s w i t c h c r a f t

The opening credits of Point Break flickered across the small screen. The room filled with the low hum of the television and distant waves crashing.

Richie shifted closer without really looking at her, shoulder brushing lightly against her side.

Kate didn’t comment on it; just let herself lean back the slightest bit so he didn’t have to make the effort twice. His skin was warm - warmer than it should’ve been - and she could feel the faint drag of his breathing evening out as the movie settled into its rhythm. For a minute, the teasing faded. The room shrank to the glow of the screen, the soft rattle of the AC in the window, the quiet weight of him beside her.

Onscreen, surf thundered against sand. In here, it was quiet and close and almost calm.

From the hallway, a floorboard creaked. Kate glanced toward the door just as Seth appeared in the frame, jacket slung over his shoulder, keys hooked loosely in his fingers.

He took in the scene in a single sweep - the dim room, the television glow, Richie half-curled toward her on the bed.

His gaze shifted to Kate - and lingered. Not on her exactly, but on the space around her. Not for long. Just enough to make her suddenly aware of how close Richie was. Of the warmth at her side. Of her own shoulder angled toward his.

His jaw flexed once. It was gone just as quickly.

He looked back at the screen just as Bodhi delivered his speech about chasing the ultimate ride.

Seth huffed faintly. “Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “'It's not tragic if you die doing what you love.’”

Richie cracked one eye open. “Don’t get philosophical before work.”

“Just sayin’,” Seth replied lightly. “Depends on who gets left behind.”

The words felt strange in the softly-lit confines of Richie’s room. Kate wasn’t sure why.

Richie cut him a sardonic look, but it lingered. “It’s a surfing movie, man.”

Seth smirked. “Sure it is.”

He stepped back into the hall, then paused, just for a second. “Speakin' of dyin', don't let him convince you he is." He pointed at Richie. "I'm out.”

“I heard that,” Richie muttered.

“I know.” Seth’s voice was very dry.

Their eyes met briefly - something unspoken passing between them - and then Seth was gone.

Richie’s eyes lingered on his closed door until he heard the front one open, then close again. The house settled back into quiet. He blinked, once, then turned back to the TV.

Kate could feel something, some subtle shift that she’d caught before a few times. “You good?” She murmured.

He nodded wordlessly. Then, with a small grunt, he pushed himself back up the headboard until he was more level with her, shoulders and arms aligned, just brushing each other.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Onscreen, the surf roared and men shouted over wind and adrenaline.

He watched the screen, but she could feel that he wasn’t really seeing it - jaw working faintly, like he was chewing on something Seth had said. The line about death. About being left behind.

After a moment, he exhaled through his nose and let his head tip back until it bumped against the headboard behind him.

“Philosophy before dinner,” he muttered. “That’s how you know he’s thinking too much.”

Kate smiled faintly. “You’re one to talk.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, a soft exhale that loosened the tightness in his shoulders. The heaviness in the room lifted, carried away on the swelling music and the movie’s melodrama. A chase scene kicked up, and Richie shifted again, settling in with the ease of someone who’d finally decided to leave his thoughts behind - at least for a little while.

And then, with renewed focus and the faintest glint of mischief returning to his eyes:

“You’re definitely a Swayze girl,” he said, voice scratchy but gaining energy now that he had something to focus on.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m right,” he pressed. “You love the whole tortured outlaw thing.”

She kept her eyes on the screen. “I’m appreciating the narrative.”

He snorted softly. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Onscreen, Patrick Swayze flashed that easy, reckless grin. Kate tried - and failed - not to smile back at the TV. Richie caught it immediately.

“There,” he said triumphantly, though it came out hoarse. “That look. You’re gone.”

“Like you’re in any fit state to judge.”

He laughed, then just as suddenly clamped his mouth shut, turning his head to bury it in her shoulder. “Uuugh,” came a muffled groan.

Immediately she stopped smiling, staring down at him in worry instead. On instinct her hand reached out, brushing the back of his neck. It was damp with sweat. “Hey.”

“Um.” Was all he was able to get out, before he abruptly rolled past her, and wobbled to his feet. “Fuck.”

She got just a glimpse of his face before he turned away; it was pale as paper, and his hair clung to his temples. Had he been getting sicker while she stayed oblivious, attention on the movie? A stab of guilt pierced her; she opened her mouth, to ask if he needed anything, but before she could articulate anything, he muttered thickly, “be right back. Do not finish that without me.” And he lunged for the door; it swung hard into the wall, bouncing off of it as he disappeared hurriedly into the hallway.

Naturally, the movie was the priority here. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, shaking her head. Ridiculous, the pair of them.

But she obligingly paused the movie; it flickered and froze on a shot of Patrick, and she suppressed a smile at her own girlishness, even if no one was around to see it.

Then she let her eyes drift over the room again, taking in more details, before remembering what she’d been studying before the boys had distracted her.

Eyes darting to the door, she slipped off the bed, and took a few cautious steps towards the desk.

The fox was smaller than she’d expected.

Kate was pretty sure that’s what it was, at least. She parked herself in Richie’s desk chair, leaning forward on the edge, elbows on her knees, studying it from different angles. It had been wired together with almost obsessive care. Every rib curved delicately, each one placed so precisely it looked like it belonged there by instinct. The spine arched in a subtle crescent, the vertebrae stepping neatly into one another, the whole thing poised in a way that suggested motion - like it might step forward if she blinked.

It wasn’t grotesque. It was intricate. Careful.

