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Falling

The Friction of Falling

The air in Cameron’s living room was thick enough to chew. It was a cocktail of expensive upholstery, cheap weed, and the cloying, synthetic scent of a vanilla candle someone had lit in a failed attempt to mask the smell of a party that had been going for six hours. I was sprawled on a velvet sofa that probably cost more than a mid-sized sedan, my head resting on the back cushions as the ceiling fan spun in lazy, hypnotic circles.

"You’re doing it again," Cam murmured, his voice vibrating against my side. He was sitting close—closer than he needed to be, even for a crowded room. His arm was draped over my shoulders, his thumb idly tracing the line of my collarbone.

"Doing what?" I asked, my voice sounding like it was coming from a different room.

"Thinking. You’ve got that little crease between your eyebrows. The 'I’m Jane Stark and I have a legacy to uphold' look. It doesn’t suit you." He reached for a glass on the coffee table—a mixture of vodka and something neon blue—and held it to my lips. "Drink. Stop being a bummer."

I took a long, burning gulp. The blue stuff was sugary and gross, but the vodka hit my bloodstream like a warm hug. I leaned back into him, letting the tension drain out of my limbs. "I’m not a bummer. I’m just... I had a weird day. Peter was being a nudge."

"The intern?" Cam laughed, a short, dismissive sound. He shifted, his hand sliding down from my shoulder to rest heavily on my waist, his fingers dipping just slightly beneath the waistband of my jeans. "That kid is obsessed with you. It’s a little pathetic, honestly. Does he think he’s your bodyguard or something?"

"He’s just protective," I said, though the word felt heavy. Protective was what Dad was. Protective was what the Avengers were. With Cam, everything was just... easy. There were no expectations. "He doesn’t get it. He thinks everything has to be a life-or-death mission."

"Well, this is the mission tonight." Cam leaned in, his nose brushing against mine. His breath was hot and smelled like the blue drink. "To get you to stop talking about Peter Parker and start paying attention to me."

He didn't wait for an answer. He pressed his mouth to mine, his kiss aggressive and tasting of smoke. I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline mixed with the dulling effects of the alcohol. It was a messy, clumsy friction, but I leaned into it. I wanted to be touched. I wanted to feel something other than the constant, low-level anxiety that buzzed under my skin whenever I was at the Tower.

Across the room, Maya and Chloe were dancing to a beat that only they seemed to hear, their laughter ringing out over the bass-heavy music. Will and Jack were in the corner, hunched over a glass coffee table, their shadows long and jagged against the wall. It felt like a movie—a gritty, indie film where the protagonist finally breaks free.

Cam’s hand moved higher, his palm flat against my stomach, pushing my shirt up. I felt a momentary flicker of that old Jane—the one who would have made a joke and pushed him away—but she was drowned out by the third drink. I let him pull me closer, his teeth grazing my lower lip.

"Let's go upstairs," he whispered against my skin. "It's too loud down here."

"I should probably check my phone," I muttered, though I didn't move.

"Screw the phone. Let it die." He stood up, pulling me with him.

My legs felt like jelly, and the room tilted dangerously to the left. I stumbled, laughing as I caught myself on his chest. "Whoops. The floor is moving."

"I got you, Stark," Cam said, his eyes dark and focused. He led me toward the stairs, his grip on my arm firm.

As we passed the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in a polished chrome toaster. My hair was a mess, my hazel eyes looked glassy and huge, and my skin was flushed. I looked like a stranger. I looked like someone who was having the time of her life.

***

The morning was a physical assault. The sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom felt like needles being driven into my retinas. I groaned, burying my face in the pillow, but the scent of Cam’s cologne—that sharp, spicy smell—clung to the fabric, making my stomach roll.

"FRIDAY," I croaked. "Polarized glass. Now."

The windows dimmed instantly, plunging the room into a soothing charcoal gray.

"Good morning, Miss Stark," the AI’s voice was modulated to a lower decibel, almost as if she knew. "It is 10:42 AM. Your father has requested your presence in the common area for brunch. He noted that you missed your first two classes."

I sat up too fast, and the world did a slow, sickening roll. "Crap. Tell him I’m... tell him I have a migraine. A really bad one."

"Your biometrics suggest a significant level of dehydration and a blood alcohol content that, while receding, is still—"

"FRIDAY, shut up," I snapped, rubbing my temples. "Just tell him the migraine thing. And don't mention the biometrics. That’s a privacy violation."

"I am programmed to prioritize your health, Jane."

"And I’m programming you to be cool. Just... give me twenty minutes."

I dragged myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I looked wrecked. There was a faint bruise on my neck that I’d have to cover with concealer, and my hands were shaking—just a little, just a tiny tremor that I could hide if I kept them in my pockets.

