Chapter 1 The Passenger Seat

Lilly Moore didn't do the whole losing control vibe. For her, having a grip on things was basically her personality. It was the color-coded tabs in her planner, how she kept her sourdough starter alive, and that rhythmic breathing she practiced to keep her heart rate under 70 while giving Student Council speeches. Being in control felt like being safe.

But when the locks on Tristan's Audi snapped shut with that heavy thud, Lilly felt that architecture start to crumble.

"Tristan, I need to go home," she said. Her voice was steady, even though she felt a prickle of heat crawling up her neck. "My dad is waiting for dinner."

Tristan didn't even look at her. He hadn't even put the car in gear yet. He just sat there, hands tight on the leather wheel and his jaw locked. In the fading light of the school parking lot, he looked exactly like he did on the recruitment posters. Athletic, golden, perfect.

"We aren't done talking, Lilly," he said, and his voice was way too quiet.

"I am, though. I told you I'm not going to the lake house this weekend. I have to grind for the AP Gov midterms."

Tristan finally turned. His eyes, usually bright, were dark and fixed on her with a weight that made it hard to breathe. "It is always something else with you. A test, a meeting, some chore. You are always looking for an excuse to be somewhere I am not."

"That isn't true."

"Then stay." He reached out, his fingers brushing the butterfly tattoos on her collarbone, the ones she got with Maya. Usually, his touch was an anchor. Today, it felt like a tether. "Stay in the car. Just five minutes."

"Tristan, open the door."

He didn't. Instead, he grabbed his phone from the center console. "You know, you have been acting really erratic lately, Lilly. Ever since you started having these... episodes."

Lilly's lungs just seized up. Episodes. That was his word for her panic attacks. The secret only he, her dad, and Maya knew about.

"Don't," she whispered.

"I am just worried about you," he said. His voice dropped into that smooth, reasonable tone that always made her feel like she was the one standing on a tilted floor. "I think you might be a danger to yourself. Maybe even to me."

He tapped a button on his phone. A little red light started blinking. He was recording.

"What are you doing? Stop it." Lilly reached for the handle again, yanking it. Still locked. "Tristan, open this door right now!"

"See?" Tristan said to the camera. He looked like a mask of calm concern while his arm blocked her path. "You are getting aggressive again. I am just trying to talk to you, and you are hitting the windows."

"I am not hitting the windows! I'm trying to leave!"

Panic, cold and sharp, hit her chest. The car felt tiny. The air felt thin. She needed to get out, like, now. She lunged across the console, not to hit him, but to grab the phone and stop the lie he was filming.

Tristan caught her wrists, twisting them just enough to shove her back into the leather seat. The camera caught everything. Lilly's hair was a mess, her face twisted in a scream of pure frustration, her hands clawing at his arms to get away.

To anyone watching that silent video, it looked like a girl losing her mind. It looked like an assault.

"Let me out!" she shrieked, her fist thudding against the reinforced glass. "LET ME OUT!" With a slow, deliberate move, Tristan reached over and pulled the manual release. The door swung open.

Lilly tumbled out onto the asphalt. Her knees hit the ground hard enough to tear her leggings. She didn't look back or wait for him to call her. She just ran, her lungs burning and her vision blurring as the first wave of a massive panic attack started to crash over her. She scrambled toward the back of the gym, toward the smell of exhaust and the sound of a low-idling engine. She hit the side of a black Dodge Challenger, her hands leaving streaks on the wax. She collapsed against the rear fender, sliding down until she hit the pavement, head between her knees, gasping for air that just wouldn't come.

"Hey." The voice was low, rough, and totally unimpressed.

Lilly looked up through the haze of her own terror. Standing a few feet away, leaning against the open trunk with a gym bag over his shoulder, was Mason Cruz. His black hair was damp with sweat, and his shaggy bangs were clinging to the faint, jagged scar across his right eyebrow. He wasn't moving toward her, but he wasn't looking away either. He just watched her with those light brown eyes, steady and silent. "You're getting handprints on the paint," he said. Lilly tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken sob. She looked back toward the parking lot, expecting Tristan's Audi to round the corner any second.

Mason followed her gaze, then looked back down at her. He saw the torn leggings, the scraped knees, and how her entire body was vibrating with shakes she couldn't stop. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't ask what happened. Mason reached into the trunk, pulled out an unopened bottle of water, and tossed it. It landed in the space between them, exactly two feet away from her.

"Drink," he said. "Then get up. You're blocking my tires."

Lilly stared at the bottle, then at him. In the middle of the worst moment of her life, Mason Cruz was the only person who wasn't trying to touch her. And for the first time in an hour, Lilly Moore felt like she could breathe.