In the distance, the bathroom sink shut off with a metallic squeak. Pipes groaned in the walls. She didn’t move, didn’t even realize she’d gone still until she heard his voice from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

It was rough from throwing up. Thinner than usual. And sharper - automatically defensive.

She startled, catching herself before she slipped off the chair, and turned around.

Richie stood in the doorway, looking, if it was possible, even worse than he’d done leaving. Ashen-faced and sweaty, his tank clinging slightly to his chest where he’d splashed water on himself. Her attention snagged there for a moment, remembering the boys’ restroom for a split second. Then she quickly shot her gaze back up to his face. The entire ordeal lasted maybe three seconds. She prayed he hadn’t noticed.

His eyes flicked to the desk. Then to her. “It’s not - ” He gestured vaguely toward the fox. “It’s not weird.” Too quick. Too reflexive.

Kate blinked at him, knowing she needed to move cautiously here. “I didn’t say it was.” Her voice was calm.

“You were looking at it like it’s weird.”

“I was looking at it like it’s a fox skeleton on your desk,” she said mildly.

There was a pause. He crossed his arms, though it looked like the motion cost him. “Most people think it’s gross.”

Kate looked back at the fox. “I mean,” she said thoughtfully, leaning closer, “it’s clean.” It was. Not a scrap of skin or tissue was left on the creature.

That clearly wasn’t the response he’d braced for. He hesitated. Then, “I boiled the bones,” he muttered. “Took forever to get the smell out. You gotta get all the tissue off or it… yeah.”

He made a vague, sickened gesture that had more to do with memory than his current stomach.

Kate’s brows lifted. “That’s…thorough.”

He shifted his weight, defensive edge creeping back in. “It’s called vulture culture.”

She compressed her lips against a smile. “That sounds like something you made up.”

“It’s not.” His eyes narrowed faintly, and he leaned against the doorframe, obviously trying to hold himself upright. “It’s a thing. People collect bones. Clean ’em. Preserve ’em.”

“Like taxidermy?”

“Sometimes.” He gave a shaky shrug. “But I don’t like it. Too fake. I prefer breaking it down. Just… respecting what’s left.”

That caught her.

Respecting what’s left.

She looked back at the fox.

The wiring wasn’t sloppy. It wasn’t macabre. It was… patient. Whoever had done it had taken time to understand how the bones fit together. The tiny teeth were arranged perfectly, delicate as grains of rice. The paws were posed mid-step.

“You put it back together?” she asked quietly.

His shoulders shifted again - that uncertain emotion she was starting to recognize. Not quite pride. Not quite shame.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Then, flatter: “Found him off a County Road. Someone hit him. Left him there.”

The words were casual, but she heard the undercurrent. Not anger, exactly. Just something unsettled - almost vulnerable.

“I didn’t want him just rotting there,” he added.

Kate imagined it - the fox on the roadside, anonymous, forgotten. It wasn’t hard to picture Richie stopping. Getting out. Kneeling in the dirt while cars passed.

Her eye then caught on a detail she hadn’t noticed before. There was a strip of masking tape stuck to the wooden base. The edges were slightly curled, the ink pressed hard enough to leave faint grooves in the paper. Bernholt.

Her lips parted.

Of course he named it. She didn’t know why that made her chest ache.

“You named him,” she said.

His jaw tightened, like he might snap something flippant back at her. But when he saw her expression - open, curious - he seemed to stop himself.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Bernholt.”

“Why Bernholt?”

He gave a small shrug. “Felt right.”

That almost made her smile. Of course that was the reasoning. Not Latin classification. Not mythology. It just felt right.

He peeled himself away from the doorframe, stepping closer to the desk, almost unconsciously, and adjusted one tiny wire at the base. His fingers were careful, despite the lingering tremor of nausea.

“Took me days to find all the pieces,” he went on. “Ribs are fragile. You miss one and the whole thing looks wrong.”

Kate pictured him combing through brush and gravel, looking for splinters of bone most people wouldn’t even see.

“I don’t like when stuff just disappears,” he added. The words seemed to slip out before he could catch them.

The room went quiet.

She didn’t comment on that part, didn’t want to turn this into something heavier than he could carry in his current state. She just looked at the fox again - at the clean lines, the careful reconstruction.

“It’s kind of beautiful,” she said.

Richie went very still.

Then, hesitantly, “you think so?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged lightly. “Morbid, sure. But beautiful.”

He studied her face like he was waiting for the punchline. Waiting for the joke. When it didn’t come, something in his posture eased, just a fraction.

“Most people don’t get it,” he muttered.

Kate leaned back against the desk, folding her arms loosely. “I don’t think most people try.”

She thought about Bethel for a moment - about youth group girls who’d shriek at a dead bird, about Kyle wrinkling his nose and saying something about serial killers. About how easily something different got labeled wrong.

But this? To her, it made perfect sense. Richie noticed what other people stepped over. He fixated. He took things apart to see how they worked. He didn’t shy away from what was uncomfortable. Of course he collected bones.

It was strange in the way thunderstorms were strange. Or abandoned houses. A little unsettling. A little fascinating.

She glanced at him again. “You have more?”

He hesitated. “…Maybe.”

Her eyes lit up despite herself. “Like what?”

“A raccoon skull and spine. Couple bird skeletons.” He eyed her carefully. “It’s not like I’ve got a graveyard in my closet.”

She let herself laugh, then. “I wasn’t picturing that.”

“You weren’t?”

“I was picturing, like, labeled storage bins.”

