throat. "Ethan."
He didn't look up, his voice barely audible as he turned a page. "Mm."
That was it? Just 'mm'? Vanessa's chest tightened. She had expected something more. Something less... indifferent. She felt a flash of frustration, but swallowed it down. She was past that now. She wasn't here to fight.
Sighing, she pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, the wooden legs screeching against the floor. "I know."
His hand paused mid-turn of the page, his gray eyes flicking up to meet hers. There was no shock. No curiosity. Just that same unreadable expression. "Know what?"
Her arms folded instinctively as she met his gaze, refusing to flinch. "That you've been alone all this time. That you got emancipated at sixteen. That you've been living in that house by yourself for years."
For a long moment, Ethan didn't respond. His eyes lowered to the page again, and he turned it without a single word. "So?"
Vanessa's breath caught. So? That was all he had to say? The sharp sting of his detachment cut deeper than she had expected. Her jaw clenched. She leaned forward, her voice growing more insistent. "So? That's all you have to say?"
He shrugged, his movements slow, almost casual. "It's not a secret. You just never asked."
Her fists clenched under the table. Of course. Of course he'd say that. She wanted to scream, to shake him and make him see her, make him understand—but I didn't know. She had never known. And now... now the weight of it was almost suffocating. All the years they'd spent dancing around each other, and she never once thought to see past the surface.
The silence between them grew heavy, thick with things left unsaid. Vanessa's gaze shifted over him. Something she'd never noticed before flickered in her chest—a recognition, sharp and painful. Ethan didn't just seem on edge. He wasn't just keeping to himself. It was more than that. His shoulders were perpetually tight, his eyes darting between the door and the windows like he was always waiting for something—someone—to come in. Like he was always expecting to be caught. Always watching.
Her stomach dropped as the realization hit her, hard and cold. He wasn't just used to being alone… he was used to being abandoned.
The thought punched through her, leaving her gasping for breath. She blinked rapidly, trying to process what she had just discovered. Abandoned. Ethan had been abandoned. And that was why he carried himself like he did—guarded, distant, always ready to fend for himself.
Suddenly, her words caught in her throat, but she managed to push them out. "Why didn't you ever tell anyone?"
Ethan exhaled slowly, finally closing his book with a resigned sigh. "And say what? That I didn't have people to look after me? That I was just another orphan for people to pity?" His eyes flashed with something dark, something almost bitter. "People either feel sorry for you, or they use it against you. I wasn't interested in either."
The air around her thickened. The words settled into her like a weight, pressing her chest down. No one had ever really seen him. No one had ever really asked. She swallowed hard, feeling that familiar wave of shame rush through her. But then it changed. It shifted. Now, she wanted to know. She had to. She needed to.
Vanessa hesitated, her heart racing as she fought to make sense of it all. "That's why you never told the school your full name, isn't it?"
Ethan gave her a small smirk, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Figured that out, did you?"
She scowled, frustration flaring in her chest. "Yeah. Took me long enough."
For the first time in what felt like ages, Ethan actually looked amused. But it wasn't the playful amusement she was used to. This was something else. Something more distant, almost... sad.
"Well," he said, standing up slowly, gathering his things. "Congratulations. You know more than most people now."
Vanessa's eyes followed him as he moved, an odd knot forming in her stomach. He was walking away again. Just like that. And something about it felt too familiar, too painful. Her voice broke the silence before she could stop herself. "You could've told me, you know."
Ethan paused. He didn't turn to face her. But she could see the slight shake of his head, the small chuckle that escaped his lips. "Vanessa," he said, his voice quieter now, but still cutting through her. "I knew you for years. The only thing you ever cared about was making my life miserable."
His words struck her harder than she wanted to admit. The sting was sharp, immediate, and relentless. Miserable. He saw her as nothing more than that—a tormentor, someone who made him small and insignificant just to feel better. And it was true. She had done that.
She bit her lip, the words clawing at her throat. "I'm not that person anymore."
