Okay, strap in. This chapter is long. Like, "might need a snack break halfway through" long. It features yelling, self-sabotage, glass-breaking, and one messy emotional implosion. Reagan's unraveling, Rocco's playing the world's calmest mind-reader, and together? They're one bad decision away from round two. Enemies to lovers, anyone? You've been warned. Proceed with caffeine, emotional support snacks, and maybe a fire extinguisher.
– Line
The morning was too quiet. Reagan sat on the bathroom floor, knees pulled tight to her chest, the cold tile pressing against her spine like a warning. The air felt too still, too heavy, like it was waiting for her to fall apart. Her hoodie from last night was balled up near the door, her skirt draped over the edge of the tub like a reminder of everything she didn't want to think about. She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt him again—hands on her skin, the weight of him, the way her body had answered him without hesitation. She hated that. Hated how natural it had felt. How much she'd wanted it. How much she'd wanted him. She splashed water on her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror, eyes swollen, lips raw, hair sticking out at weird angles like she'd just rolled through a bush. She looked like a feral raccoon. Great. She tugged her hair back into a messy bun that immediately flopped sideways and gave up trying to fix it. Typical. She shoved herself to her feet and knocked her elbow on the edge of the sink hard enough to swear out loud. Fantastic. Just add physical pain to the emotional spiral. She muttered something unintelligible under her breath, pulled on jeans that were still damp from yesterday's rain, and grabbed whatever sweater didn't smell like bar smoke. Her boot got stuck halfway on, and she almost fell trying to yank it the rest of the way. Perfect start. Gold star. She needed air before she tripped over her own shadow. Outside, the cold slapped her in the face like it had a personal vendetta, and honestly, she welcomed it. She walked fast, hands in her pockets, head down, trying to outrun her thoughts—except she couldn't, because apparently they had marathon stamina. Her mind kept circling back to him. The way Rocco had looked at her. Like she was something worth seeing. That thought alone made her trip on a crack in the sidewalk, arms flailing like a cartoon character before she caught herself. "Smooth," she muttered. "Real smooth." By the time she got to the bar, her face was frozen, her nose was running, and she was starting to question every decision she'd made since birth. She fumbled the keys, dropped them twice, and nearly walked into the doorframe trying to get in. At least no one was around to see that one. Inside, the silence wrapped around her like a blanket made of static. She went behind the bar, grabbed a rag, and started wiping the same bottle of bourbon for the sixth time, pretending she wasn't spiraling. Then the door creaked open. Of course it did. She froze, hand mid-wipe, and closed her eyes in silent prayer to the universe. No luck. She didn't need to turn around. She felt him. That goddamn presence. Big and heavy like a thunderstorm in human form. "You shouldn't be here," she said, already feeling the flush rise in her cheeks. "And yet here I am," Rocco replied, with that maddening calm that made her want to throw something at him and kiss him at the same time. She turned around too fast, caught her hip on the edge of the bar, and winced. He saw. Of course he saw. And he didn't even laugh—just tilted his head slightly, like he was cataloguing her awkwardness. "You think this is funny?" she snapped, louder than she meant to, hands flailing slightly as she gestured between them. "What happened last night—it meant nothing." He raised a brow. "You sure about that?" "Dead sure," she said, and crossed her arms—except one of them got tangled in her sweater sleeve and she had to wiggle it free like an idiot. "You were a mistake. One I don't plan on repeating." Rocco stepped closer, slow and deliberate. She tried to hold her ground, but also took an awkward half-step back and nearly stumbled over a loose bar mat. "Then why did you let me touch you like that?" he asked, voice low and sharp. "Don't," she said quickly, like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. "Why didn't you tell me to stop?" Her jaw clenched. She wanted to yell, to deflect, to throw something clever and biting back at him—but her brain glitched and left her with nothing but the truth. "Because I wanted it," she spat, then instantly regretted it. His gaze didn't soften. It intensified. "No," he said. "You're lying." "Get out," she said, voice cracking, body tense, heart beating like a damn drumline. But he didn't move. Just stood there. Watching. Seeing. And that was the worst part. Because she could trip, fall, fumble through life like she always did, and no one ever really looked close enough to care. But Rocco did. He saw her. And that terrified her more than anything. ever had. She told him to leave, but Rocco didn't move. He stood there, arms loose at his sides, watching her fall apart one twitch at a time. Reagan hated being seen. He could tell. The way she squared her shoulders like armor, but forgot about the tremble in her fingers. The way she crossed her arms too tight, like she was trying to physically hold herself together. Most people missed those details. Most people only saw the anger. But not him. His eyes caught everything. The sharp intake of breath she tried to swallow. The way her elbow stayed tucked too close to her body. "You hit your arm," he said casually, voice low. She froze, glaring at him. "What?" "Your elbow. You're favoring it. My guess? Probably a table. Maybe the sink." Her face flushed, eyes flashing, defensive walls slamming up like a barricade. "Stop it," she snapped. "Stop doing that. Stop looking at me like you know me." He didn't even blink. "Maybe I do." She shoved a hand through her hair, making it stick out wildly in every direction. "You don't know shit," she hissed, voice shaking more than she probably realized. "I know you're scared," he said simply. "And not of me." That