That startled a short, surprised huff out of him - almost a laugh, before he caught it. He winced faintly afterward, pressing a hand to his stomach.

“Don’t make me laugh,” he grumbled.

“Sorry.”

He studied her a moment longer, like he still expected the revulsion to hit. Like it was delayed. It didn’t.

Instead she reached out, very gently, and traced the air just above the curve of the fox’s spine without touching it. “You did a good job,” she said simply.

That landed harder than anything else. His throat worked, and he couldn’t seem to look at her. “Yeah,” he said, softer now. “Thanks.”

For a moment, she had the strange sense that she’d just stepped into something private - not the bones themselves, but the why of them. The part where he couldn’t stand the idea of something small and broken being left behind.

She glanced at the masking tape again.

Bernholt.

Of course he’d named it. Of course he’d put it back together. And of course he’d braced for her to think he was a freak.

She smiled faintly at him. “You’re a little strange, Richie Gecko.”

He stiffened automatically, a flash of tension running through his frame.

Then, before she could second-guess herself, she added, gently, almost shocking herself, “I like it.”

The words felt strange on her tongue - so ordinary, yet so bold, spoken to him, to this boy, here, now. A thrill of surprise rippled through her at her own audacity.

Richie’s head lifted just slightly, the movement deliberate despite his weakness. Surprise flickered across his face - quick, raw - and then softened into something almost like pleased embarrassment. His hand lifted towards his face, and Kate knew he was trying to adjust glasses that weren't there. His shoulders straightened a fraction, the tension easing as if the compliment had been a small, tangible comfort.

“Yeah?” he asked again, quieter this time.

“Yeah.”

His eyes held hers a moment longer, lingering, and something in her chest warmed. She shifted, caught between staying and giving him space, fingers brushing the desk absentmindedly, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hiss of the paused movie, the distant hum of the AC, and Richie’s shallow breaths as he eased back down onto the edge of the bed.

“You want me to…leave?” she asked quietly, careful not to break the fragile stillness.

He shook his head, though slowly, carefully. “Nah. Just…sit.” His voice was low, ragged, but steady enough. Then, almost as if in afterthought, “…It’s better when you’re here.”

Immediately, he froze.

It was subtle - his shoulders stiffened again, his jaw tightening as if he wished he could bite the words back. And the look on his face…

Kate felt something in her chest stutter.

Better?

Fox forgotten, her mind snagged on the word, turning it over and over, scrambling her thoughts. Better because she wasn’t loud? Because she didn’t make fun of him? Because she’d said she liked that he was strange?

Or better because -

Her pulse kicked. She shifted in the desk chair, the springs whining a little in protest. Pulling her hands into her lap, she knotted her fingers together and stared down at them for a moment, saving her from having to look at Richie.

I like being here.

The words hovered, right at the back of her teeth.

She imagined how they’d sound in the quiet room. How he’d look at her if she said them. Would he retreat? Laugh it off? Pretend he hadn’t meant it?

Finally she glanced up, and her heart sank. He looked so tense now, like he was already preparing for the misunderstanding. Or worse - maybe her running screaming from the room.

And suddenly it felt dangerous. Like she stood balanced precariously at the edge of a very long drop, with no way to know how far down the bottom was.

So instead, she swallowed the words down, tucking them somewhere in a little space beneath her ribcage where they wouldn’t do any harm.

Then, summoning what she could of her courage, she stood from the desk chair and slowly, lest she spook him, moved to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. Holding her breath, she shifted closer. Just enough that her shoulder brushed his again, warm and solid and unmistakably there.

It had seemed to help him, the other night on the couch. Touch as an anchor. Just the barest amount of contact, but sometimes that was all it took. It was the way she worked, too - she thrived on it in her own quiet way.

“I can sit,” she said softly.

It wasn’t what she’d almost said. But it wasn’t nothing.

For a second he stayed stiff - and then, gradually, some of the tightness left him. Not completely. Just enough to breathe.

The silence that followed felt altered. Charged in a way it hadn’t been before. Like something had tilted between them, just a degree, and neither of them quite knew what to do with it.

The fox sat forgotten on the desk. The movie remained paused. The room was dim and humming and too small for how big that one sentence had felt.

And they stayed there anyway.

For a while, neither of them moved.

The tension didn’t disappear so much as settle - like dust in sunlight, still there if you looked for it, but no longer choking the air. Richie reached for the remote eventually, turning it over in his hands like he needed something to do with them.

“You gonna make me watch the rest of this in silence?” he asked, aiming for casual and almost landing it.

Kate huffed softly, grateful for the lifeline. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A few minutes later, they were situated back on the bed, Richie partly propped up beside her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye; sweat was drying at his temples, and a bit of color had returned to his cheeks.

“Do I pass inspection?” He asked hoarsely, eyes on the TV as he pushed play.

“For now,” she returned dryly.

In response Richie paused the movie. Unpaused it. Paused it again. The effect was such that it looked like Patrick was seizing.

Kate let out an inelegant snort before she could stop it; beside her, Richie’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Oh, my God - give me that, you’re gonna make yourself sick again. You really are twelve.” She plucked the remote from his weak grasp.

Soon enough they were back on track. Ever so slowly, Richie began to slide his way down onto the bed, until his head leaned against Kate’s thigh. He continued with the commentary.

When Kate bit back another smile at one of Patrick’s lines, Richie shook his head, his hair spilling across her leg. “Falling for the bad guy,” he muttered.

“He’s not the bad guy,” she argued. “He’s misunderstood.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He has layers.”