For the longest time, Ethan just stood there, his back turned. She could feel his gaze on her even though he didn't look at her. His silence was almost suffocating.
Finally, he spoke, and the words landed like a challenge. "We'll see."
And just like that, he walked away, leaving her sitting at the table. Her chest tightened. Her breath quickened.
That evening, Vanessa sat at the dinner table, the clink of silverware against porcelain sounding distant, muffled. She picked at her food, her fork scraping aimlessly along the plate, moving it around in half-hearted circles. Her stomach was a tight knot, and it wasn't from hunger. It was the weight of everything she had learned about Ethan that was crushing her chest, suffocating her thoughts. The words he had said to her in the library kept replaying in her mind, his cold detachment cutting through her, leaving a trail of guilt she couldn't shake.
Across from her, her parents chatted easily about their day, but to Vanessa, it felt like they were in a different world. The rhythm of their voices was nothing more than background noise. She barely heard them. She wasn't in the mood for conversation. Every sentence they spoke seemed to pull her further into a haze, into the fog of her own thoughts.
Then, her mother's voice broke through the fog. Casual, offhand, like it was just another thing to say. But it hit Vanessa like a slap.
"I still can't believe you didn't know about Ethan's living situation, Vanessa."
Vanessa froze, the glass of water in her hand trembling. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the way her fingers were wrapped around it, her knuckles white, as if she were gripping it for support. Her mind went blank, the world narrowing down to a single point. The words echoed in her ears, bouncing off the inside of her skull. Ethan's living situation. She had no idea what that meant. No idea what her mother was talking about. But somehow, deep down, she felt the sickening truth—that she should have known.
Her throat tightened, and her pulse quickened. She tried to steady her breath, but it felt like it wasn't hers anymore. It belonged to the whirlwind of panic inside her. Her eyes flickered to her father, whose gaze was already on her, his brow furrowed. His casual tone made her skin crawl. "You two used to be so close. Didn't you know anything about what happened after his parents' accident?"
The room seemed to close in around her. The blood drained from her face, and she could almost hear the rush of her heartbeat in her ears. Used to be close? Her stomach twisted, and she had to force her hand to stay steady, her fingers tightening around the glass. She could feel the weight of the world pressing down on her chest, suffocating her. She scrambled for something to say, anything that would keep her from sinking further into this sea of confusion.
"I—uh—" Her voice was a strangled sound, raw and unrecognizable. The words wouldn't come. Her mouth had gone dry, her throat closing in on itself. Why couldn't she find the right words? The right excuse?
Her mother's eyes softened, but there was a subtle edge to her gaze. "You two were practically inseparable as kids. Always running around together."
Her father chuckled softly, shaking his head as if recalling some cherished memory. "Yeah, you'd come home covered in dirt, talking about some silly adventure you went on with Ethan."
Vanessa's stomach turned, and the small amount of food she had managed to eat suddenly felt too heavy in her stomach. Her hands trembled slightly, and she pushed the plate away, the weight of her parents' words hanging over her like a cloud.
No. No. That couldn't be right. She didn't remember that. She didn't remember anything. The images her parents were describing, the memories of playing with Ethan—none of them were real to her. She couldn't even picture it. She couldn't even recall a single moment, a single shared laugh. Had it all really happened?
Her mind raced, trying desperately to pull something together, anything, but it was like trying to grasp at smoke. She couldn't bring up a single vivid image. The more she tried to focus, the more everything slipped through her fingers. Her brain was full of holes, gaps where pieces of her past should have been. And those pieces, those memories, should have been of Ethan. Why couldn't she remember?
She gripped her fork harder, her knuckles white. "I… I guess we just lost touch," she muttered, her voice distant, empty. Her eyes were fixed on her plate, refusing to meet her parents' questioning stares. "And I forgot about it."
It was a weak excuse, a flimsy shield against the reality she was too afraid to face. But it was all she had in that moment. Her mother didn't push further, but Vanessa could feel the disappointment radiating from her. It was a palpable thing, like a weight pressing down on her chest, sinking her deeper into a pit she couldn't escape.