landed like a punch. She took a step back, nearly tripping over a barstool, catching herself awkwardly. Rocco stayed where he was, letting the silence choke the air between them. "Why are you here?" she demanded, voice rising. "What do you want from me? Another pity fuck?" Her words were vicious, but the desperation underneath them was louder. "I want to understand," he said, steady. "I want to see what happens when you stop running from yourself." She gaped at him, thrown completely off balance. Anger flooded her expression, fast and violent, like a storm breaking loose. "You think you're so fucking smart, don't you?" she shouted, throwing her hands up, knocking a glass off the bar. It shattered on the floor, but neither of them looked down. "You think you can just... dissect me like I'm some goddamn lab rat?" He didn't flinch. "You're not a lab rat. You're a fighter." "Screw you," she spat, voice breaking. "You don't know what I've been through. You don't know anything about me." "Then tell me," he said. Soft. Dangerous. Offering her a choice she didn't know how to take. That was what snapped the last thread inside her. "Get the hell out!" she screamed, chest heaving, voice raw. She grabbed the nearest bottle and hurled it at the wall, where it exploded into shards. Rocco didn't move. He just watched her, silent, unshaken, letting her rage crash over him like a wave he already knew would break. Reagan stood there, panting, fists clenched, body shaking from the inside out. She looked like she wanted to punch him. Or maybe herself. Maybe both. "Fine," Rocco said at last, voice like ice slipping under a door. "I'll go." He turned without another word, footsteps slow, heavy, deliberate. He didn't slam the door when he left. Didn't shout back. He just left her standing there in the wreckage, breathing hard, alone with everything she was terrified to feel. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, Reagan just stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched so tight her knuckles ached. The bar was silent except for the ringing in her ears and the soft crackle of broken glass under her boots. She stared blankly at the wreckage, her reflection fractured in the shards scattered across the floor. She should feel powerful. She should feel safe. She didn't. She felt hollow. Cold. Broken open and left bleeding. Her knees buckled before she could stop them, and she hit the floor hard, palms slamming into the glass without thinking. Pain sliced into her skin, sharp and real, but she welcomed it. At least it was something she could understand. A sob ripped out of her throat before she could stop it, raw and ugly, and once it started, there was no holding it back. She pressed her hands against her mouth to muffle the sound, but the tears kept coming anyway, hot and furious and endless. She hated it. Hated herself. Hated that he had seen too much. That he had gotten too close. That somewhere deep inside, she hadn't wanted him to leave. She curled into herself, forehead pressed against the sticky, broken floor, body shaking from the inside out. "Stupid," she whispered, voice shaking, "fucking stupid." She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, like maybe that would stop the memories crashing over her — his hands, his mouth, the way he had looked at her like she wasn't broken at all. She hated how badly she still wanted him. How her body remembered his touch even when her brain screamed at her to forget. She wanted to pretend like she didn't want to kiss him all over again, trail her mouth down his body until he forgot his own damn name. Pretend like she didn't want a repeat of yesterday, didn't want to feel him slam into her again, didn't crave the way he held her like she was something precious and dangerous all at once. She dug her nails into her palms until it hurt, until the need and the shame blurred together into something unbearable. She forced herself upright, dragging herself up by the edge of the bar, the muscles in her arms trembling with the effort. Her reflection in the mirrored shelves behind the counter was a disaster — tear-streaked cheeks, red eyes, wild hair. She looked exactly how she felt. She wiped the back of her hand across her face, smearing the mess worse. This was fine. She was fine. She just had to pretend. Pretend like she hadn't fallen apart. Pretend like she didn't want him. Pretend like she hadn't almost begged him to stay. She straightened her spine, forcing the pieces of herself back into something that resembled a person. Reagan Carmichael didn't need anyone. She had survived worse. She would survive this, too. She had no choice. Her voice cracked as she whispered into the empty room, "I don't need you," but it was a lie so thin it almost broke her all over again. Rocco leaned against the wall just outside the door, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. He didn't need to hear the sobs to know they were there. He didn't need to see the glass on the floor to know she'd fallen apart the second he left. He didn't need to listen to the silence to feel the weight of everything she was trying and failing to bury. He already knew. He'd seen it in the way her hands shook when she shoved him away. In the way her body locked up like she was bracing for a blow that never came. In the wild, broken way she threw the bottle—not at him, but at herself. Every movement screamed louder than words ever could. And every fiber of him—every goddamn inch of him—had screamed to stay. To close the distance. To crush his mouth to hers until the fear stopped. To pull her into his arms and make her forget why she ever tried to fight him. But he hadn't. Because he saw her. Saw the wreckage she was trying to survive. And for once in his life, Rocco didn't move. Didn't force. Didn't take. He just stood there, letting the cold night seep into his bones, letting the silence tell him everything her mouth never would. He didn't know why he noticed the things he did. Why he felt the cracks in people like they lived under his skin. He only knew one thing for sure. Reagan wasn't running from him. She was running from herself. And that was a battle no one could win for her.