The Jet's Betrayal - Kevin Knight
Kevin Knight x OC
Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Language
A/N: I only own the OC and the idea
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Backstage at AEW Dynamite was always hectic, but tonight was something else. The air smelled like hairspray and sweat, the usual cocktail of chaos before a live broadcast. Amid the flurry of stylists and production assistants, Jada Holt moved with practiced ease, as she set up her station for the night. She was one of the best—quick, precise, and somehow always kept her cool, even when wrestlers showed up five minutes before their segment with sweat-drenched hair and half-done gear.
She wasn’t thinking about Kevin Knight. At least, she was trying not to. The image of him climbing to the top rope and UFO splashing Darby Allin while he was laying on a stretcher—his own best friend—still burned behind her eyelids every time she blinked. That wasn’t the Kevin she knew. The Kevin who’d crack dumb jokes while she worked on his hair before matches. Now, he was just "The Jet," draped in the all black, smirking like betrayal was nothing.
The iced coffee appeared in front of Jada like an offering—condensation already beading on the plastic cup, the straw still wrapped in its paper sleeve. She blinked, momentarily pulled from her thoughts as her colleague Hannah slid it across the counter with a knowing look. "Figured you could use it," Hannah said, tapping the lid twice. "Long night ahead."
Jada wrapped her fingers around the cup, the chill biting into her skin. She didn’t remember ordering this. Then again, she hadn’t eaten since noon, and the caffeine headache was starting to press against her temples like a dull axe. "Who put you up to this?" she asked, half-smiling as she peeled the straw wrapper.
Hannah shrugged. "No one. I know you're a grinch without caffeine."
Jada tore the wrapper off the straw with more force than necessary, the paper snapping between her fingers. The sharp sound made Hannah flinch, but before Jada could apologize, the dressing room door swung open. Kevin Knight stood there—no, The Jet stood there, his new black-and-white hoodie zipped halfway up, the TNT title glinting on his shoulder. And in his hands: two coffees. One steaming, the other iced, condensation running down the sides like it was sweating under the weight of whatever this was supposed to be.
He didn’t wait for an invitation. Kevin just walked in like he still belonged there, like he hadn’t shattered every unspoken rule between them seven days ago in New York. “Figured you’d want yours iced,” he said, holding out the cup like a peace offering. The plastic crinkled under his grip—too tight, like he was afraid she’d refuse to take it.
Jada didn’t move. The air between them crackled, thick with everything unsaid. Behind her, Hannah cleared her throat and slipped out of the room with a mumbled excuse about checking on the next match’s wardrobe. The door clicked shut, sealing them in silence. Kevin’s jaw worked, the muscle flexing beneath the stubble he used to complain about before segments. “You gonna take it or just stare me down?” he tried, forcing a chuckle that landed like a botched suplex.
"I've got one already," Jada said, tapping the cup Hannah had brought her. Her voice came out colder than she intended, but she didn't correct it. Kevin's smile faltered, and for a second, she saw the old him—the one who'd nervously adjust his wrist tape before matches and ask her if his hair looked stupid. Then it was gone, replaced by the smirk he'd been wearing since Double or Nothing. He set the iced coffee on the counter anyway, the plastic cup scraping against the laminate.
"Thought you'd wanna hear it from me," he said, leaning against the edge of her station. The TNT title clinked against the countertop, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "About why I did it."
Jada’s fingers tightened around her own cup. The condensation wet her palm. "No," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "I don’t." Kevin blinked, thrown. She could tell he'd rehearsed this—probably in front of a mirror, the way he used to practice promos.
Kevin exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he was counting breaths to keep from saying something stupid. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the title belt. "You don't even wanna know why I UFO splashed Darby when he was on a stretcher?" His voice was lighter now, teasing almost,
"Nope. You don't have to justify your shitty behaviour to me. Not like I'm your girl, or your friend anymore, right?" Jada turned away, pretending to rearrange her brushes. The bristles clattered against the glass jar louder than necessary. Kevin's fingers stopped tapping. The silence stretched too long, until—
"You always were." His voice dropped, the performative swagger gone. Raw.
Jada froze, her fingers hovering over the brush handles. The words hung between them, weighted and unpolished—nothing like the slick promos he’d been cutting since the turn. She wanted to turn around, to see if his face matched the ache in his voice, but she kept her back to him. “Funny way of showing it,” she muttered, tracing the rim of her coffee cup with her thumb.