I found a flask in my bedside drawer—a sleek, titanium one Dad had actually designed for "emergency hydration" during field trips. I’d repurposed it. I took a small, bracing pull of the whiskey I’d swiped from the back of the liquor cabinet two days ago. The burn was familiar, a sharp kick that straightened my spine and quieted the thumping in my skull.

*Just a stabilizer,* I told myself. *To get through brunch.*

When I finally wandered into the common area, the smell of bacon and coffee made me want to gag, but I put on the mask. I bounced into the room, offering a wide, slightly too-bright grin to the assembled group.

Steve was there, flipping pancakes with a precision that was quintessentially him. Natasha was curled in a chair with a tablet, and Dad was at the head of the table, hidden behind a holographic display of some engine component.

"Look who’s joined the land of the living," Natasha said, her green eyes tracking me with a disconcerting intensity. "Rough night with the books, Jane?"

"History of the Industrial Revolution," I lied, sliding into a chair next to her. "It’s a real sleeper. Literally. I think I passed out on page fifty."

Steve set a plate of pancakes in front of me. "You need to fuel up, Jane. You’re looking a little pale."

"Just the lighting, Uncle Steve. Or the lack of it. I’ve been living in a cave of textbooks." I took a bite of the pancake, forcing myself to chew and swallow. It felt like eating sawdust.

Tony lowered his holograms. He didn't look angry; he looked... observant. That was worse. He was in "engineer mode," looking for the flaw in the system.

"Funny," Tony said, picking up a mug of coffee. "I checked the logs. You weren't in the library database last night. And your laptop didn't leave your bag."

I felt a spike of heat in my chest—defensiveness, sharp and jagged. "I was using Maya’s laptop. Mine was dead. Is this an interrogation? Because I’m pretty sure I’m not a suspect in anything."

"It’s not an interrogation," Tony said, his voice level. "It’s a conversation. One that usually involves the truth. You missed school, Jane. That’s not like you."

"I had a headache! God, one time I sleep in and suddenly I’m on the Ten Most Wanted list." I pushed the plate away, the sound of the ceramic hitting the table echoing in the quiet room. "I’m seventeen. I’m allowed to be tired. I’m allowed to have a life that isn't scheduled down to the microsecond by you or FRIDAY."

"Jane," Steve said softly, his 'Captain' voice coming out. "Your dad is just worried. You’ve been... different lately. Distant."

"I’m growing up," I snapped, standing up. My head throbbed with the movement, but I pushed through it. "That’s what happens. People change. They stop wanting to hang out in labs all day. They want to be with people who don't treat them like a fragile piece of tech."

I turned to leave, but Tony’s voice stopped me.

"Is that what Cameron thinks?"

I froze. I hadn't told him Cam’s name. I hadn't told him anything about the group beyond vague mentions of Maya and Chloe.

"Who?" I asked, my heart hammering.

"Cameron Rossi. Senior. Three suspensions for public intoxication. A record of 'disturbing the peace' that’s longer than your transcript." Tony stood up, his face hardening. "I’m not an idiot, Jane. I know who you’re hanging out with. I know where you were last night."

"You tracked me?" I spun around, my voice rising to a screech. "You actually tracked my phone? You’re a freak! You’re a total control freak!"

"I didn't have to track you! Your 'friend' posted a video on Instagram of you dancing on a coffee table at three in the morning!" Tony shouted back, his composure finally breaking. He swiped his hand, and a video projected into the air.

There I was. Blurry, laughing, holding a red cup, with Cam’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind. I looked happy. I looked wasted. I looked exactly like the thing Tony feared most.

"It was a party," I said, my voice trembling. "Everyone was there. It was fun."

"It’s not fun when you’re blacking out and missing your life!" Tony stepped toward me, his eyes searching mine. "Jane, look at yourself. You’re shaking. You’re lying to everyone who cares about you. You think I don't know this routine? I wrote the manual on this routine!"

"I’m not you!" I screamed, the words tearing out of my throat. "Stop trying to project your failures onto me! I’m fine! I’m getting the grades, I’m doing the work, and I’m having a drink once in a while to deal with the fact that my father is a paranoid narcissist!"

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve looked like he’d been slapped. Natasha was stone-faced, but her eyes were full of a pity that made me want to scream.

Tony just looked tired. Older. "Is that what you think? That I’m doing this because I’m a narcissist?"

"I think you can't stand that you can't control me," I spat. "Well, guess what? You can't. I’m going to school."

I turned and bolted for the elevator. I didn't look back. I couldn't.

***

School was a wash. I spent most of the day in the back of the auditorium, hiding behind the velvet curtains where the theater kids kept their props. I had a bottle of wine I’d swiped from a bodega on the way in—they didn't check IDs if you wore a Stark Industries internship hoodie and looked like you were in a hurry.

By third period, the bottle was half empty, and the world was comfortably numb again. The argument with Dad felt like a dream. The look on Steve’s face was a distant memory.