Her mother sighed, the sound heavy with regret. "That's a shame," she murmured, shaking her head. "Especially considering everything he's been through."
Vanessa couldn't respond. She didn't know how to. She didn't know anything anymore. Her appetite had evaporated, leaving her feeling hollow. She pushed her plate away from her with trembling hands, the weight of her confusion and guilt suffocating her.
Because there was one thing, one glaring, undeniable truth that cut through all the fog. She didn't remember any of it. No memories of playing with Ethan as kids. No silly adventures, no dirt-covered days running around. Nothing. And yet… her parents remembered. They had their own recollections of a friendship that meant nothing to her. And why? Why had it slipped through her fingers?
That night, Vanessa lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind a storm of fragmented memories and questions that refused to be answered. A boy with brown hair. A boy who smiled at her. A boy who…
She frowned, frustration creeping in. That wasn't Ethan. Ethan had white hair. Her brow furrowed as she tried to force the image into focus, but it was like looking through a fogged-up window—blurred, elusive, and completely out of reach. Why did it feel so familiar? Where were the memories she was supposed to have?
A wave of panic swept over her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the images to come back. But they wouldn't. They wouldn't come. And the harder she tried, the more her own mind seemed to slip away from her.
With a frustrated sigh, she sat up, her hands tangled in her hair as she ran her fingers through it, feeling the weight of every unanswered question pressing down on her.
I need answers. The thought was sharp, cutting through the fog that had consumed her. I need to know. I need to remember.
And worse than that, she knew deep down she needed to come clean. She couldn't go on pretending she understood what was happening, what had happened, what Ethan had gone through. She had to confront him, had to find a way to make things right, even if she didn't know how to start.
The thought of facing him again, after everything she'd learned, made her stomach twist with anxiety and guilt. But she didn't have a choice anymore. It was time to stop running from the truth, no matter how much it hurt.
At breakfast the next morning, Vanessa felt like her insides were trying to claw their way out.
The table was set just like always—perfectly cut fruit, buttered toast stacked neatly on a plate, the scent of brewed coffee lingering in the air. Her father sat with the newspaper unfolded in front of him, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. Her mother sipped from a porcelain mug, scrolling through her phone with casual grace. Peaceful. Routine. Untouched.
And she… she was about to detonate a truth bomb that would blow straight through all of it.
Her hands trembled as she held her fork, the tines scraping against her plate. Her appetite was long gone, buried somewhere under the weight pressing down on her chest. Her stomach churned—nerves, guilt, maybe both. The food might as well have been cardboard.
She forced herself to take a breath that did nothing to calm the panic slithering beneath her skin.
"I need to tell you something," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The shift was immediate. Her father lowered his paper. Her mother's fingers stilled on her screen. Two sets of eyes lifted, expectant, unaware of the storm about to roll in.
Vanessa's throat tightened. Dry. Raw. Her mouth worked to form the next words, but they caught like thorns.
"It's about Ethan."
There was the soft click of porcelain as her mother set her mug down. "What about him?"
Her fingers curled into fists beneath the table. Her nails dug into her palms. Just say it. Just say it.
"I…" Her voice cracked. "I wasn't exactly his friend since middle school."
Her father's frown was immediate. "What do you mean by that?"
God. This was harder than she'd imagined.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her heartbeat thudded against her ribcage, loud and panicked. The silence was too clean. Too sharp. Her confession would be the jagged tear through it.
"I bullied him." The words came out in a rush, and once they did, she felt something break loose inside her. "For years."
Silence fell. Thick and oppressive. It wasn't just quiet—it was the kind of silence that had weight. That filled the air with static. That made it hard to breathe.
Her mother stared at her, wide-eyed, the surprise etched plainly across her face. Her father leaned back, slowly, like someone pulling away from a fire they hadn't known was burning.
"Vanessa—" her father started, voice low and disbelieving.
