CHAPTER 42: HIS FIRST STRETCH

Zayela stirred in bed, her arms and legs stretching out over soft sheets she wasn’t used to.

The mattress cradled her body, not like the mattress at their boiling egg of a house.

For the first time in ages, her muscles didn’t ache. The silence around her was comforting.

She rolled over with a faint, sleepy smile, instinctively reaching for the warmth that should’ve been beside her.

"Nash..."

But the bed was empty.

Her hand brushed cool sheets. Her eyes blinked open.

Right... She was alone. He had only loaned her this place. Still, the impulse to wake him up and talk was so ingrained it caught her off-guard.

Sitting up, only in her black thong and a worn-out tank top, Zayela looked around. The room was ridiculous. Not in a bad way, in a "how-is-this-my-life" way.

The lighting was warm, the furniture minimal and tasteful, and the floor-to-ceiling window let in the light of morning.

She breathed in deep. The air didn’t smell like damp, moldy carpet. It smelled like fresh linen.

"How did he even afford this?" she murmured.

She padded barefoot to the nightstand and checked her phone, something she rarely did anymore. Her heart jumped.

Three missed calls. All from Nash.

Her stomach twisted with guilt. She remembered turning it off to avoid the constant harassment from the loan sharks.

Her fingers scrambled to dial back, but before she could hit call, there was a knock at the door.

She froze.

"Zay? You’re here? It’s me."

Nash.

Her chest did this weird little jump in relief and before her brain caught up, she’d already yanked the door open.

Totally spaced on the fact she was basically in clothed enough to be banned from public space.

Nash just stood there, blinking like he’d forgotten how to talk. His eyes dropped and then just... stuck. Caught red-handed on the spectacle.

Zayela’s hair looked like it’d fought a pillow and lost. She was glowing in that soft way showing she had just woke up, and the thong barely clung to the curve of her hip.

It clicked for her a second too late, and she flinched slightly, but Nash had already gone every detail frozen in his mind.

"Whoa, uh—hey," he managed,

voice doing. But his eyes were definitely not on her face.

But neither was she.

She just stared at him, mouth a little open like she was rebooting.

Nash wasn’t looking like Nash. The guy at her door looked... no... was taller. Way taller. Shoulders like a linebacker, arms stacked with muscle, veins popping like he’d just finished bench pressing a small car. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He looked older, more... dangerous, maybe. Even his eyes felt heavier.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asked, her tone half-accusation, half-wonder.

He shot back.

"I should ask you that," but his eyes kept doing this awkward little dance away from her body. "You... didn’t answer your phone. I was getting worried."

"I—I turned it off," she blurted, tucking hair behind her ear, suddenly wishing she was wearing something like a snowsuit. "Thought maybe the collectors would call. Didn’t think you’d just..."

She eyed him again, all up and down.

"And seriously, what’s up with you? You look like... like a fitness model. Who’s supplying you with all the protein shakes and steroids?"

He smirked, crooked.

"Maybe the testosterone juice is finally kicking in?"

She squinted at him. Not buying it.

"Yeah, okay, Hulk. But what’s with this place? How are you paying for all this? Secret lottery win or you robbed a bank?"

Nash rubbed the back of his neck, then leaned into the doorway like he knew exactly how good he looked and was kinda amused by her confusion.

"Long story. Actually, glad you brought up the collectors. Think it’s time we handle that."

Zayela just frowned, arms crossed. She wasn’t sure if she was freaked out, annoyed, or actually kind of impressed, but she nodded anyway.

Nash stepped inside, glancing around the hotel suite as Zayela closed the door behind him.

They talked while sitting side by side on the bed. Zayela tried not to stare, but her eyes betrayed her, dipping constantly to the moves of his chest rising under every breath and the powerful cut of his arms, the stretch of muscle under golden skin.

And he didn’t miss it.

"Focus, Zay," he said with a lazy grin, tilting his head. "Try to keep your eyes on the conversation."

Zayela jumped slightly.

"I’m listening," she muttered.

Nash leaned back on one arm.

"I want to talk about the debt. The sharks. I’m done waiting. I want to end it."

Zayela blinked, taken aback.

