Chapter Five

For the next three days, the apartment was a tactical zone. Jax and I were like two ships passing in a very narrow, very tense harbor. He followed my rules—mostly. The burger wrappers were gone, but he replaced them with a lingering silence that felt heavier than his insults ever did. Every morning, I woke up early to avoid the bathroom rush, but I’d always find a fresh pot of coffee waiting. He never said he made it for me, and I never thanked him. We just lived in the spaces between the clink of my crutches and the slam of his bedroom door.

The silence broke on Thursday morning. I was sitting at the small dining table, nursing the coffee he’d left behind, when I opened a delayed email from the financial aid office. My heart plummeted. The "Excellence in Analytics" scholarship—the only reason I could afford to stay in this city—wasn't guaranteed for the full year. It was contingent on holding the top rank in Advanced Macroeconomics by the mid-semester mark. One person. One scholarship.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Williams."

Jax was leaning against the kitchen archway, dressed in a sharp black suit jacket and jeans. He looked effortlessly powerful, a stark contrast to my oversized sweater and the heavy leg brace peeking out from my leggings.

"The scholarship," I whispered, more to myself than him. "It's performance-based. I have to be number one."

A slow, predatory smirk spread across his face. He walked over, his footsteps silent on the hardwood, and leaned his palms on the table, invading my space. "I wondered when you'd figure that out. You didn't think New York gave out free rides for effort, did you?"

By the time I reached the college, the air at the Institute was thick. Dr. Sterling had posted the preliminary rankings for the Chancellor’s Internship on the digital bulletin board. I stood in the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs.

1. Dias, Jax – 98.4%

2. Williams, Grace – 98.2%

The numbers felt like a death sentence. Behind me, the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall swung open, and the usual crowd poured out. I tried to pull myself together, but my hands were clamped tight on my crutches.

"Still staring at the scoreboard, Grace? It’s not going to change just because you’re pouting."

I didn't need to turn around to know it was Liam. He and his group of "golden boys" surrounded me, forming a loose circle that felt like a cage.

"Leave it alone, Liam," I said, trying to move past them.

"Why so sensitive?" Liam laughed, stepping into my path. He looked at the board, then at my crutches. "The gap is small, sure. But look at the physical gap. Jax is built for the marathon. You? You're struggling to make it to the elevator. How are you going to keep up when the workload doubles next week? You’re going to crumble, and that scholarship is going to slip right through your fingers."

"She’s probably hoping for a sympathy curve," another guy, Marcus, added with a sneer. "Maybe if she falls down in front of Dr. Sterling, she'll get some pity points."

"Hey! Back off!"

Taylor appeared from around the corner, his face flushed with anger. He stepped between me and Liam, his boyish face set in a rare expression of defiance. "You guys have nothing better to do than harass someone who’s actually a threat to your grades?"

Liam looked Taylor up and down with pure disdain. "Oh look, the architect is here to build her a pedestal. Careful, Taylor, you might trip over her ego—or her legs."

The group burst into laughter. I felt the hot sting of tears in my eyes and blinked them back furiously. I hated that Taylor had to see this. I hated that I felt so small. Jax walked out of the hall last. He stopped at the edge of the circle, watching the scene with that terrifyingly nonchalant expression. He didn't say a word to stop them. He just watched.

"Jax, tell your dogs to move," I said, my voice cracking.

Jax looked at Liam, then at me. "They’re not mine to control, Grace. They’re just stating facts. New York is a meritocracy. If you can't handle the heat in the hallway, you definitely won't handle the internship."

"You're a jerk, Jax," Taylor spat, putting an arm protectively around my shoulder. "Let's go, Grace. You don't need to listen to this."

As Taylor led me away, I looked back over my shoulder. Jax was still standing there, his eyes fixed on me.

"Don't look back, Grace," Taylor whispered. "They aren't worth it."

But I did look back. And as I did, Jax mouthed four words that chilled me to the bone: “I warned you, Eggplant.”