Kevin shifted, the leather of his jacket creaking. “You think I wanted this?” He sounded closer now, but she didn’t turn. “You think I woke up last Sunday and decided, ‘Hey, today’s the day I ruin every good thing I’ve got’?” A bitter laugh. “They offered me the world, Jada. The title, the main events, the—”
“The Don Callis Family.” Jada whirled, finally facing him. His eyes flickered—guilty, just for a second—before the cool mask slid back into place. “That’s what this is about? You sold out for a paycheck and a creepy old man whispering in your ear? I thought you were better than that.” Her voice cracked on the last word, betraying her.
Kevin’s jaw tightened. He glanced at the door like he expected Don to materialize on cue. “It’s not just about the money,” he said, quieter now. “You know I wanna be world champion. You know what that means.” His hand twitched toward her, then dropped. “Callis gets me there faster.”
Jada snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah, by turning you into every other heel with daddy issues. Congrats, Kevin. You’re generic now.” The barb landed—she saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened—but he recovered fast, flashing that new, practiced smirk.
“Generic champs still get the belt, Jada.” He tapped the title with two fingers, the gold gleaming under the fluorescents. “And the perks.” His gaze slid past her, toward the mirror where she’d done his makeup for three years. Where he used to crack jokes about her terrible taste in music. “You could’ve been part of it,” he added, softer. “Still could.”
"I'll pass," Jada said, picking up the iced coffee Kevin had set down. She held it between them like a barrier, condensation dripping onto the counter between them. Without breaking eye contact, she tilted the cup sideways, letting the caramel-colored liquid spill onto the floor in a slow, deliberate pour. The ice cubes clattered against the tile, skittering toward his boots. "Don't worry. You can afford another one now, right? Got that sweet Callis money burning a hole in your pocket."
Kevin didn’t move. The coffee pooled around his sneakers, creeping toward the toe of his designer kicks—the ones he’d bragged about buying the week before the turn. His jaw twitched, but the smirk stayed glued in place. "Real mature, Holt."
"Learned from the best." Jada crumpled the empty cup in her fist, the plastic crackling like bones. Behind them, the door swung open—too fast, too loud—and Don Callis’s voice slithered into the room before he did.
"Jet. What are you doing here?" Callis's voice was smooth, practiced, the kind of tone that made you feel like you'd already lost the argument before it began. He stepped into the room, hands clasped behind his back, eyes flickering between Jada and Kevin with the calculated disinterest of a chess player surveying a board.
"Just talking to Jada about my hair," Kevin said, too quick, his smirk slipping for half a second as he adjusted the title belt higher on his shoulder. Callis didn't blink. His gaze lingered on Jada's clenched fist, the crumpled cup still in her hand, then slid to the spilled coffee soaking into the tiles. A slow smile curled at the edges of his mouth, the kind that made her skin prickle.
"Jet doesn't need your services anymore, Ms. Holt," Callis said, stepping closer. His suit smelled like expensive cologne and something faintly medicinal. "We have our own team now. Professional standards." He emphasized the word like it was a private joke, glancing at Kevin.
Jada's nails bit into her palms. She'd heard about the "offer"—a backroom whisper from Hannah last week. Callis had wanted her to be exclusive to his faction, doing makeup under his direction. As if she'd ever let him dictate how she worked. "I'm good," she said, tossing the crumpled cup into the trash. It hit the bin with a hollow thud. "I don't do villain makeovers. I think someone's insecure, y'know since you don't have any hair to style."
Callis's smile didn't waver, but his fingers twitched—just once—at his side. Kevin shifted, the title belt clinking against his jacket zipper. "Jada," he started, but Callis cut him off with a raised hand.
"You're emotional," Callis said, tilting his head like she was a misbehaving child. "Understandable. But business is business. Jet's moved on to bigger things." He patted Kevin's shoulder, proprietary. "You should too."
"Oh trust me, he ain't my problem anymore," Jada said, shoving past Callis toward the door. His cologne choked the air between them—something expensive and vaguely reptilian. She caught Kevin's eye as she passed, saw the way his fingers twitched toward her wrist before thinking better of it. That stung more than she'd admit—that he still remembered how to reach for her, but chose not to.
The hallway outside was mercifully empty save for a production assistant wrestling with a tangled mic cord. Jada ducked into the women's restroom, locking herself in a stall before the first hot tear could spill over. She pressed her forehead against the cold metal partition, focusing on the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Three years of friendship—of inside jokes and last-minute touch-ups before title matches—gone in one stupid, selfish decision.