“Layers,” Richie repeated flatly. “He robs banks in a Halloween mask.”

“It’s philosophical.”

“It’s felony.”

She prodded him lightly in the back.

It was at this point that Uncle Eddie poked his head in. He saw them, took in their positions - Kate on the bed, Richie’s head nearly in her lap - and she swore she saw his lips twitch, but he didn’t say anything. “Get you guys anything? Rich, you should try and eat something.”

Richie gave a weak groan. Kate poked him again. “You won’t feel any better if your stomach’s trying to eat itself.”

With a beleaguered sigh, Richie rolled his head to look at Eddie. “We got any Campbell’s?”

“Got some more just today.”

“Yay,” came Richie’s feeble response. Kate did her best not to smile.

“Kate, it’s just chicken and stars on the stove, but we’ve got plenty. Want some?”

She blinked. “I - okay, sure. Thank you.”

Eddie winked at her before disappearing down the hall. On screen, Johnny was arguing with the main girl, Tyler. Kate yawned, and Richie caught it. “Need a nap?”

“Mm, maybe,” Kate said drowsily. “Gotta stay awake to get home, though. Before 6:30.” Automatically she checked Richie’s bedside clock. Just after five. They had time. She relaxed further into the pillow behind her, leaning her head back against the headboard. Richie rolled his head again, pressed his temple into her leg. She could feel his glasses dig into her.

It wouldn’t kill her dad if she was a little late making dinner. Just the once.

A little while later, soup bowls situated and Sprites on the bedside table, Richie spoke up again. He seemed to be picking up the thread that Uncle Eddie had interrupted.

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, clutching his chicken and stars to him. “You should be careful with that. Whole falling-for-the-bad-guy thing.”

Kate glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at her, but at the TV. The light from the screen flickered over his face, reflecting off his glasses so that it was hard to read his expression. It was a little disconcerting when that happened, when she couldn’t see enough of him to get a bead on him. Like he was almost alien, some exotic creature she’d never encountered before.

She was still trying to decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

She pushed those thoughts aside to answer him. “And why is that?” She asked, her tone easy.

Finally he turned to meet her eyes, blue eyes serious, still over-bright with fever, breaking through the lightness of moments before.

“Because,” he said slowly, “sometimes the bad guy doesn’t look like one.”

Again, the air shifted. Kate felt it happen in real time; one minute there was just the soft hum of the TV and the clink of spoons against bowls, and the next, it was as if the space between them had pulled taut, laden with something unsaid that neither of them dared to voice.

Apparently, being sick didn’t stop him from being Richie. The same Richie who could turn a quiet moment into some impossible, head-tilting conversation, and somehow she always ended up along for the ride.

But she looked at him, and saw there was was no humor to soften the words, no smirk to dull their edge. Just straightforward and earnest. Kate felt something in her chest tighten - not with fear, not exactly. Not entirely a warning, either. Something infinitely more complicated.

Something almost like an awareness.

It’s better when you’re here.

The words drifted back to her, unbidden. Softer now, but with enough weight behind them that they seemed to pin Kate to the bed.

Then the thought hit her, like a sucker punch: was this a warning? Was he talking about himself? Why would he say it was better if he was trying to warn her away? She swallowed past a sudden obstruction in her throat, daring to look back at him.

He hadn’t stopped watching her, blue eyes glittering behind their lenses. Not teasing now, not performing for the audience. Just waiting.

Waiting for what? For her to flinch? To argue? To leave?

He doesn’t look like one, she thought, and immediately hated herself for it. That was exactly Richie’s point.

And yet - he looked warm. Barefoot. Folded up on the bed with a bowl of soup in his hands. Hair falling into his eyes. Watching her, like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t even known he was asking - and she hated the way her stomach curled, the way her thoughts canted toward him, as if with just a look he could pull her off-balance.

Her throat went dry.

She knew what a bad guy was supposed to look like. She’d been raised on sermons about temptation and wolves in sheep’s clothing and the wages of sin. Her father had instilled a reactive fear of anything other in her at an early age, and she hated that it had seemed to work. Until now.

And none of those lessons had prepared her for this: for wanting to lean closer anyway. For noticing the shape of his mouth when he said those words.

For wondering - stupidly, recklessly - what it would feel like if he stopped holding himself so carefully around her.

What is wrong with you? she demanded silently.

Was she just being contrary? Rebellious? Drawn to the exact kind of trouble she’d been warned about her whole life? Because if nothing else, the Geckos were just that.

Or - was she seeing something real?

Because he didn’t sound proud. He sounded…unsure. And honest. And that honesty pulled at her more surely than arrogance ever could.

He was still watching her. Waiting. For what? Hadn’t she already given him a second chance once? Was he really that wary of her?

Oddly enough, his expression reminded her of Seth’s, that night in his Mustang, driving her home. When she’d cried, and he’d been so startled at first and yes, wary. Like she was the strange new animal, one he didn’t know what to do with.

Her heart was beating hard in her throat, now. Not because she felt unsafe.

Because she felt seen.

Maybe I don’t want him to be safe, she realized, the thought startling in its clarity. Her fingers tightened briefly on her bowl, knuckles whitening.

That was worse.

That was infinitely worse.

Kate held his gaze a moment too long. “Good thing I don’t scare that easy,” she murmured, and she almost believed it.

His mouth curved slowly, something flickering there - relief? curiosity?