"I know," she interrupted quickly, too quickly. Her voice shook. "I know it was messed up, okay? I know I was cruel, and thoughtless, and I didn't even know—" She ran both hands through her hair, fingers tangling in frustration. "I didn't even realize he was the same Ethan. The one from the playground. The one who used to follow me around when we were kids."
Her parents exchanged a look. One of those quiet conversations that happened without a single word.
Her mother's voice was soft, but searching. "Vanessa… why?"
The word hit harder than she expected. She chewed on her lip, blinking back the sting in her eyes. Why had she done it? Why him?
Because she could? Because he never fought back? Because she needed to feel powerful at a time when everything else in her life was slipping out of her control?
"I don't know," she said eventually, her voice raw. "It started small. A joke. A name. And then… it just kept going. It became normal. Easy."
Her father rubbed his face, exhaling slowly. "This is… incredibly disappointing."
She flinched at the words, like he'd slapped her. But she didn't argue. She didn't defend herself. How could she? She was disappointed in herself. Probably more than either of them ever could be.
Her mother didn't say anything for a long moment. Just looked at her, like she was trying to see the whole picture. Not the daughter in front of her, but all the versions of her layered behind—some of them meaner, smaller, pettier than she wanted to admit.
"And now?" her mother asked at last.
Vanessa took a breath that hitched halfway out of her chest. "Now… I want to fix it."
Something in her mother's face softened, just slightly. "Then do it."
Her father shook his head slowly. "You've got a lot to make up for, Vanessa."
"I know," she said again.
But this time… she meant it with her entire soul.
That weight hadn't gone away. It clung to her, heavy and constant, a quiet reminder in everything she did. School, work, walking home—everything felt dimmer. She moved through her days like she was underwater, the pressure squeezing her lungs, her thoughts trailing behind her like anchors.
She couldn't stop thinking about him. Not just who he was now, but who he had been. Alone since sixteen. Struggling quietly while she laughed with her friends. Her cruelty had just been one more wound on top of so many others.
And yet he'd never told anyone.
That thought haunted her.
Monday morning, she caught herself looking for him in the halls without meaning to. Just a flicker of his hoodie in a crowd, the way he kept his gaze low, like he didn't want to be seen.
Tuesday, she actually tried to talk to him. Just something small, casual—something that could've been a first step. But his reply was clipped. Distant. Like a door slamming shut.
By Wednesday, she stopped pretending it didn't matter.
That evening, she was wiping down the ice cream counter when a group of her old "friends" strolled in. Their laughter was sharp, careless, full of the same shallow ease she used to swim in. Maddy caught her eye, smirking in that familiar, syrupy way.
"Wow," she said with a snide little giggle. "From queen bee to ice cream girl, huh?"
Vanessa smiled politely, like it didn't sting. Like it didn't immediately drag her back to the way she used to say the exact same things to Ethan. The full-circle ache of it was nauseating. Karma didn't even need to shout—it whispered, and she heard it loud and clear.
By Friday, her decision was made. No more hiding. No more avoiding.
She spotted him at his locker. Same hoodie. Same guarded posture. But this time, when she looked at him… really looked… she saw past all that. Saw the bruises no one had noticed. The silence he'd wrapped around himself like armor.
And she walked up anyway.
"Hey," she said, voice soft, like she was afraid of shattering something.
He didn't look at her, but he stilled.
"I just… I know I was a total ass to you," she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her heart thundered. "I don't expect anything from you. I just… wanted you to know I'm sorry."
He didn't answer.
But he nodded. Just once. Then shut his locker and walked away.
It wasn't forgiveness. Not even close.
But it was something.
That Sunday night, she was still turning it over in her head when her mother, completely casual, said over dinner, "Since you and Ethan are talking now… have you thought about inviting him over?"
Vanessa nearly choked. "What?"
Her mother shrugged, sipping her tea. "I saw him at the supermarket the other day. Living on his own still, right? It just seems like maybe… I don't know. He might like a home-cooked meal once in a while."
Vanessa stared down at her plate.
She didn't answer.