By the time she emerged, her eyeliner was salvaged and her breathing steady. The show was starting in twenty minutes, and she had a job to do. Hannah caught her arm near catering, eyes wide. "You okay?" she whispered, squeezing Jada's wrist. "I saw Callis slither out of your room."
"Peachy," Jada lied, grabbing a protein bar from the snack table. She tore the wrapper with her teeth. "Just another day in paradise."
"You really liked him, huh?" Hannah murmured as they packed up their stations after Dynamite, rolling up cords with more force than necessary. Jada stiffened, her fingers freezing mid-twist around a hair straightener cord. The words hit like a low blow—too close to the truth she hadn’t even admitted to herself. She’d never liked liked Kevin. He was just her dumbass friend who somehow became champion.
The lie tasted bitter as she shrugged. "He was alright. Before he became a walking midlife crisis."
"Well he's an idiot," Hannah muttered, tossing a makeup wipe into the trash with unnecessary force. "And Callis is gonna ruin him." The words hung between them—too loud in the quiet of the emptying backstage area.
"That's up to him now," Jada said, fixing her hair. "He's not my problem anymore."
Hannah didn’t argue, just handed Jada her brush belt with a sympathetic grimace. "So, how about after the show?" she asked, nudging Jada’s shoulder as they walked toward the exit. "We hit up that new bar down the block—forget about all this?"
Jada hesitated, her fingers curling around the strap of her bag. She could still hear Kevin’s voice—You always were—like a phantom ache. But Hannah was right. She needed a distraction. "Yeah," she sighed, forcing a smile. "Sounds perfect."
/*/
The bar was packed, neon lights casting everything in a hazy glow. Jada ordered something strong enough to blur the edges of the night, and for a while, it worked. Hannah dragged her onto the dance floor, laughing as Jada stumbled over her own feet. The music thrummed through her, loud enough to drown out the echo of Kevin’s voice in her head.
Then she saw him.
Across the crowded room, Kevin lounged in a booth like he owned the place, Don Callis and the rest of his new friends and stable mates flanking him. Two women in tight dresses leaned into him, their laughter sharp and performative. One traced a manicured finger along the edge of his chain, her eyes gleaming with something predatory. Kevin smirked, tipping his drink toward her like this was all just another performance—like betrayal was nothing.
Jada turned away before he could catch her staring, her grip tightening around her glass. The vodka burned her throat as she swallowed it down. He’s not him anymore, she reminded herself. That’s not Kevin.
Hannah nudged her elbow, nodding toward the booth. "You wanna go?" she asked, voice low.
"Fuck no". Jada's latina side flared up, the syllables sharp as she tossed back the last of her drink. The ice clattered against her teeth. "Let him have his little bimbo fan club. I'm gonna dance."
She grabbed Hannah's wrist and dragged her deeper into the pulsing crowd, where the bass throbbed loud enough to rattle her ribs.
"Hell yes Chica. You're fine as hell and thess leather pants?" Hannah whistled low, grabbing Jada's hips as they moved to the beat. "Someone's gonna eat you alive tonight." The words were meant to tease, but Jada's laugh came out jagged. She rolled her shoulders back, letting the music swallow the tension coiled between them.
Across the bar, Kevin's eyes found hers—just for a second—before the woman on his left tugged his chin back toward her. Jada watched his smirk slip into something genuine for half a breath before the performance resumed. That was the worst part: she still knew his tells.
"Whoa mami. You're dressed to kill," The Death Riders' Daniel Garcia murmured into her ear, his fingers skimming the curve of her waist as she leaned into his space. The scent of his cologne—something smoky and overpriced—clung to his jacket collar as Jada pressed closer than necessary. She caught Garcia's quick glance toward Kevin's booth and smirked, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Let him watch.
Hannah whooped from behind her, nearly spilling her margarita as she bumped hips with one of Garcia's tag partners. The music swelled, a throbbing remix of some pop song Jada would've mocked under different circumstances. Tonight, she let the bassline thump against her sternum as Garcia's hands slid lower.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kevin stiffen, his drink halting halfway to his lips. The blonde draped over him followed his gaze, her painted mouth twisting into a pout as she whispered something in his ear. Kevin didn't react, his stare locked onto Garcia's fingers now tracing patterns on Jada's lower back.