“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

The moment stretched, quiet and full of unsaid things, before reality intruded in the form of half-eaten soup and movie drama. Richie, having finished his own bowl - or at least pretending to - had stretched out, letting his head rest fully on her thigh this time. He didn’t even try to be subtle about it. Kate felt her mouth tug at the corners, and she laid her bowl off to the side, resting a hand lightly on his back. He made a soft noise, but didn't stir.

Onscreen, the tension built toward the final sequence - wind, waves, impossible choices. Richie’s commentary slowed, growing more sporadic.

“Keanu’s making terrible life decisions,” he murmured as Johnny Utah ran across the beach.

“Shh.”

“He’s whipped.”

“Richie.”

He huffed a faint laugh, but it lacked its earlier spark. His head lolled back, so he could get a better look at her.

“You’re definitely - ” he started, then paused.

“Definitely what?”

He blinked slowly, looking as if he were about to nod off right there. “Nothing.” Then, moving at a snail’s pace, as if every movement cost him, he slid off of her lap and beside her on his stomach.

“Are you sure you should be laying like that?” She asked before she could stop herself, then winced. Preventative maintenance, she reminded herself.

“Feels okay,” he mumbled into the pillow. His arm shifted around slowly, sliding across her waist as he adjusted. His hand settled against her far side, warm even through the fabric of her shirt.

She froze for a second. He didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, already halfway under.

Kate swallowed. “That’s a weird compliment,” said softly, but she couldn’t help but settle a hand gingerly on his arm, fingers fluttering there hesitantly.

“Not a compliment,” he slurred softly. “Just…true.”

Onscreen, the final confrontation built toward its crescendo - shouting over crashing waves, choices made and unmade. Richie’s breathing evened out again.

His weight leaned fully into her now, arm draped securely across her middle, fingers loosely curled around her hip like he’d anchored himself there without meaning to. Her fingertips grazed his wrist; she could feel his pulse, warm and slow and steady against her skin.

“Hey,” she whispered.

No response.

She looked down. He was out completely.

The movie thundered toward its ending, but he missed it. Kate let it play anyway.

Carefully, she shifted just enough to ease them both into more comfortable positions without dislodging his arm. He stirred faintly, but didn’t wake, his grip tightening for a brief second before relaxing again.

She glanced back at the screen - at the storm, at the bad choices, at the boy who let the outlaw go.

Then she looked down at the one asleep against her.

Better, she thought to herself.

And didn’t move.

One bright, crisp morning, right around the beginning of October, Richie didn’t show. Seth came stomping up the steps on his own, looking disgruntled and more tired than usual as he slurped from his ever-present coffee cup. Kate scanned the space around him, coming up empty.

“Hey. Where - “

“Idiot’s sick.” Slurp. “I told him he shouldn’t have tried that new taco stand down the street. Looked skeevy. But nooo, he had to try the horchata.” Yawn.

They headed for Kate’s locker - didn’t the boy ever use his? - and Seth took up his usual post behind her, hanging off of her locker door. He yawned again, a huge, jaw-cracking affair that he muffled in the crook of his elbow. Kate dug around for her Spanish textbook. “He got sick from horchata?”

“They used milk. Only thing it coulda been.”

“Oh. Ew.”

Seth snorted. “Tell me about it. He didn’t stop pukin’ all night.” He said this as if he personally had been wronged by it.

“Oh, my God! Poor guy.” Kate felt a sharp pang of sympathy; she’d gotten food poisoning just last year from a deli; it hadn’t been the most enjoyable experience, that was for sure.

By the end of the day, it looked like coffee was the only thing holding Seth up. He’d appeared several times over the course of the day, each time holding a different paper cup filled with the stuff; he must have been sneaking into the caf for it.

“Did - were you up all night, too?” She finally had to ask, as the day wound down.

Seth shrugged, tossing the empty vessel of his latest coffee run into the trash as they headed for her locker for tonight’s textbooks. “Like I said, he was up makin’ a racket all damn night. I couldn’t sleep.”

Despite the seriousness of Richie being ill, Kate couldn’t help but let a corner of her mouth tick upward. She knew without a doubt that Seth must have kept checking on him. But she knew he wouldn’t appreciate her pointing this out; he’d make light of it, say something to deflect the entire thing away from him. So she kept her mouth shut until they got to her locker.

Biting her lip as she pulled out her homework, Kate got up the courage to ask if she could come over and check on Richie. Seth sighed, looking up to the heavens for a minute. “Sure, why not. I swear, you are such a mom sometimes.”

Kate felt a hot little wave of embarrassment wash over her; no girl wanted to hear that from a guy they - well. No girl liked to be told they were a mom, from anyone.

It wasn’t that she minded taking care of people; it was just that she didn’t want him thinking that was all she was good for.

“Thanks for that,” she said dourly, feeling herself start to redden. Determined to bypass the moment, Kate stuck her face in her locker so he wouldn’t see her blushing, and grabbed up the rest of her books.

Then they set off towards the doors. “Hey, last week you told me to tie my shoes. And before that, my shirt was buttoned wrong. Before that - “

“Oh, my God,” Kate muttered. Her face was permanently red now, it seemed. She hurried ahead of him to hide it. Behind her, she could hear him laughing.

His legs were decidedly longer than hers, and he loped up to her easily. Fortunately, he didn’t say anything else as they made their way to the car. He let her in, then slid into the driver’s seat.

Eventually, after fiddling with the radio for a minute and giving up in favor of one of Seth’s tapes, she asked, “I don’t really nag you, do I?”