Because the truth was, she didn't know how to talk to Ethan beyond the brief, awkward apology. Didn't know how to reach him, or if he'd even let her try.
Monday arrived with an ache Vanessa couldn't quite name.
The halls buzzed with life—students shouting across corridors, locker doors slamming, the hum of morning announcements crackling over the speakers—but Ethan was nowhere in sight. She told herself it didn't mean anything. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he overslept. Maybe he just… didn't feel like dealing with the world that day.
It wasn't her business.
But the absence tugged at her, like a pebble in her shoe she couldn't shake loose.
Tuesday came. Still no Ethan.
By now, the silence of his absence had settled into something heavier. It followed her through her classes, lingered during lunch, whispered behind every conversation. She tried not to show it, but she caught herself glancing toward the back of classrooms, half-expecting to see the outline of his hoodie tucked into the shadows. But nothing. Just that same hollow space where he should've been.
By Wednesday, the unease had shifted into something rawer—tight and persistent beneath her ribs. This wasn't like her. She didn't do worry. She didn't miss people. Especially not people she used to crush under her heel like ants.
And yet.
When she saw him finally walking into school late that morning, the air seemed to catch in her lungs. His hoodie was pulled up, shadows cast over his eyes, and his bag slung low over one shoulder. He looked tired. Not just physically—bone-deep tired. Like he was holding something heavy no one else could see.
She almost moved toward him right then.
Almost.
But the moment passed, and he disappeared down the hall without even glancing her way.
At dispersal, she hovered by the gate longer than necessary. Heart thudding. Palms damp. She didn't have a plan. She didn't even know what she was doing. But as soon as she spotted him, slipping out with that quiet, deliberate gait, her feet moved before her thoughts caught up.
She walked straight up to him, forcing her voice into something steady, casual.
"Hey," she said.
He didn't break stride.
Undeterred, she matched his pace, her heart racing in her chest like it wanted out. "Are you okay?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could censor them.
That was when he stopped.
Only slightly—but enough.
He turned just enough to give her a look. One brow arched, his expression unreadable. "Since when do you care?"
Vanessa opened her mouth to respond—but nothing came out.
The truth felt too vulnerable. Too dangerous. She didn't know when it had started. Somewhere between apologies and shared silences, she'd begun to care in a way that felt too real, too sudden.
She closed her mouth. Lowered her gaze.
Ethan shook his head with a bitter smirk and kept walking.
But she wasn't done. Not this time.
Something inside her wouldn't let her walk away—not anymore.
She followed him. Not side by side, but close enough to keep him in her sights. He didn't notice, or maybe he did and just didn't care. He took a route she hadn't seen him take before. Quieter. Off the main road. A few turns later, she slowed her steps, ducking behind a parked car as he finally came to a stop in front of a squat, gray building with boarded-up windows and faded lettering.
A local MMA gym.
Her breath caught.
So this was where he vanished to. After school. After everything. He didn't go home. He didn't waste hours online or hang out with friends. He came here. To fight. To train. To do what—burn off anger? Reclaim power? Feel something?
She didn't ask.
Not yet.
But the image burned into her mind and stayed there, playing over and over in a slow loop.
The next day, when she saw him at his locker—hood down for once, earphones tucked into his shirt collar—she didn't hesitate.
She leaned against the locker beside his and said, without preamble, "Do you ever plan on competing again?"
He turned to her slowly. No irritation this time. Just amusement.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Why? Want to see if you could actually beat me?"
Vanessa rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide the smile teasing her lips. "In your dreams."
For a brief second—just a flicker—his face lit up with something close to laughter. Not quite a laugh. But close. And then he shook his head and walked away, leaving her standing there, heart hammering.
By Saturday, she had stopped pretending this was just guilt.
It wasn't.
It wasn't about making herself feel better or righting some karmic debt. Somewhere between the awkward conversations and those fleeting moments of honesty, something had shifted inside her. This wasn't about understanding what she'd done wrong anymore.
It was about him.
She wanted to understand him.
Not because she owed it to him. Not even because she thought he needed it.