"You seem different tonight. You good?". Daniel Garcia's breath was warm against Jada's neck, his grip tightening slightly as she swayed against him—too close for friendship, too far for denial. Jada caught Hannah's raised eyebrow over Garcia's shoulder and rolled her eyes, but didn't pull away. The tequila and Vodka made her skin feel electric, her pulse thrumming in time with the bass shaking the floor beneath them.
"Never better," she lied, tipping her head back to let the strobe lights blind her for a second. When she blinked, Kevin was standing—his drink abandoned, Callis's hand on his elbow like a leash. The blonde was pouting now, her manicured nails digging into Kevin's forearm. Jada smirked, arching into Garcia's hold just to see Kevin's jaw twitch.
Kevin shook Callis's grip off with more force than necessary, his chair screeching against the floor as he stood. The blonde nearly toppled sideways, her drink sloshing over the rim of her glass. Callis murmured something sharp into his ear, but Kevin was already pushing through the crowd, his gaze locked onto Jada like a targeting system.
Jada felt the exact moment Garcia realized what was happening. His fingers stiffened against her waist, his smirk faltering as he glanced between her and Kevin's approaching figure. "Uh," he started, but Jada was already twisting out of his grip, tossing her hair with deliberate exaggeration.
"Problem?" she called over the music, raising her voice just enough for Kevin to hear. His jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The neon lights washed him in alternating red and blue, highlighting the tension in his shoulders.
Kevin stopped inches from her, close enough that Garcia instinctively took a step back. The music pulsed around them, but the air between Jada and Kevin crackled with a silence louder than the bass. "You're drunk," Kevin said flatly, his eyes flicking to Garcia's retreating back before settling on Jada's smudged eyeliner.
"What do you care? You're the Don Callis Families latest bitch." Jada's words came out sharper than she intended, the vodka burning her tongue. Kevin flinched like she'd slapped him—just a flicker of the old him before his face hardened again.
Behind him, Callis watched from the booth like a spider in its web, one hand resting possessively on Kevin's abandoned seat. The blonde glared daggers at Jada, her lipstick smeared from where she'd been whispering in Kevin's ear moments ago.
Kevin stepped closer, his voice dropping under the thrum of the bass. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Right, cause suddenly I'm right?". Jada let out a brittle laugh. "So dumb that I didn't see it—you just had to betray Darby, right? Had to turn your back on everyone who actually gave a shit about you." She jabbed a finger into Kevin's chest, the sequins on her top catching the light as her hand shook. "You're pathetic."
Kevin caught her wrist before she could pull away, his grip tighter than necessary. The warmth of his fingers against her skin sent an unwanted shiver down her spine. "You think I wanted it to be like this?" His voice was rough, barely audible over the pounding bass. The club lights flickered across his face, catching the unguarded frustration in his eyes—something real beneath the new persona.
Jada yanked her arm free, stumbling back a step. The tequila made her movements sloppy, her balance uneven. "I think you made your choice," she spat. "And now you get to live with it."
Behind Kevin, Callis was watching them like a vulture circling roadkill, his fingers steepled under his chin. The blonde had given up pretending to be interested in her drink, her gaze darting between them with predatory curiosity.
"Jada—" Kevin started, reaching for her again, but Jada twisted away, the heel of her boot catching on the sticky floor. She staggered, catching herself on the edge of a nearby table. The crowd around them pulsed, oblivious, the bassline drowning out the ragged edge of her breath.
Hannah materialized at her elbow, her margarita sloshing over the rim as she wedged herself between them. "Alright, Jet," she snapped, shoving Kevin back with a force that surprised even Jada. "Party's over. Go play lapdog somewhere else."
"Yeah. Fuck off back to your entourage. Just remember who actually cared about you before this, y'know when Callis eventually dumps your ass for the next shiny new toy," Jada muttered, pushing past Kevin with a sway in her step that wasn't entirely from the tequila. The club air was thick with sweat and spilled drinks, the bass vibrating through the soles of her boots as Hannah looped an arm around her waist to steady her.
Kevin didn’t follow. When Jada dared a glance over her shoulder, he was still rooted in place, his silhouette framed by the strobe lights—taller than she remembered, broader in the shoulders since the heel turn, but somehow smaller too. Callis’s hand landed on his shoulder from behind, possessive, steering him back toward the booth where the blonde was already scooting over to make room.