The war was no longer quiet. It was out in the open, and I was losing. I needed to find a way to beat him, not just for the money, but to prove that I wasn't the "broken doll" he wanted me to be.

**

The rest of the day was a blur of frustration. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that 0.2% gap. I saw the way Liam and the others laughed. But mostly, I saw Jax’s face—that cold, calculating mask that seemed to hide a thousand secrets. I returned to the apartment late, having spent hours in the library until my brain felt like mush. The lights were on. Jax was at the table, surrounded by three different textbooks and a complex financial model on his screen.

He didn't look up when I entered. "Taylor drop you off? Or did you have to hitch a ride on his bike?"

"Shut up, Jax," I said, dropping my bag on the sofa with a heavy thud. "I’m not in the mood."

"The truth is rarely a mood-lifter," he said, finally closing his laptop. He turned in his chair, his eyes trailing down to my leg. "You’re limping worse than usual. Did the 'warrior-chic' look take a hit today?"

He turned in his chair, his eyes trailing down to my leg, a look of calculation replacing his earlier smugness. "And Taylor? He’s just another distraction you can’t afford if you’re actually planning to close that 0.2% gap."

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, but this time it wasn't from embarrassment. It was pure, unadulterated defiance. "You have no right to ask about where I go or who I’m with, Jax. My whereabouts—and Taylor—are none of your business." I stepped closer, leaning over the table and the complex financial models he’d been staring at. "Maybe you should focus on your own studies instead of playing investigator. Because next time? Next time, it’s going to be me on top."

Jax didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, that familiar, irritating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Is that so, Eggplant?"

"I won't leave any stone unturned," I continued, my voice steady despite the thrumming of my heart. "That gap is nothing. I’m going to bridge it, and then I’m going to score so far ahead of you that you’ll be the one hitching a ride on someone’s bike just to keep up."

He let out a short, dry laugh that lacked its usual bite. "I'd like to see you try. But remember, Grace—determination doesn't change the facts. And the fact is, I'm already ten steps ahead while you're still finding your footing."

"Watch me," I snapped, turning my back on him and heading toward my room. The war was no longer quiet; it was out in the open, and for the first time, I felt like I finally had the ammunition to fight back.

I slammed the door to my room, the click of the lock providing a small, momentary sense of sanctuary. My room was the only place in this apartment that didn't feel like a battlefield. It was a chaotic blend of my past and my desperate attempt at a future. On the far wall, my old pointe shoes hung by their ribbons—faded, battered, and silenced. They were a reminder of the Grace Williams who could fly, a stark contrast to the girl who now had to carefully calculate every step. My desk was a fortress of textbooks and highlighted research papers, dominated by a laptop plastered with motivational stickers that felt increasingly like lies. A small, ceramic elephant—a gift from Taylor—sat on my bedside table, its trunk raised for luck. I needed all of it I could get.

I threw myself onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Jax Dias. He was a paradox I couldn't solve. He was the only person who didn't look at my limp with pity, yet he used his lack of sympathy like a weapon. He treated me like a rival, not a victim, which was both liberating and infuriating. He was brilliant, cold, and possessed an uncanny ability to find the exact nerve to press. He thought that 0.2% gap was a permanent boundary. He thought he could gatekeep my life, my friends, and my progress. He was a jerk, a strategist, and currently, the biggest obstacle to my sanity.

The scent of garlic and searing protein began to drift under the door. My stomach betrayed me with a loud growl. I was a terrible cook—the kind who could burn water if I wasn't careful—and my "pantry" consisted mostly of instant noodles and protein bars. I waited until I heard the clink of silverware before venturing out, intent on just grabbing a bottle of water and retreating. Jax was at the small dining table, two plates set out. He’d made lemon-herb chicken and roasted asparagus. It looked—and smelled—infuriatingly perfect.

"Sit down, Grace. It’s getting cold," he said without looking up, his voice calm as if our shouting match an hour ago hadn't happened.