But because she cared.
That Saturday evening, she was pacing in her room like a caged animal, phone in hand, rereading the half-typed messages she couldn't bring herself to send. What did people even say in moments like this? "Hi"? "Are you okay"? "Please don't ignore me"?
Every version sounded stupid.
But she needed to try.
So, finally, after staring at the blinking cursor long enough to feel her eyes blur, she typed:
Vanessa: Hey.
Simple. Safe.
She tossed the phone onto her bed, heart thudding, fully expecting silence.
But it buzzed almost immediately.
Ethan: What do you want?
She rolled her eyes. Typical.
Vanessa: Relax. I was just wondering something.
Ethan: Figures.
God, he was so defensive.
And yet… she didn't stop.
Vanessa: Why do you still train if you don't plan on competing?
This time, the reply took longer. Long enough for her to sit down. Long enough for her to start overthinking again.
And then, finally:
Ethan: Because I want to be in control of myself.
She stared at the words, reading them over and over. That wasn't what she'd expected. Not at all. It wasn't about strength, or revenge, or proving something to the world. It was about control.
Over his own body. His choices. His mind.
The weight of that landed heavy in her chest.
Before she could type anything, another message appeared:
Ethan: You wouldn't get it.
And maybe a few months ago, he would've been right.
But now?
Vanessa: Try me.
Two words. Honest. Exposed.
The reply never came.
She sat there, watching the screen, waiting for those little dots to appear. They didn't.
Minutes passed. Then more.
She sighed, heart sinking, and tossed her phone back onto the bed.
She didn't know what she expected. Ethan had never been the type to open up just because someone asked nicely. Especially not to her. Especially after everything.
Still… she wished he would.
And for the first time, it wasn't just about guilt or answers.
It was about wanting to be someone he could talk to.
Even if she had no idea how to become that person yet.
Monday arrived like a slap to the face. Vanessa had woken up with a sense of restless energy thrumming beneath her skin, a tension that had been building for days and now screamed for release. She was done pretending. Done tiptoeing around her feelings. Around him.
If Ethan wouldn't talk, then she'd force his hand. One way or another.
She waited by his bike after school, trying to look casual while her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. Every passing student, every glance, made her skin crawl with anticipation. And then, finally, the crowd thinned—and there he was.
Ethan.
Hood up. Hands in pockets. Head low like always. But the moment he saw her, his steps faltered. His entire body went still, and for a split second, Vanessa saw it—that flicker of calculation in his eyes. Like he was already weighing whether it was worth it to turn around and walk the other way.
But he didn't.
He let out a sigh, shoulders rising with irritation as he approached, expression unreadable. "What do you want now?"
Vanessa pushed off the bike and smirked, masking nerves with bravado. "You free?"
He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Why?"
"Because," she said, stepping aside as he reached for the handlebars, "I want to spar."
That stopped him cold. He turned fully, looking at her like she'd spoken in tongues. "You want to fight me?"
She crossed her arms, forcing the words out evenly. "I used to be the best in this damn state. People knew my name before I even stepped on the mat. I didn't just compete—I dominated. But then you come along, and suddenly I feel like I don't know a damn thing anymore."
Ethan's scoff was immediate. "That's because you don't."
His words hit harder than she expected, sharp and effortless, like everything else he did.
She clenched her jaw. Her instinct was to bite back, to snarl something cruel, something that would sting. But she didn't. Not this time. She forced herself to breathe through it.
"Then teach me."
His eyes narrowed, like he couldn't quite figure out if she was joking. Or insane. Or both. She braced herself for laughter, for rejection, for that cold indifference he wore so well.
But instead, his lips curved into a faint smirk.
"Fine," he said, straddling the bike. "Get on."
Her heart leapt.
The gym was nothing like she expected.
There were no mirrors, no trophies on shelves, no posters screaming about self-belief or success. Just cracked floors, frayed mats, and the thick, gritty air of sweat and repetition. A few fighters lingered near the ring, finishing their drills with blank, focused stares.