She watched Seth out of the corner of her eye, saw his eyes crinkle as he raised a hand, measuring the tiniest distance between thumb and forefinger. “Little bit.”

Kate pursed her lips in consternation, turning to glare out the window, and Seth chuckled.

“You worry too much,” he said.

“With the way you two carry on, someone has to,” she shot back.

He didn’t answer right away. She could feel his eyes on her for a lingering moment before he looked back at the road. How was he so good at that, driving without looking?

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Guess they do.”

The tape hissed softly before the first guitar riff kicked in, filling the space between them.

He never did bring up the other night, when she’d had her fun little breakdown, for which she was immeasurably grateful. Had it really happened only last week?

It had taken her several hours of tossing and turning later that night before she’d been able to process exactly what had happened. It kept replaying over and over in her head, from all different angles. Relentless. And she had decided she was mortified that she’d not only cried all over him, but had hugged him the way she had. Threw myself at him, more like. Like he was Scott or something - easy, familiar, safe.

And that was the problem.

Because it had been easy. She hadn’t even thought before leaning across the console, before wrapping her arms around him like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was just like in the restroom. But at the same time, nothing like it. Then, Kate had been comforting him. It hadn’t been her, weeping and needy, flinging herself into his arms like some bodice-ripper heroine. She’d been calm, collected, in control of the situation. She hadn’t just dumped six plus months’ worth of trauma in his lap.

She remembered how he’d gone completely still beneath her hands - not stiff, not pushing her away. Just…still. Like he’d been waiting to see what she would do next. Like in the bathroom, and yet...she kept remembering the look on his face, when she'd turned in her seat after showing him her floor. And how close he'd been. He hadn't moved away for several beats. If she hadn't known any better -

She’d pulled back from the hug first. Of course she had.

She didn’t let herself linger on what might’ve happened if she hadn’t.

She just hoped he didn’t mention it to Richie - though a part of her thought that she might not mind all that much if he did. It wasn’t like they’d be telling anyone else about it. Right?

“Besides, it’s not really nagging,” he added after a minute, interrupting her somewhat confused thoughts. “It’s…preventative maintenance.”

She glanced back at him despite herself. One hand rested loose on the wheel, the other draped across the windowsill, open air ruffling his hair and tugging at the collar of his camo jacket. He looked so at ease in that moment, not worrying about Richie or school or probation. He looked - and she hated herself a little for how cliche it sounded - cool. “That is not better,” she finally grumbled.

“Keeps me from walkin’ around lookin’ like an idiot,” he said easily. “Somebody’s gotta.”

Despite herself, Kate tried - and failed - not to smile. She bit her lip, turning to watch out the window. Outside, the streets blurred past in bands of early autumn sunlight, the air still warm but promising colder days.

“You’re welcome,” she muttered.

Seth just smirked and turned up the music.

He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. For a second, neither of them moved.

“Ready?” he asked.

Kate nodded, a sudden flurry of butterflies making itself known in her belly. Stupid, she told herself as she let Seth round the hood of the car so he could let her out. You’ve been here before. There’s no reason to turn chicken now.

The house felt quieter than last time as they stepped inside. No footsteps down the hallway, no Uncle Eddie coming to welcome her with his cup of coffee. Just the low hum of electricity and the soft thud of Seth’s boots against the floor as he toed them off.

She reacted accordingly, copying him and slipping out of her Docs to place them beside his own military boots. For a moment she stood there, staring at the two pairs of shoes as they sat innocuously side by side, a funny feeling stealing over her.

“He’s in his room,” Seth said, and the moment was broken. He hesitated a fraction of a second before adding, almost casually, “He hasn’t been able to keep anything down. So maybe don’t make him laugh too hard.”

Kate smiled a little, mouth softening. “I won’t.”

Seth shrugged like it didn’t matter either way and disappeared into the kitchen. “Hey, want anything to drink?” He called out.

“Um, root beer if there's any? Please.”

She lingered a moment in the entryway, listening. The house carried that strange stillness that only happened when someone inside it didn’t feel well - like even the walls knew to keep their voices down. From the kitchen she caught the dull tink of glass being shifted around.

Seth came out from the kitchen, brown bottle in hand, catching her still standing by the door. “Well, shit, what are you waiting for? We don’t bite.” He flashed her a grin that was all teeth. “Not unless you ask.”

“I’ll be sure and remember that,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and choosing to pointedly ignore the way her stomach flipped at his smile. She wandered further into their domain, eyes going to the now-familiar living room setup, to the kitchen door tucked just beyond it.

There weren’t a lot of personal items; decorations were sparse, as seemed to be the rule in a bachelor pad. But the items that were in view - ones she’d spied last time but had been too nervous to inspect - promised to be interesting.

They were photographs; just three, but displayed right by the door to the kitchen, front and center. Curious, she started to step closer, but Seth intercepted her.

“C’mon, our rooms are down here.” He handed off the bottle to her, and she noted that the cap was already off. Of course he noticed her noticing. “What, you think I poisoned it or something?”

The photographs were forgotten, for the time being. Seth’s voice was full of feigned outrage, and she turned to give him a look of wide-eyed affront. “Of course I don’t.” She took a tiny sip, paused. “Not your style, is it?” Together they wandered down the dark hallway, the ancient, worn carpet muffling their steps.

“Oh, yeah? Enlighten me.”

She looked him up and down. “Would you be very offended if I said ‘shoot first, ask questions later?’”

He barked out a laugh, then caught himself, wincing as they came to stand in front of a closed door on the right side of the hallway, towards the end. Lowering his voice, he muttered, “shit. Guy’s probably asleep. He better be.”