"I’m not hungry," I lied, my eyes fixed on the refrigerator.

"Your stomach just disputed that claim from across the room," he countered, finally looking at me with that analytical gaze. "Eat. You can’t bridge any gaps on an empty brain."

"I don't want anything made by you," I snapped, grabbing a lukewarm granola bar from the counter and holding it up like a trophy. "I’d rather eat cardboard than take anything from someone who thinks they can manage my life."

Jax leaned back, a flicker of something—amusement? annoyance?—crossing his face. "Fine. Starve for your principles if you want. But don't come crying to me when your blood sugar drops during your late-night 'stone-turning' session."

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. I grabbed my water, turned on my heel, and marched back to my room, the dry granola bar tasting like dust, but my pride feeling momentarily full.

The silence of the apartment was shattered by a sound that made my blood run cold. It wasn't the sharp, rhythmic ticking of the clock or the hum of the city outside. It was a scream—raw, jagged, and filled with a kind of agony I hadn't heard since my own world fell apart. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. For a second, I thought I was back in the hospital, back in that moment where the music stopped and the pain began. But the scream came again, muffled by the wall between our rooms. Jax.

Ignoring the familiar ache in my leg, I stumbled out of bed and limped toward his door. My hand trembled as I turned the handle. I expected to see an intruder, or some physical danger, but the sight that met me was far more unsettling. Jax was tangled in his sheets, his body rigid. The moonlight filtering through the blinds cast harsh, skeletal shadows across his face, which was twisted in a mask of pure distress. He wasn't awake. His eyes were clamped shut, his head thrashing against the pillow as a low, guttural moan escaped his throat.

"Jax?" I whispered, my voice caught in my throat.

He didn't hear me. He was somewhere else—somewhere dark. Seeing him like this, stripped of his cold arrogance and his 0.2% superiority, made him look inexplicably fragile. This was the boy who called me "Eggplant" and mocked my hitching rides, now reduced to a shivering heap by his own mind.

"Jax, wake up!" I said louder, taking a hesitant step toward the bed.

He let out another choked cry, his fingers clawing at the mattress. The "war" we had been fighting earlier that evening felt suddenly pathetic. In the quiet of the night, the gap between us wasn't measured in grades or snide remarks; it was measured in the visible weight of the secrets he tried so hard to hide behind his financial models and his sharp tongue. I reached out, my hand hovering over his shoulder, debating whether to pull him back to the surface or let the nightmare run its course. For the first time, I realized that I wasn't the only one in this apartment haunted by a past that refused to stay buried.

I couldn't stand to watch him suffer like that. The cold, untouchable Jax Dias was crumbling in front of me, and the sight was more terrifying than any of his insults.

"Jax! Wake up!" I shouted, reaching out and grabbing his shoulders. I shook him, my fingers digging into the firm muscle of his arms.

He let out one final, strangled gasp before his eyes snapped open. For a heartbeat, he didn't see me; he was still trapped in whatever hell his mind had created. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he fought for air. Then, his gaze cleared and landed on me, standing by his bed in the dim moonlight.

"Grace?" he croaked, his voice thick and unrecognizable.

"It was just a dream," I said softly, my hand still resting on his shoulder. "You were screaming."

He stared at me, his dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a raw, desperate hunger for something real—something to tether him back to the present. Before I could pull away, his hand shot out, his fingers locking around my wrist with surprising strength.

"Don't," he whispered.

With a sudden, forceful tug, he pulled me toward him. I was caught off balance, my weak leg giving way as I stumbled forward. I braced for a hard fall, but instead, I landed on the mattress beside him. Before I could scramble up, his arm wound around my waist, pinning me to the bed and pulling me flush against his side.

"Jax, what are you doing?" I gasped, my heart racing for an entirely different reason now.