My phone buzzed.

*Peter: Jane, please. Where are you? We were supposed to meet for lunch.*

I ignored it.

*Peter: I saw the video. Your dad is losing his mind. Just tell me you’re okay.*

I turned the phone off. I didn't want Peter’s concern. I didn't want his "I’m-a-hero" vibe. I wanted to be left alone.

I fell asleep for a while, curled up on a pile of dusty stage weights. When I woke up, the school was quiet. It was late afternoon. I felt sluggish and gross, my mouth tasting like sour grapes and regret.

I needed to see Cam.

I made my way to the parking lot, spotting his beat-up black SUV in the corner. He was leaning against the hood, smoking, surrounded by the usual crowd. When he saw me, he grinned, tossing his cigarette aside.

"There she is. The girl of the hour. Heard you had a bit of a blowout with the old man."

"Word travels fast," I said, trying to sound cool, trying to ignore the way my stomach flipped when he pulled me into a hug.

"Maya told us. She saw the video got taken down, figured your dad saw it." Cam pulled back, looking me over. "You look like you need a real drink. Not that bodega trash you’ve been carrying."

"I’m fine," I said, the reflex coming out before I could think.

"Sure you are. That's why you’re hiding in the theater wing." He opened the passenger door. "Come on. We’re going to Jack’s place. His parents are in the Hamptons. We’ve got the whole house."

I hesitated. I should go home. I should apologize. I should try to fix things.

Then I thought about the way Dad had looked at me—like I was a broken machine he couldn't fix. I thought about Peter’s pitying texts.

"Let's go," I said, stepping into the car.

***

Jack’s house was a sprawling mansion in the hills, the kind of place that felt like a museum. We weren't treating it like one.

The music was loud enough to rattle the windows. People were jumping into the pool with their clothes on. In the den, a group was playing a drinking game that involved a lot of shouting and very little logic.

I was on my fourth—or was it fifth?—drink. It was a mix of tequila and something tart. I felt incredible. I felt invincible. I was dancing with Chloe, my arms in the air, the world spinning in a beautiful, neon blur.

Cam caught me around the waist, pulling me away from the dance floor. "Hey, Stark. You’re hitting it hard tonight."

"Just having fun, Cam! Isn't that what we do?" I laughed, leaning my head back against his shoulder.

"Yeah. It is." He led me toward a quiet hallway, his hands wandering again. He pushed me against a wall, his kisses becoming more urgent, his hands more insistent.

I felt a twinge of that old discomfort. It was a little too much, a little too fast. "Cam, wait... maybe we should go back to the others."

"Why? They’re busy." He pressed his body against mine, his hand sliding under my jeans, pushing down. "You like this, Jane. Stop playing."

"I’m not playing, I just..."

"You’re a Stark, right? Starks aren't prudes." He nipped at my ear, his voice dropping to a low, manipulative purr. "Don't tell me you’re getting cold feet now. Not after everything."

I looked at him, and for a second, the alcohol fog cleared. I saw the way he was looking at me—not as a friend, not even as a girlfriend, but as a prize. Something to be used.

But then I thought about the Tower. I thought about the silence and the disappointment. If I pushed Cam away, who did I have? I’d already pushed everyone else.

"Okay," I whispered, closing my eyes. "Okay."

He led me into a guest bedroom, slamming the door behind us.

It wasn't like the movies. It was cold, and it hurt a little, and the smell of tequila was everywhere. I kept my eyes closed, imagining I was somewhere else—somewhere high up, where the air was clear and the only sound was the hum of a lab.

When it was over, Cam rolled off me, reaching for his phone. "That was hot. You’re definitely a Stark."

I sat up, pulling my clothes back on with shaking hands. I felt empty. Not the good kind of empty, like after a long run, but a hollow, aching kind of empty.

"I need a drink," I said, my voice cracking.

"There’s a bottle of bourbon on the nightstand," Cam said, not looking up from his screen.

I grabbed the bottle and took a long, desperate swig. I didn't stop until my throat burned and my eyes watered.

I stayed there for hours, drinking until the room stopped spinning and started to drift. I heard the party continuing downstairs, the muffled shouts and the thumping bass, but I stayed in the dark, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling.

I wasn't Jane Stark anymore. I wasn't the girl who built kinetic sculptures or the girl who knew Spider-Man’s secret. I was just a girl in a dark room with a bottle, waiting for the world to go away.

And the worst part? I didn't even care.

I pulled my phone out, the screen glowing brightly in the dark. I had seventeen missed calls from Dad. Ten from Peter. Three from Happy.

I deleted the notifications.

"I’m fine," I whispered to the empty room, the bourbon warm in my belly. "I’m totally fine."

I lay back down, the darkness closing in around me, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel anything at all.