Kate caught it, the slight shift in his tone, the irritation masking something warmer, something that she knew was concern. The sound caught at something soft in her chest, and she slid a small smile in his direction as he softly knocked on Richie’s door. He didn’t notice, or at least pretended not to.

They waited a beat, then, when there was no answer, Seth grunted and cracked the door open a little bit.

She caught a glimpse of shelves, overflowing with books, before Seth opened the door more fully.

The curtains were half-drawn, muting the afternoon light into something pale and dusty. The air smelled faintly of something medicinal, undercutting its more natural scent; cigarettes and cologne and boy.

Stacks of paperbacks spilled out of several different bookshelves. A record player sat in the corner, along with several milk crates overflowing with vinyl - Bowie, The Clash, something older with a cracked sleeve. Action figures stood posed across the dresser like a frozen battle mid-impact. Not scattered. Arranged. Intentional.

Posters on the wall. More bands, and what she guessed were video games. She caught a glimpse of skin, and looked quickly away before Seth caught her staring.

Her eyes moved to the desk. Away again. Then slid back, blinking in surprise.

Thinking she’d try to get a closer look later, she looked back at the bed.

Richie was sprawled across it diagonally, one arm flung over his eyes like the light itself had personally offended him. The blankets were twisted around his legs, kicked loose and then dragged back up at some point in the night. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts, flattened on one side where he’d clearly been turning restlessly.

He looked smaller like this. Not physically - he was still all long, sturdy limbs and hard angles - but stripped of the restless energy that usually filled a room before he even walked into it. The sharpness was gone. What was left was the boy underneath it.

For a second, she just stood there, staring.

Seth gave a low snort. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

As low as his voice had been, it seemed to catch Richie’s attention. He made a low, miserable sound and shifted, dragging his arm down from his face. His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first - and then landed on her.

He frowned a bit, squinting painfully. “You real?”

Kate leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, trying not to smile. “Unfortunately.”

The frown deepened, and he tried to raise his head, but couldn’t seem to muster the energy to follow through.

“Feels like a hallucination,” he muttered hoarsely. “Pretty one, though. So that tracks.”

Kate’s face did a thing. She focused very hard on a crack in the paint near the light switch. He’s sick, so he gets a free pass on that one, she thought a bit wildly.

From beside her, Seth scoffed. “Jesus. He’s been conscious ten seconds.”

Richie shifted again, attempting to prop himself up on one elbow. It did not go well. He made a face like gravity had personally betrayed him and flopped back down.

“Don’t let her wear you out, man,” Seth added dryly. “You’ll probably never recover.”

Kate’s eyes went even wider. She stared harder at the wall, as if it had suddenly become deeply fascinating.

Richie blinked at his brother, processing that through whatever fever-fog remained. Then he made a valiant, if misguided, attempt to grab the nearest pillow and chuck it in Seth’s direction.

The pillow slipped from his fingers almost immediately, dropped straight down onto his own chest, and stayed there.

There was a long beat where no one said anything.

“…Shut up,” Richie croaked weakly, too exhausted to even sound offended.

Seth snickered, mockery plain in his voice. “Pathetic.”

Kate cleared her throat, still examining the wall like she was preparing to file a formal complaint about it. “You,” she said, without looking at either of them, “are both twelve.”

Richie let his head loll toward her, hair falling into his eyes. “You came to see me,” he said, like he’d just solved some complicated math equation.

She risked a glance at him, which proved to be a mistake. He was looking at her with a dazed, unguarded expression - stripped down and soft in a way he’d probably deny later. It was the fever, no doubt.

“I heard you tried to poison yourself with dairy,” she said briskly. There, that was safe.

He huffed a weak laugh that turned into a cough. “Worth it.”

Seth snorted. “You were crying at three in the morning.”

“I was not.”

“You totally were.”

Richie closed his eyes again, exhausted, clearly conceding defeat. “You’re a terrible nurse.”

“Yeah,” Seth said easily. “And you’re a terrible patient.”

Kate’s mouth twitched despite herself, though she kept her gaze carefully fixed somewhere over Richie’s shoulder. From the corner of her eye she saw him crack one eye open again, studying her.

Seth was shaking his head. “I gotta get ready for work,” he grumbled, and pointed at the two of them. “Children, behave yourselves.” Without waiting for a reaction from either of them, he stalked off to a door that lay adjacent to Richie’s at the end of the hall.

Kate, cheeks still smarting slightly, shook her head.

“You’re real,” Richie decided quietly.

Her expression softened before she could stop it, lips compressing in a small smile as she finally looked back at him. “Nothing gets past you, huh.”

Richie groaned and let his head loll back against the pillow again. “If you’re here to make fun of me, take a number. He’s been at it since two a.m.”

“No, apparently I’m here to ‘mother’ you.” She stated this dryly, with a pointed roll of her eyes back towards Seth’s door.

“Great. Did he call you in as a consultant?” There was a petulant note in his voice that made Kate bite the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t laugh.

“Specialist, actually. I deal exclusively in stubborn idiots.”

He tried to snort at that. It immediately backfired. His hand flew to his stomach, and he curled up on his side with a sharp inhale. “Don’t,” he rasped. “Seth already tried that. I almost died.”

A pause. Then, “I mean, at least you’d die laughing,” she replied, arching a brow - though her mouth was already betraying her.

“Unbelievable,” Richie groaned, flopping an arm across his face again. “Here I lay, on my deathbed - “

“Hardly.”

