POV Bella
Three pills instead of two. The bitter taste lingered as I forced them down with cold coffee.
"That's the third time you've checked your phone," Camila observed, her voice cutting through the campus café's ambient noise. "And you've been crushing that same pen for ten minutes."
The pen snapped, ink bleeding across my economics notes.
"Shit…" I grabbed napkins, blotting furiously. "Perfect. Just perfect."
"Okay, enough." Camila slammed her laptop shut. "What happened between you and that jerk Ajax? And don't say ‘nothing’, you've been a ghost for three days."
"There's nothing to—"
"Bella." Her tone brooked no argument. "You literally ran when you saw his bike this morning. You're taking different routes to class. You're falling apart."
The words pressed against my throat.
We almost kissed last time.
I wanted him to. I still want him to.
"It's complicated," I managed.
"Everything with you two is complicated." She leaned forward. "But this is different. You look like you're about to—"
Hot coffee exploded across my chest, the scalding liquid soaking through my white t-shirt, drenching my textbooks in a spreading brown stain.
"Oops." Laila towered above me, an empty cup dangling from manicured fingers. "How clumsy of me."
The café erupted into shocked gasps. Gazes snapped in our direction instantly, vultures circling for the kill shot of Bella Sinclair's latest humiliation.
I shot to my feet, the coffee-soaked fabric clinging transparently to my skin, revealing far more than I'd ever intended.
"Are you seriously this pathetic?"
"Pathetic?" Laila's laugh tinkled like breaking glass. "I'm not the one who can't seem to stay dry lately."
"No, you're just the one so desperate for Ajax's attention that you'll assault anyone who threatens your delusions."
Her face flushed crimson. "You think you're so special, don't you? Old money bitch, untouchable—"
"The fuck you just did, Laila?"
Ajax's voice sliced through her tirade. He stood behind her, fury radiating from every line of his body.
"Ajax, baby!” Laila spun, her entire demeanor shifting. “It was just an accident, I swear. My hand just slipped—"
"Cut the bullshit." He stepped around her, eyes locked on mine. "You okay?"
The concern in his voice made my chest constrict. "I'm fine."
"You're soaked." He shrugged off his leather jacket, holding it out. "Here."
"I don't need—"
"Take it. Now."
Not a request. A command wrapped in unexpected gentleness.
Our fingers brushed as I accepted the jacket, and something like electricity shot up my arm.
"Ajax, honey, we’re going to be late for the race," Laila whined, threading her arm through his.
He let her pull him away without another glance in my direction. The jacket hung heavy on my shoulders, smelling like leather and motor oil and something specifically like him.
"What the actual fuck was that?" Camila demanded, already gathering paper towels.
"I don't know." The truth scraped raw. "I don't know anything anymore."
"That's it." She threw the towels down. "Tonight, we're going to his race."
"What? No. Absolutely not."
"Yes." Her determination blazed. "You need to face this—whatever this is. Running isn't working."
"Camila—"
"Eight o'clock. Wear something that won't show oil stains."
* * *
The underground circuit thrummed with savage energy. Engines roared, crowds pressed close, money and danger perfuming the air.
"This was a terrible idea," I shouted over the noise.
"This was necessary," Camila corrected, pulling me deeper into the chaos.
The starting line materialized through the crowd. Six bikes. Six riders. But only one made my heart stutter.
Ajax sat astride his Ducati like he was born to it. Black leather molded to his body, helmet dangling from one hand as he talked to Jake. When he laughed—head thrown back, genuinely amused—something cracked inside my chest.
"Ready?" The starter raised his flag.
Ajax pulled on his helmet, body coiling with predatory focus.
The flag dropped and bikes exploded forward, screaming into the night.
Ajax led from the start, his body moving with the machine like they shared a consciousness. Every turn was poetry, every acceleration a declaration of defiance against mortality itself.
"Holy shit," Camila breathed. "He's actually… incredible."
He really was.
This wasn't the cruel boy from parties or the reluctant dance partner. This was Ajax stripped to his essence—fearless, skilled, magnificently alive.
The crowd erupted as he crossed the finish line, full seconds ahead of the others. He pulled off his helmet, hair wild and irritatingly beautiful face flushed with victory.
Then he saw me.
His triumphant grin faltered. Something raw and vulnerable replaced it, there and gone before I could name it.
Jake pounded his back, someone shoved cash into his hands, Laila appeared from nowhere to claim her position on his arm. But his eyes never left mine.
"Should we go now?” Camila whispered.
"No, not yet."
The word was for her, but the refusal was for me. For the reckless hope that he’d come to me, right now.
Ajax disentangled himself from his admirers, moving through the crowd with singular purpose.
Toward us. Toward me.
And in that split second, I admitted the ugliest truth: a part of me still belonged to the boy who used to make my heart race.