Hannah squeezed Jada’s hip. "C’mon, let’s get you some water," she murmured, guiding her toward the bar. The bartender slid a glass across the counter without being asked, his expression blandly sympathetic. Jada gulped it down, the ice cubes clacking against her teeth. Behind her, Garcia was whispering to his tag partner, both of them sneaking glances at Kevin’s table.
"What's wrong with me Hannah? Why do I always go for guys who don't want me?" Jada slumped against the bar, pressing the cold glass to her forehead. The condensation dripped down her temples like tears she refused to shed.
Hannah snorted, swirling her margarita. "Babe, you don't go for guys—you adopt strays with commitment issues and hero complexes." She flicked a lime wedge off the rim. "Kevin's just the latest in a long line of dumbasses who didn't realize what they had until they blew it up."
Jada opened her mouth to argue when a sharp whistle cut through the bass. Across the room, Callis's crew had commandeered the VIP section, Kevin's title belt glinting under the blacklights as some model draped herself over it like a prop. But it wasn't Kevin who'd whistled—it was Don himself, raising a tumbler of amber liquid in Jada's direction with a smirk that made her skin crawl.
"Looks like he's hiring ho's now," Hannah muttered into her margarita, watching the blonde preen under Callis's approving nod. Jada didn't answer, her fingers tightening around her glass until the ice shifted with a brittle crack. The vodka and tequila churned in her stomach, acid rising in her throat as Kevin leaned back against the booth, his smirk never reaching his eyes—she could still tell, even from here.
The bartender slid another water toward her, eyebrows raised. Jada shook her head, pushing the glass away just as Garcia reappeared at her elbow, his fingers brushing the small of her back with proprietary confidence. "You good, mami?" he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. Jada didn't miss the way his gaze flicked toward Kevin's booth, the challenge in it.
Before she could answer, a crash echoed from the VIP section—glass shattering, followed by the blonde's shrill shriek. Jada's head snapped up just in time to see Kevin shove away from the table, his chair toppling backward as Callis grabbed his forearm. The old man's lips moved, sharp and quick, but Kevin shook him off with a violence that made the surrounding crowd stumble back.
"Ever the hot head". Hannah rolled her eyes. "Wanna get out of here? You look like you could use some food." Jada nodded, letting Hannah steer her toward the exit—just as Kevin's voice cut through the din.
"Jada. Wait."
She didn't turn. The exit sign glowed red ahead of them, a beacon in the haze of sweat and neon. Kevin's footsteps were heavy behind her, his breathing ragged like he'd sprinted through the crowd.
The cold air hit Jada like a slap as Hannah shoved the club door open, the sudden silence after the bass-heavy roar of the club making her ears ring. She barely made it three steps before doubling over, bracing her hands on her knees as the world tilted sideways. The neon sign above the club’s entrance buzzed, its pink and blue glow reflecting in the puddle of sick at her feet.
"Jesus, Christ—" Hannah yanked Jada's hair back just in time as another wave of nausea hit, the vodka and tequila making a violent reappearance onto the sidewalk. The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting jagged pink reflections in the puddle between Jada's boots. Somewhere behind them, the club door squealed open—she didn't need to look to know it was Kevin.
Hannah pressed a crumpled napkin into Jada's shaking hands. "Breathe through your nose," she muttered, shooting a glare over Jada's shoulder. "And don't you dare puke on these boots. They're new."
The cold air helped, clearing the fog of sweat and spilled liquor clinging to Jada's skin. She spat, tasting bile and regret, before straightening up—too fast. The world tilted, streetlights streaking into comet tails as she grabbed Hannah's shoulder for balance.
Kevin's footsteps halted a few feet away. Close enough that Jada could hear the leather of his jacket creak as he shifted his weight, but far enough that she didn't have to smell whatever expensive cologne Callis had undoubtedly picked out for him. "You okay?" he asked, voice rough like he'd been shouting over the music too long.
Jada wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the napkin long forgotten. "Peachy," she rasped, finally turning to face him. The club's neon sign painted his face in alternating flashes of pink and blue, highlighting the tension in his jaw. His stupid title belt was gone—probably left with Callis and his entourage of sycophants.
For a second, they just stared at each other. The old Kevin would've cracked a joke about her being a lightweight. Would've offered to walk her home, even if it was three blocks out of his way. This version just clenched his fists at his sides, his gaze darting between her and Hannah like he was waiting for permission to speak.
"Why don't you fuck off and leave me alone," Jada said, wiping her mouth again. The words came out thick, her tongue still sluggish from the liquor. She pushed off Hannah's shoulder, swaying slightly as she leveled a glare at Kevin. "Go back to your little groupies and your shitty old man."