This wasn't some polished dojo.
This was where people came to bleed.
Ethan tossed her a pair of worn gloves, not bothering to explain or soften his tone. "Get ready."
No questions. No warmups. No mercy.
She pulled the gloves on without hesitation, but already, doubt was gnawing at her edges. Still, she squared up.
If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was fight.
Or so she thought.
The second they moved, reality hit like a body shot to the ribs.
Ethan didn't swing.
He didn't need to.
Every punch she threw, every kick, every rush of aggression—he sidestepped it like he was bored. Effortless. Unbothered. She couldn't even graze him. He moved like water, all flow and calculation, and she… she was a storm with no direction. Wild. Predictable. Sloppy.
Frustration coiled in her gut like fire.
"What the hell?" she snapped after missing yet another jab. "Are you gonna actually fight me or just dance around like a damn ghost?"
Ethan sighed, stepping back. "This is the problem with you."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"You don't think," he said flatly. "You react. You let your emotions run the fight. You get angry. You get sloppy. That's why you lost the moment we started."
The words sliced through her.
Because deep down… she knew he was right.
She'd always masked her uncertainty in arrogance, her guilt in aggression. She'd used power like armor, like a weapon. And Ethan—he'd never been afraid of it. Not then. Not now.
He was showing her why.
He watched her for a beat, as if testing to see if she'd lash out. If she'd fall back into old habits. But she didn't. She stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her back, fists clenched at her sides.
Silent.
And something in his eyes shifted—barely—but it was there.
Approval.
"That's enough for today," he said, voice low.
She yanked off the gloves, her pride throbbing more than any bruise. "So, what? That's it?"
"For now," he said, already grabbing his bag. "You're not ready for more."
She wanted to argue. God, she wanted to fight that. But… she didn't.
Because she knew.
That night, lying in bed, muscles aching and thoughts louder than ever, Vanessa stared at the ceiling and felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Humility.
She had always fought to prove something. To others. To herself. But for the first time, she wanted to be better—not to reclaim some throne she thought she deserved, not for glory—but because she needed to grow.
And Ethan?
It wasn't just about guilt anymore. Or redemption. It wasn't about understanding him.
It was about wanting him to see her.
To see that she could change.
That maybe, beneath all the damage she'd caused and the walls she'd built, there was something worth saving.
Maybe this wasn't the ending.
Maybe… this was the beginning.
So she started showing up.
Every day after school, she walked into that gym and didn't say a word. She trained. She fell. She failed. She got back up.
At first, Ethan barely acknowledged her. He let her swing and stumble and sweat, watching from the corner like this was all some predictable game.
But she kept coming back.
Despite the bruises. Despite the soreness that made it hard to lift her arms some mornings. Despite the looks from the other fighters who clearly thought she didn't belong.
She kept showing up.
And that persistence… it chipped something away in him.
He started correcting her stance. Then her breathing. Then her timing. Slowly, quietly, he began to teach.
And she began to listen.
Two and a half weeks passed, and Vanessa felt like she was being torn down and rebuilt in pieces. Everything she thought she knew was stripped away, exposed for how flimsy it had really been.
She wasn't just learning to fight.
She was learning to think. To observe. To wait.
To feel something… and not let it consume her.
Strength wasn't about being feared.
It was about being in control.
And for the first time, Vanessa felt like maybe—just maybe—she was starting to understand.
One evening, after yet another brutal session that ended with Vanessa flat on her back, gasping and seething, she stared up at the ceiling of the gym with sweat dripping into her eyes and the bitter taste of frustration thick on her tongue.
Pinned again. Less than two minutes.
She groaned and threw an arm across her face, trying to block out Ethan's shadow leaning over her.
"This is humiliating."
She didn't mean to say it out loud, but it slipped past her lips, bitter and raw.
Ethan didn't gloat. Not exactly. But he did smirk, offering her his hand like it didn't cost him a thing. "It's growth," he said, calm as ever.
That smug, infuriating tone.
