Becker's POV...

"Where is she? Where's Greya?" I call out to Ari, who's already walking toward the parking lot.

I was such an asshole today. I need to apologize.
She stayed through the entire game , for me. She saw me angry, benched, falling apart, and still came over just to say the one thing I needed to hear.

She stayed for me.

Even after I stormed out on her earlier.

I was scared — still am. She told me she loved every part of me, and I couldn't believe her. Love has always meant pain in my world. My mother showed her love by leaving; Jack shows his by breaking me down. So how could I believe Greya meant what she said?

But she stayed. While everyone else watched me crumble, she stayed.

Maybe she does feel for me. Maybe I owe it to her — to us — to try harder.

"Ari!" I finally catch up to her near her car.

"Greya went home," she says before I can even ask again. "Chase is having some issues and she needed to get back."

My chest tightens. "Is he okay? What happened?"

"He's fine," Ari assures me. "He's just been having trouble sleeping. She's taking him to the doctor tomorrow. Don't expect her at school."

"Should I go over? Maybe she needs help."

"That's not a good idea," Ari says, her tone clipped. "If Chase is sleeping and you wake him, it'll be a nightmare."

She crosses her arms, giving me a look that says I know what you did.

"Look, Becker," she continues. "Whatever happened between you two obviously messed with your heads. I'm glad she got through to you during the game, but right now she needs people who'll take care of her, not complicate things. If you care about her, give her space tonight. After Chase's appointment, then you can talk."

I nod silently, watching her get into her car and drive away. Then I get into mine and start the slow, quiet drive home. No music — just the sound of my thoughts beating against the silence.

As much as I want to see her, Ari's right. If Chase isn't sleeping, that means Greya isn't either. She's been taking care of everyone for so long that she's forgotten she needs care too. I want to be that person for her — the one she can lean on for once.

When I get home, the house is dark. Jack isn't here. Alec texted earlier saying he's spending the night at Hayden's.

For a moment, I almost relax. But silence in this house never lasts long.

I shower, hoping it'll help, but the heat just sharpens my thoughts. Greya's face won't leave my mind — the way she looked at me when she said she loved everything about me. I didn't deserve that look. I don't deserve her.

When I step out, towel around my waist, I slip in my AirPods and start down the hall — but before I reach my room, a large hand clamps around my wrist and twists my arm up behind my back.

White-hot pain explodes through my shoulder.

Jack.

He slams my face into the wall, his breath thick with alcohol. My towel barely clings to me, and I can taste blood and whiskey in the air.

"What did you take from my desk?" he growls. "Papers are missing."

"I didn't take anything! I was just cleaning!" My voice cracks under the pressure on my arm.

He twists harder. I scream. Something pops in my shoulder.

He yanks my head back by the hair and smashes it into the wall again.

The next thing I know, I'm on my knees. My ears ring. The door slams. He's gone.

I can't move my left arm — it just hangs there. My vision spins. It's dislocated.

I somehow stumble to my room, half-dressed and shaking. Getting a shirt on feels impossible. I manage to pull it over my head before collapsing on the bed. I need help.

Declan's out. Alec's with him. Cohen's at dinner.

Greya.

I shouldn't, but I text her anyway.

Me: Hi, Love. I hope I'm not waking you?

Greya: Hi. No. I'm awake. Don't think I'll be sleeping anytime soon.

Of course she isn't. She never rests when Chase doesn't.

Me: Is Chase asleep?

Greya: Not really. Hopefully the doctor can help tomorrow.

Me: I hope so too.

Me: I know I shouldn't ask this after... today. But would it be okay if I came over?

The typing dots appear, disappear, then return. My chest tightens.

Greya: Of course. Come on over. I'll leave the door unlocked in case Chase falls asleep.

Relief hits me — followed by pain so sharp I nearly drop my phone. I swallow four Advil with water and force myself to the car. I shouldn't drive, but I can't stay here.

By the time I reach her house, I'm drenched in sweat, trembling. My vision blurs as I stumble through her front door.

"Oh my God — Becker! You're soaked and bleeding!"

Her voice is panicked, but gentle. She rushes over, helping me to the couch. I hadn't even realized I was bleeding.

All I want is to feel her arms around me — to remind me that there's something in this world that doesn't hurt.

"I'm sorry," I choke out.

She blinks. "For what?"

"For how I acted in the music room."

"It was my fault too. I shouldn't have said what I said," she murmurs, heading for the kitchen to grab supplies.

My stomach drops. She regrets it.

I try to stand, but she presses me gently back down. "Where do you think you're going? You're hurt."

"I shouldn't have come," I mutter, trying again. My legs give out.

She sighs and places a cool cloth against my neck, watching me carefully. I don't flinch. Her touch feels like oxygen.

"In the music room..." she begins softly, "I meant every word."

My throat tightens. I rub my forehead with my good hand, fighting to keep it together.

"So it wasn't your fault," she whispers. "Maybe I just rushed you. Maybe you weren't ready."

I grimace from the movement, and she seems to understand that we should fix my shoulder before talking more.

"I need to see how bad it is," she says gently.

I nod.

She lifts my shirt, careful and slow, and the movement still sends fire through my arm. Her eyes water. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I know you don't, Love."

She hesitates. "This is going to hurt. A Lot. I don't want to be the one to cause it."

I reach up, brushing a tear from her cheek. "You're not causing pain. You're fixing it."

Her lip trembles.

"Please," I whisper. "Help me before I pass out."

"Okay," she breathes.

She grips my arm — one hand under my bicep, the other below my elbow — and in one swift motion, lifts, rotates, and snaps it back into place.

The pain is blinding. But it's fast. And when it's done, I can breathe again.

She's crying now — real, shaking sobs. She bolts for the bathroom.

I stumble after her, shoulder throbbing but steady. She's at the sink, wiping her face.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be. Look—" I rotate my arm slightly. "It's sore, but you fixed it, Grey."

"I hate that Jack does this to you," she cries. "I didn't want to hurt you too."

I pull her close, her face pressed to my chest. "You didn't. You saved me."

She looks up, cupping my face in her hands. Her thumbs brush over my skin, soft and certain.

"I want you to come to me. Always. Anytime, for any reason. If I could, I'd keep you here — away from him."

Her words break something open inside me. I lean down and kiss her.

If this is what love is — terrifying, fragile, and real — then I'll risk everything for it.