Kevin's jaw tightened, the neon lights catching the hollows under his cheekbones. "Jada—"
"No." She jabbed a finger at him, the motion unsteady. "You don't get to pretend to care".
Jada's stomach lurched again, a hot wave of bile rising before she could stop it. She barely managed to twist away from Hannah's boots before retching onto the pavement—vodka, tequila, and half-digested protein bar splattering against the concrete in a grotesque abstract painting. The acidic burn seared her throat, tears pricking at her eyes as she spat the bitter aftertaste onto the curb.
"Jesus, Holt." Kevin's voice came from somewhere above her, closer now. She could hear the way his sneakers scuffed against the pavement as he shifted uncomfortably. "You're gonna fucking dehydrate yourself."
Jada wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, glaring up at him through the strands of hair stuck to her sweat-damp forehead. The neon sign overhead turned his concerned frown into a garish purple. "Fuck off," she rasped, throat raw. "Not your problem anymore, remember?"
"Okay. Let's get you back to the hotel". Hannah sighed, looping Jada's arm over her shoulders while keeping a wary eye on Kevin. "And you—" She jabbed a finger at him. "Stay the hell away from her."
Kevin didn't move, just watched as Jada swayed, her boots scuffing against the sidewalk. The club's neon buzz painted his silence in jagged pink and blue stripes. Then, without a word, he turned and walked back toward the entrance—shoulders hunched like a man marching to the gallows.
The Uber ride was a blur of streetlights and Hannah's muttered curses about "stupid men with stupider haircuts." Jada slumped against the window, the glass cool against her cheek. Somewhere between puking and passing out, she dreamed of Kevin’s hands—calloused from years of rope burns—adjusting her brush belt before a match like it was second nature.
The hotel elevator hummed ominously as they ascended. Hannah fumbled with the keycard, swearing when it took three tries to unlock the door. "You better not puke on my bed," she warned, kicking off her heels. Jada staggered to the bathroom instead, collapsing against the tiles as the world spun.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket—once, twice. She fished it out with clumsy fingers, the screen blurry.
The bathroom light was too bright. Jada squinted at her phone screen, the notifications swimming—two texts from an unknown number. Her thumb hovered, heart pounding louder than the bass still echoing in her skull.
First text: "You were right."
She blinked. The second one came through before she could process the first:
"About everything."
The screen blurred again—not from alcohol this time. Jada pressed her forehead against the cool porcelain sink, the messages burning holes in her vision. She knew that number. Had deleted after Double or Nothing, but her thumb still remembered the rhythm of the digits like muscle memory.
The sink’s porcelain bit into Jada’s forehead as she exhaled, long and slow. The texts glared up at her, accusatory in their simplicity. She could picture Kevin typing them—probably leaning against some alley wall outside the club, thumb hovering over the send button like he used to hesitate before big matches.
Her fingers twitched. Don’t reply, she told herself. He doesn’t get to do this.
Hannah banged on the door. "You alive in there?"
Jada's thumb hovered over the screen, the ghost of Kevin's last words—You were right—burning behind her eyelids. The sink's cold edge grounded her as she swallowed against the sour taste still clinging to her throat. She should delete the texts. Block the number again. Pretend she never saw them.
Instead, she typed three letters: "Wow." Then erased them. Then typed: "Too late for that." Deleted that too.
Hannah knocked again, sharper this time. "Jada? You better not be texting him."
The screen blurred as Jada stared at the unsent drafts. Her thumb hovered, trembling—then she locked the phone and tossed it onto the counter with a hollow clatter. "I'm fine," she called, turning the faucet on full blast to drown out the pounding in her skull. The water ran icy over her wrists, shocking her system back into focus.
When she emerged, Hannah was already in pajamas, arms crossed. "You look like shit," she said bluntly, shoving a bottle of water into Jada's hands. "Drink. Now."
Jada obeyed, the plastic crinkling under her grip. The bed dipped as she sat, the mattress squeaking like it might collapse under the weight of everything unsaid. Her phone buzzed again from the bathroom—once, twice. Hannah's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to Jada with raised eyebrows.
The buzzing stopped. Jada counted the silence—three breaths, four—before Hannah exhaled through her nose and tossed a pillow at her face. "Go to sleep. You're gonna regret this tomorrow."
Jada caught the pillow, the fabric cool against her clammy palms. "Already do,"