The commotion that follows is a blur. I'm vaguely aware of Nico grabbing my hand, pulling me into the car as I scream for one of the several onlookers to call an ambulance. Breath held, I glance in the rearview at the guy's lifeless body, willing him to get up. Get up, get up, get up.

Nico starts the engine. My throat tightens, and just when I think we're about to go down for murder, Meathead stumbles to his feet.

He's alive.

"Are you all right?"

Nico's voice comes rough and low in the silence. I don't look at him, but I can hear the regret reverberating in his voice, a small but fleeting comfort. I nod, still not trusting my voice.

He reverses into the road without another word. My eyes trace the passing streetlights and buildings, barely taking them in. I feel numb. Worse than numb.

Guilty.

Coach tried to warn me, but I hadn't understood. Your fists are a weapon, he'd said. The second you use them outside the ring, you're no longer a boxer but a criminal. Even though Nico delivered the blow, I'm just as responsible; his blood is on my hands too.

I still haven't looked at him. I'm scared, I realize, and not because I saw what he's capable of, but because, in that moment, I saw what I was.

When I can't take it anymore, I risk a look over, his knuckles still raw and red from the fight. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, and his jaw is clenched tight. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking right now, if he's regretting what happened, or if he's still lost in the adrenaline rush of the fight; I pray it's the former.

The car lurches forward as he shifts gears, and I'm brought back to the present. We're getting closer to the gym now, allowing me to relax. It's funny how things change: two hours ago, I was grateful for the chance to escape the gym.

Now I can't wait to return.

The streetlights blur past us as we pull up outside. I step out of the car, my legs feeling shaky, and silently follow him upstairs. I want to say something, but for the first time in Cassie history, I'm at a loss for words.

We reach the top floor, the door creaking open, shattering the stillness. The air is cool and musty, with only light from a few flickering bulbs ahead. I'm still as a statue, cold in his stony presence.

"Come on," I say without looking at him. "I'll check your hand."

"I'm fine."

I set off toward the medical room before he can argue, throwing open the cupboards. The sterile smell of the supplies is a small comfort, grounding me in the present moment. I take some gauze, disinfectant, and tape and line them on the medical tray.

The door opens, and I hear Nico slump into the armchair behind me. I turn around, taking in his tense, rigid body. A slight shadow resides beneath his eye where Meathead got a hit in, but that's the only one. The rest of his skin is clear and unblemished – everywhere except his knuckles.

I sit opposite, spending a few moments preparing the equipment, but really I'm just scared to look at him, to learn just how angry he is because, let's face it, this is my fault.

Finally, I look over. Nico's eyes are fixed on the tray beside me, dark and unreadable. With a shaking breath, I take his hand, examining his knuckles. They're the same cuts I've tended to hundreds of times on myself, but something about this feels different.

He winces as I start to clean his wounds, the disinfectant stinging as it comes into contact with his skin. I try to work as gently as possible, but now and then, he flinches.

The silence is still pervasive, but his breathing relaxes me a little. I work methodically, focusing on his hand. It's a familiar routine, reminding me of the night he'd done the same for me.

I get it now. I don't know why it took me so long, but I do. Nico didn't avoid fighting because he was afraid of that guy; he was scared of himself.

I'm afraid too.

I let a few moments pass, gathering the courage to speak. "I'm sorry," I say. "This was all my fault." As I say it, it feels as if my heart might catapult right from my chest. I focus on cleaning his knuckles, not used to feeling this vulnerable around someone – not used to feeling vulnerable, period.

"The only person responsible for my actions is me." His eyes harden, focusing on something behind me. "I slipped up tonight."

I put down the gauze. He's mad, I can hear it in his voice, and I hate it. "I should have listened to you," I say. "I should have got back in the car, but I didn't. I just–" my jaw clenches when I think of what he said, "–I couldn't listen to him speaking to us like that."

It's as if a switch flips, and his demeanor changes. He scoops up the gauze, rising to his feet before throwing it in the trash. "You know, I used to be like you," he says, and when he turns around, his eyes are black. "Angry all the time, always out to prove something. Then one night, I was out with some friends when this guy said something I didn't like."