He didn't answer. He simply buried his face in the crook of my neck, his forehead hot against my skin. I could feel the frantic thud of his heart against my ribs, mirroring my own. He wasn't the jerk who mocked my walk or the rival who obsessed over a 0.2% gap. In this moment, he was just a boy trying to drown out the echoes of a nightmare, and he was using me as his lifeline. I stayed frozen, my hand hovering near his head, unsure whether to push him away or offer the comfort he clearly needed. The silence of the room felt heavy, charged with the sudden, jarring shift in our war. He had spent weeks trying to stay ten steps ahead of me, but right now, we were both exactly in the same place—shaken, haunted, and clinging to the only other person who understood what it felt like to be broken.

The minutes ticked by, stretching into an hour, and the rigid tension in Jax’s frame slowly bled away. His grip, however, didn’t loosen. His arm remained a heavy, warm weight across my waist, pinning me to his side as if his subconscious was terrified I’d vanish the moment he let go. I lay there, staring at the shadows of the blinds dancing on the ceiling. Every time I tried to shift, to find a way to slide out from under him without waking him, his fingers would twitch, tightening against my shirt. He was sound asleep now, his breathing deep and rhythmic against the back of my neck, but his body was still on guard.

I knew that by morning, the walls would be back up. The cold, calculating Jax Dias would return, likely horrified or incensed that he’d shown such vulnerability. He would probably have a dozen sharp insults lined up to distance himself from this moment. He’d regret the pull, the hold, and the proximity. He might even blame me for being there. But as I lay trapped in his hold, the "war" between us felt a world away. I thought about the 0.2% gap and the way he looked at my leg, and then I thought about my own nights—the ones spent gasping for air in the dark, reaching out for a hand that was never there. I knew the hollow ache of waking up from a nightmare only to find the silence of the room even more terrifying than the dream itself.

I had spent years wishing someone would just stay. Not to fix it, not to pity me, but just to be a witness to the fact that I wasn't alone in the dark. Jax was a jerk. He was my rival. He was the person I wanted to beat more than anyone else in the world. But in the quiet of this room, he was just a person drowning in a past he couldn't highlight or model away. I stopped trying to escape. Instead, I let my head sink back into the pillow, exhaling a long, shaky breath. If he wanted to say all the wrong things tomorrow, let him. If he wanted to pretend this never happened, I’d let him do that, too. But for tonight, I wouldn't leave him to face the echoes alone. I closed my eyes, letting the steady beat of his heart ground me, and for the first time since I moved into this apartment, the silence didn't feel quite so heavy.

The next morning, the sun bled through the blinds, sharp and unforgiving. I woke up to an empty bed. The heavy, protective weight of Jax’s arm was gone, replaced by a lingering chill on the sheets. My leg felt stiff from the awkward position I’d stayed in all night, a physical price paid for a temporary truce. I limped into the kitchen, my heart doing a nervous dance in my chest. I expected... something. A look of acknowledgment? A softened gaze?

Instead, I found Jax sitting at the small dining table, his back perfectly straight. He was already dressed in a crisp, white button-down, his laptop open and his fingers flying across the keys with clinical precision. A cup of black coffee sat beside him, steam rising in a steady, cold line. He looked like the nightmare had never happened—like he hadn't been a broken boy clinging to me just hours ago.

"You’re late," he said, his voice as sharp as a razor. He didn't even look up from the screen. "I assumed you’d have been at the library by now. That 0.2% gap isn’t going to bridge itself while you’re oversleeping."

The words stung, a sudden splash of ice water after the warmth of the night. The wall was back up, higher and thicker than before.

"I’m getting there," I replied, my voice tighter than I intended. I reached for the coffee pot, but my eyes drifted to his hand. It was wrapped around his mug, and despite his calm voice, I saw it—the slight, unmistakable tremor in his fingers.

He caught me looking. His jaw tightened, and he finally looked up, his dark eyes snapping back to their usual icy calculation. "Don't get ideas, Williams. Last night was a lapse in judgment brought on by exhaustion. It doesn't change the facts."

"And what facts are those, Jax?" I asked, leaning against the counter, the granola bar from last night sitting forgotten near my hand.