She scowled up at him, resisting the impulse to slap his hand away. But instead, she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. His grip was strong. Steady. And far too warm. The contact made her stomach twist in a way she didn't want to examine.
"Whatever," she muttered, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder with a dramatic huff. "I'll get you next time."
Ethan just chuckled, low and amused. "Sure."
That sound followed her home, echoing in her chest long after she left the gym behind.
Later, at the dinner table, she winced as she moved too quickly, a bruise on her side protesting with a sharp sting. She tried to hide it, but her father was too observant.
"You've been getting into fights?" he asked, casually but with an edge of curiosity.
Vanessa swallowed the bite in her mouth and shook her head. "No. I've been training."
Her mother looked up from her plate, frowning slightly. "Training? Where?"
"The gym," she said simply, reaching for her water to avoid further eye contact.
Her parents exchanged glances—those loaded, silent-parent conversations that always made her want to crawl under the table.
"Since when?" her mother pressed.
Vanessa sighed. There was no point in lying. "For the past two and a half weeks."
Her mother's expression sharpened into something thoughtful. Her father, however, looked vaguely amused.
"With who?" her mother asked.
She hesitated.
Her father smirked. "Let me guess. Ethan?"
Her fork froze midway to her mouth. "How—"
He shrugged. "I have eyes, Vanessa."
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "I knew you were being weird."
Her mom tilted her head, watching her too closely. "You're spending a lot of time with him."
Vanessa rolled her eyes. "It's not like that. It's training. That's all it is."
But her mother's gaze was sharp. Knowing. And far too calm for Vanessa's liking.
"Invite him to dinner."
Vanessa choked. She slapped a hand to her chest, coughing violently. "What?!"
Her mother looked entirely unbothered. "You've been spending all this time with him. We used to know his parents. I'd like to meet him properly."
Vanessa's face burned. "That's not necessary."
Her father chuckled under his breath. "You're blushing."
"No, I'm not!"
"Yes, you are," her mother said, far too amused for Vanessa's sanity. "It's just dinner. Be polite. Invite him."
Vanessa stared down at her plate, shoving a large bite of rice into her mouth just to avoid saying anything else. Her mind was racing, heart thudding in her ears.
Dinner? With Ethan? In her house?
How the hell was she supposed to ask him something like that? What would he even say? What if he laughed in her face? What if he agreed?
And—God—what if he actually showed up?
The thought made her skin flush, heat prickling across the back of her neck. She couldn't remember the last time someone made her this… disoriented.
It wasn't like she hadn't been around guys before. She wasn't a stranger to attention. But this was different.
Ethan didn't look at her like he wanted something. He didn't flirt. He didn't compliment. He didn't even try. And that's what made it worse. Or better.
She didn't even know anymore.
For the next two days, she spiraled.
The invitation hung in her mouth like a bitter pill she couldn't swallow. Every time she thought about saying it—about looking Ethan in the eye and asking him to come to dinner—her throat clenched, and her stomach flipped like she was about to walk into a match she knew she'd lose.
She told herself it was because of the awkwardness. The embarrassment. The inevitable teasing from her parents.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
It was him.
Ethan had become more than just the boy she used to torment. More than the rival she once towered over.
Somewhere between those punishing sparring sessions and the quiet moments when he corrected her stance without judgment, something in her had shifted.
She'd spent years convincing herself he was beneath her. Weak. Forgettable.
Now she was chasing him.
Chasing the way he moved. The way he spoke. The way he never cracked, never let her get under his skin.
She wanted to learn from him.
She wanted to prove herself to him.
And worst of all?
She liked it.
She liked the challenge. Liked how he didn't make things easy for her. Liked that he saw through her bullshit when no one else dared to.
She had no idea when it had changed—when hatred had blurred into fascination, when contempt had twisted into something warmer, darker, messier.
Maybe it started the first time he dodged her punch without even looking.
Maybe it was when she realized that he wasn't afraid of her—never had been.
Maybe it was the moment she lost the upper hand.
Either way… the damage was done.
And now she had to ask him to dinner.