"Permanently," Nash added. "But I don’t trust them to play clean. So we’ll bait them. Let them think we’re cornered, unable to pay. They show up gloating, all smug, and that’s when we hit them with the full payment. Clean. Once and for all. No strings."

Zayela, who had always been the one to drag Nash through their mess, dodging collectors, bluffing threats, rationing coin, could only stare.

She’d protected them both, back when Nash was just a skinny kid with a quiet mouth. Now he sat there like a different man altogether.

Built like something out of a fantasy, or maybe a wet dream, with a voice that made promises sound like plans.

"You... want to pay our debt?" she asked, voice thin.

"Yeah. All of it."

Zayela leaned back slowly, the pillow clutched tighter to her stomach. Her mind reeled. How many nights had she cried in silence? How many days had she gone hungry so Nash wouldn’t have to?

And now here he was, confident, composed, damn near glowing, with the power to erase the weight that had been crushing them for years.

She didn’t answer at first. Her gaze flicked down again.

His torso was the first flag that he was different , a map of tension and tone, his strength no longer implied but proven.

She didn’t even realize she was staring until his voice cut in again.

"You’re staring."

She groaned.

"God, just let me process."

He laughed.

"You process with your eyes?"

She hugged the pillow tighter.

"You’re insufferable."

"Still your favorite, though."

She didn’t deny it.

He shifted forward, his expression softening. "Look, I want to stay in this district. It’s safer. Cleaner. No more stress just walking down the street. You deserve that. We both do."

Zayela nodded slowly, heart filling with a confused mess of gratitude, disbelief... and something warmer.

"You really mean it," she said, almost a whisper. "That’s it? You can take us out?"

"Every word."

Her fingers dug into the edge of the pillow as she glanced at him one last time.

She looked down and said softly, almost with a smile.

"You never knew how to keep money, Nash... You used to burn it the second it touched your hands." Then, as if only now fully realizing it, she added, "And now you’re saying you’ve got over 8,900 credits... just sitting there."

"That’s nothing," Nash said with a cocky grin. "I’ve got this, plus spare change to get another room. You’ll finally have your own bedroom. Right here. In this hotel."

But Zayela’s grip on the pillow tightened suddenly, her voice rising.

"I don’t want that!"

Nash turned, surprised by the sharpness.

She looked shaken. Her eyes glassed over.

"I don’t need more spending... If you can pay them... Please... please just do it."

Her voice cracked, and she dropped against him, silent tears running down her cheek as she buried herself into his chest.

For once, Nash didn’t crack a joke. His body, usually all bravado and swagger, simply reacted the right way.

He held her.

And in that stillness, he understood: she’d carried too much for too long.

He didn’t say a word. Just held her tighter.

This wasn’t about the money anymore. It was about pulling her out of the wreckage she thought she had to live in.

And he would.

The dream was really becoming a reality, and it was only the beginning.

In the cracked courtyard, temple of the street rats , the usual chaos had taken shape again.

Men and women ran the court like it was sacred ground. Shoes screeched, trash-talk echoed. Another day of Breakball.

One player launched a deep three-pointer from the sideline with all the confidence in the world, only for the ball to miss everything. Not even rim. Just air.

"Airball!" someone yelled.

The laughter started before the ball hit the ground. It bounced, rolled, and kept going, crossing the cracked pavement and slipping past the curb.

Then it stopped right under a pair of black heels.

Silence immediately swallowed the court.

A woman stood over the ball, one hand resting on her hip. She had long, pale blonde hair that spilled down her back, sharp blue eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, and a presence that twisted the heat in the air to a cold hush.

Her coat billowed slightly as she stepped forward and tapped the ball with her foot.

"Your form was open," she said casually, her voice even and smooth. "But your elbow flared. That alone twisted the trajectory. Add the weight shift on your back leg, and that shot was doomed the second it left your hand."

No one spoke.

She removed her glasses slightly, letting the light hit her glacial eyes. There was a silence before she added:

"Rudimentary knowledge. But whatever."

She gave the ball a push with her toe, sending it rolling gently back across the street.

"I’m not here for a failure. I’m looking for a wonderboy."