"The fact that I’m still ten steps ahead," he said, his smirk returning, though it felt forced, a shield he was desperate to hide behind. "And the fact that you still haven't eaten. Take the leftovers from the fridge. You'll need the glucose if you’re planning to fail at outscoring me today."

He was back to being a jerk. He was back to the nicknames and the academic warfare. He was terrified that I’d seen the "broken doll" version of him, so he was overcompensating with his usual arrogance. I looked at the lemon-herb chicken he’d pointed out. I could have thrown his words back at him. I could have mentioned the screaming, the shaking, the way he’d held me like a lifeline. But as I saw him blink rapidly, a flicker of that midnight distress crossing his face before he masked it with a scowl, I decided to let him keep his pride. For now.

"Fine," I said, grabbing the container. "I’ll eat. But don't think a piece of chicken is going to stop me from taking your spot at the top of the list."

"I’m counting on it," he muttered, turning back to his financial models.

The war was back on, but as I sat across from him, eating the food he’d made, I realized the 0.2% wasn't the only thing that had changed. I knew his secrets now, and that gave me a power he wasn't prepared for. I wasn't just his competitor anymore; I was the only person who knew what happened when the lights went out. The following hours were a blur of defensive silence. I focused on my notes, the scratch of my pen the only sound between us until a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. I knew that knock. It was Taylor.

When I opened the door, Taylor didn't even step inside before his eyes landed on Jax, who was still seated at the table. Taylor’s posture stiffened immediately. He hadn’t forgotten their last encounter. "Ready to go, Grace? I thought we could grab some air before the library."

"She’s staying in," Jax’s voice cut in, cold and authoritative, before I could even answer. He didn't look up from his screen. "She has work to do if she wants to stop being a runner-up."

Taylor stepped into the foyer, his jaw set. "She isn’t one of your financial models, Jax. She’s allowed to have a life. Unlike you, some people actually value things outside of a GPA."

Jax finally looked up, but he didn't look at Taylor. He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. "A life? Is that what you call it? Dragging her away every time she’s on the verge of actually making progress?"

"You're a jerk, Jax," Taylor spat, moving to put a protective arm around my shoulder. "Let's go, Grace. You don't need to listen to this."

I felt the familiar urge to let Taylor lead me away, to find the safety he always offered. But as I turned to grab my bag, Jax spoke again, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet level.

"You think he’s your safety net, Grace?" Jax’s gaze was like ice. "He wasn't the one there an hour ago. He isn't the one who hears what happens when the lights go out. He sees the 'broken doll' he needs to protect. I see the person who needs to wake up."

The air in the room vanished. Taylor looked between us, confused and hurt. "What is he talking about, Grace? What happened?"

I couldn't answer. The secret of the night—the screams, the way Jax had held me, the shared brokenness—felt like a physical weight. "Nothing, Taylor. Let's just go."

Taylor looked between us, his brows furrowed in a mix of confusion and rising anger. "What is he talking about, Grace? What happened?"

I couldn't breathe. The secret of the night—the screams, the way Jax had held me, the shared brokenness—felt like it was being stripped naked in front of an audience.

"Taylor," I said, my voice shaking but firm. "Wait for me in the car. Please. Just five minutes."

"Grace, if he’s bothering you—"

"Five minutes, Taylor," I repeated, not taking my eyes off Jax.

Taylor shot Jax one last look of pure loathing before slamming the apartment door behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. Jax didn't move. He sat there with that same impenetrable mask, looking as though he hadn't just used my trauma as a weapon.

"You are a coward," I whispered, the words vibrating with a heat I didn't know I possessed.

Jax let out a short, dry laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm a realist, Grace. I told you—"

"I don't care what you told me!" I snapped, closing the distance between us. I didn't care about my limp or the 0.2% gap. I cared about the fact that I had stayed with him in the dark. "I stood by you last night. I watched you fall apart, and I chose to stay because I know what it feels like to be alone in that hell. I actually thought, for a second, that beneath all that arrogance, there was someone worth knowing. Someone who would keep a moment like that sacred."

