Dylan's Point of View**
I woke up with a pain that felt stitched into my bones.
The kind that wasn't just physical, but emotional—deep, grinding, carrying too many memories from the night before. The fight, the crowd, the cameras, Derrick's face under my knuckles, the taste of betrayal, and then—
Ava.
Her lips. Her trembling breath. Her fingers curled in my shirt as if she didn't want to let go.
I pressed a hand against my forehead as a dull throb pulsed behind my temples.
Guilt and longing—an exhausting mix.
Dragging myself out of bed felt like crawling out of wreckage. I managed to reach the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water over my face.
It helped a little.
Not enough.
Nothing short of a time machine could fix last night.
I grabbed a robe and threw it on over my pajamas, padding slowly down the hallway. My feet felt heavy. My head, heavier.
Halfway down the stairs, a memory flickered.
Ava's family stayed the night.
Right.
My stomach tensed.