I let a moment of silence pass, feeling my chest clench. "What happened?"

"One hit–" he mimics a clean right hook, "–and he went down. Never got back up."

The coldest shiver spreads through me. I stand up, legs shaking, and force myself to say, "You killed him?"

"No," he says, his voice barely audible, "but I thought I did. My friend told me to run, and for three nights, I tossed and turned, thinking I'd killed this kid, that any second, the cops would show up and take me to jail. I later found out that the kid survived but suffered some pretty bad memory loss."

My chest compresses as I stare at the trashcan, overflowing with bloodied gauze. I can't imagine striking someone so hard they lose their memory, but at the same time, I can, and that's what scares me the most. "Were you arrested?"

He shakes his head. "The kid couldn't remember. I went to the hospital and told him everything, said he should press charges, but he wouldn't. I got lucky, and so did he. Doctor said half a centimeter to the left, and he'd be dead."

I'm quiet for a few moments as I study his face. It's something you don't think about in the moment, but now all I can think of is the night I'd punched Danny and how lucky we both were. "What did he say to you?" I ask. "Before the fight, I mean."

"Doesn't matter."

"I just want to know."

"Why? So you can decide in your head whether or not I was justified?" He moves toward me, tall and intimidating. "Let me save you some trouble. It's never justified, Cassie. Not even a little bit."

My throat tightens. I stare at him, knowing he's right but somehow not being able to stomach it. The Daisys and Codys of the world are regularly picked on by these kinds of people, and sometimes the only way to stop them is to make them.

"You fight when you have to," he says, reading my mind. "When you're backed into a corner, and there's no way out. You don't fight because you got your feelings hurt."

He's right, and I know it, but maybe that's the thing about pride; it convinces you that you're backed into a corner even when you're not.

"My whole life," I say, "people have told me to be the bigger person, but you know what? Being the bigger person never changes anything. Bullies don't respect you because you walked away. If anything, they target you more."

Tears press my eyes, and I hate it. I don't know why I'm crying; I just know that the idea of doing it in front of Nico terrifies me. I look away, trying to blink them back before they fall, but one escapes anyway.

Slowly, as if I might flinch, Nico reaches out, grazing his thumb across my cheek. I look up slowly, surprised to find his gaze on mine, fierce and protective. "You can't control how people behave. The only thing you can control is you."

In the silence that follows, something electric passes between us. I lean closer, acutely aware that another inch forward, we'd be kissing. And maybe it's ill-timed, but of all the things I need right now, kissing him feels the most pertinent. I lift my chin, certain he's seconds from pulling me closer, but he doesn't.

Won't.

The sting of rejection feels all too familiar. Nico stares back at me, jaw wound tight like he's fighting for control, and somehow, I know.

It's over.

"Right," I say because I don't need to be a body-sign expert to pick up on the signs he's giving off. "I guess I'll see you around."

It feels like a breakup, which is ridiculous because we were never together. We were never anything, so why do I feel like I'm suffocating? I turn to leave, fighting the lump of emotion in my throat; if I cry, I will hate myself.

I barely walk two steps when his hand catches mine, spinning me back into him. My heart stutters, and I raise my gaze as he looks down at me, his eyes dark and deliberate. "You're reckless," he says, his voice dangerously low, "and when I'm around you, I'm reckless too."

"You don't have to explain – I get it." I start to turn, but he only pulls me closer.

"Do you?" His nose grazes mine, his mouth so close that I feel the warm, rough rhythm of his breath. "Because I've spent the last three years fighting for control, and you came along and undid it."

The last drop of air leaves my lungs. He says it like it's a bad thing, and deep down, it is, but right now, I don't care. All I can think about is how close we're standing, how hot his breath feels, tickling my skin.

How much I want to kiss him.

I pull him closer by the front of his t-shirt, desperate to close this space between us, and this time, he doesn't resist. He wraps his hand around the back of my head, drawing me closer. My breath quickens, and just when I think I'll combust, he does it.

He kisses me.

A/N

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