I leaned over the table, forcing him to look at me. "But you? You couldn't wait to throw it in my face. You used my vulnerability—something I struggle with every single day—just to score a point against Taylor? To make yourself feel superior?"

Jax’s jaw tightened. "It wasn't about Taylor, Grace. It was about—"

"It was about your ego," I cut him off, my voice dropping to a harsh, cold edge. "But let’s be clear: unlike you, I have a soul. I won't go around telling the world how the great Jax Dias was reduced to a shaking mess, begging for support from a 'crippled, non-existent woman' like me. I won't tell them how you clung to the very person you spend your days mocking."

I saw a flicker of something—actual, genuine pain—cross his face, but I didn't stop.

"You think you’re ten steps ahead because you’re cold? You’re not ahead, Jax. You’re just empty. I’m going to the library, and I’m going to bridge that gap. And when I look back at you, it won't be because I’m afraid of you. It’ll be because I’m disgusted by what you had to do just to try and stay on top."

I grabbed my bag, my knuckles white as I gripped the strap. "Don't ever speak about last night again. To Taylor, to me, or to anyone. You don't deserve the memory of it."

I turned on my heel and walked out, leaving him in the suffocating silence of the apartment we shared but had never felt further apart in.

**

The library was a tomb of hushed whispers and the suffocating scent of old paper, but the real silence was the one I’d carried in with me. I spotted her in the corner, a small island of defiance surrounded by a sea of open textbooks. She looked exhausted. The set of her shoulders was rigid, as if she were bracing for a blow she knew was coming. I didn't have my usual arsenal of books. I didn't need them. My mind was already looping through the same three minutes from earlier—the way she’d looked at me before Taylor took her away. I walked over, the sound of my own footsteps feeling unnervingly loud, and scraped the chair back.

I sat down. I kept my face an impenetrable mask, the only weapon I had left after she’d dismantled my ego in the apartment. The tension between us was a physical thing, thick and heavy, radiating outward until even the students at the next table shifted uncomfortably, sensing the heat of a war they didn't understand.

She tried to ignore me. I watched her hand—the fingers that had brushed my shoulder in the dark—trembling as she gripped a highlighter. She was pushing too hard. When the neon yellow ink slipped, streaking across the page in a jagged, ruined line, I felt a sharp pull in my chest that had nothing to do with mathematics.

"You're overthinking the derivative," I said. My voice was raspy, stripped of its usual rehearsed coldness.

She looked up, her eyes flashing with a retort that died before it could reach her lips. I knew what she saw—not the smug rival, but the shadows under my eyes that I couldn't highlight away. I wasn't smirking. I couldn't. I was too busy watching that tremor in her hand, the physical manifestation of the noise I’d put in her head.

"I don't need your help, Jax," she whispered, her voice a fierce, jagged thing. "I'm bridging the gap, remember? Without any stones left unturned."

"Then stop focusing on the mistake and look at the logic," I countered. I leaned forward, invading her space because it was the only way to make her see. My face was inches from hers, and for a heartbeat, the library, the students, and the 0.2% ceased to exist. All I could see were the faint reflections of my own ghosts in her pupils. "You’re so busy trying to prove me wrong that you’re forgetting how to be right."

I reached out and took the pen. I corrected the formula with a few neat strokes, the logic flowing onto the page where her frustration had stalled.

"Don't let the noise in your head trip you up, Eggplant," I said. I tried to find the bite, the sharp edge that usually defined that nickname, but my voice came out hollow, almost soft. "The gap is only there because you keep looking back at it."

I didn't wait for her to thank me. I didn't wait for her to scream at me. I stood up and walked away, disappearing into the stacks where the shadows were deeper. I had given her the answer, but as I moved away, I realized I was the one still looking back. I was the one who had pushed her to the edge, but God help me, I was the only one who knew exactly how to catch her.