“ - And you’re standing there trying to score as many damage points as possible.”

Shaking her head, she pushed away from the doorframe and crossed the room, perching carefully on the edge of the mattress. Up close, she could see the flush high on his cheekbones, the faint sheen at his temples. A lock of hair had fallen into his eyes when he turned.

Some instinct made her reach out and brush it back. Her fingers barely skimmed his forehead, but he stilled as if she was holding him there by some unseen force.

It was subtle - the way his breath caught for half a second - but she felt it. His eyes lifted to hers, clearer now, but carrying that same quiet openness, almost fragile in the heat of the fever.

“You don’t have to actually do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“The…” He made a vague gesture near his own face, like he couldn’t quite articulate it. “Mothering thing.”

She shrugged, her hand lingering for another moment before letting it fall back to her lap. “You just look like you lost a fight with your pillow.”

He blinked. “Rude.”

“But accurate.”

A faint smile ghosted across his mouth, but it didn’t fully form. He studied her for a moment - really studied her - like he was bracing for her to disappear on the spot. The room settled into a quiet that felt heavier than before.

She shifted slightly on the mattress. “Well. I should probably let you rest.”

His fingers twitched against the blanket. “Or,” he said, too quickly, then winced at the effort. He swallowed and tried again, softer. “Or you could just… stay. For a minute.

“I just…” He trailed off, jaw tightening like he already regretted starting the sentence. His gaze flicked toward the door and back to her. “Seth’s about to leave. I’d rather not...”

Be alone. Kate didn’t need to hear the words to know them.

The truth sat between them, unpolished and real. Kate couldn’t find it in her to tease him for it.

She shifted her weight instead, swinging her legs up carefully and settling more comfortably against the headboard. Close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

“For a minute,” she said.

The relief that moved across his face was quick - nearly invisible - but she saw it.

He adjusted slightly, turning onto his side to face her. His hand crept across the blanket like it wasn’t sure what it was doing, stopping just shy of her knee.

“Just until I fall asleep,” he murmured.

“Wow,” she said lightly. “Using me as a sedative. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”

He huffed the faintest breath of laughter - carefully this time.

“Best one I’ve got.”

His eyes drifted shut after that, tension slowly unwinding from his shoulders. Within a few minutes, his breathing evened out, deeper and steadier than before. Kate stayed still, listening to him breathe.

“…Don’t go,” he muttered a minute later.

Her mouth twitched. “You’re not asleep.”

“No,” he admitted, eyes still closed. “Working on it.”

She shifted slightly against the headboard, trying not to knock into him. “You should probably actually try.”

“I am.” A pause. One eye cracked open. “This would go faster with a distraction.”

“A distraction,” she repeated.

“Yeah.” He lifted his head, just barely, dazedly squinting around his room. “I know, Point Break. Classic comfort movie.”

Snorting softly, Kate peeled herself off the bed, and went over to Richie’s dresser, where at its base a couple of crates’ worth of tapes sat. She walked her fingers along the titles, searching, but came up empty.

“Nada. Sorry.”

“Check with Seth?” His voice came weak and pleading. He must really like that movie, whatever it is, she thought wryly.

“Sure. Be right back.”

She slipped out of the room and down the hallway to the end door. She knocked softly on the door with a sudden, oddly giddy feeling - she was going to get to see Seth’s room, too.

He yanked the door open almost immediately, brow furrowed. “‘sup? He need soup or somethin’?”

“No, he needs…Point Break?” She said the name with some hesitation; she’d heard of it before, but had no idea what it was about. What on earth would a ‘comfort movie’ look like for Richie?

Seth’s face went blank with confusion, then he scoffed loudly, rolling his eyes hard to knock himself over as he turned back into his room, leaving the door wide enough that she got a good look inside.

“Idiot’s got a yen for Patrick Swayze. Or maybe Keanu, I can’t keep track.”

“Ooh, it’s got Patrick Swayze?” She perked up some, even as her eyes darted hungrily from wall to wall, taking in as much as she could while she was allowed. There was a single bookshelf, the bed, a desk with what looked to be a dual cassette deck, a small TV perched on a low dresser, as well as a multitude of posters. Sparse and almost clinically neat; very different from Richie’s.

Her eyes caught on some of those posters, and belatedly she felt heat crawling up her cheeks, to her exasperation.

Of course Seth would also have pictures of half-naked women. Of course. She wasn’t sure about the brunette, not letting her eyes linger, but her eyes caught on the blonde in vague recognition; she was in a familiar red bathing suit, and Kate sifted through her memory. Then it clicked - Pamela Anderson, from Baywatch. Yet another show Kate only saw in passing; she wasn’t technically allowed to watch it.

“Oh, God, not you, too.” But he said it with an exasperated laugh, shaking his head as he rifled through a stack of tapes piled in razor straight precision on the dresser by the TV. He pulled one out. “Here.”

She took the tape from him, glancing down at the case. It featured the aforementioned actors; her heart skipped a little as she spied Patrick’s messy blonde waves. She half-smiled down at it, and from the corner of her eye saw Seth shaking his head again.

“He’s gonna be unbearable when he finds out,” he muttered darkly to himself. 

She finally looked up, a little dazed. “Finds out what?”

“That you perked up like that,” he said flatly. “Guy’s already dramatic. Don’t hand him material.”

She was getting red again, she just knew it. Glowering at him, she said stiffly, “I did not perk.”

He gave her a knowing, fully unimpressed look. “You perked.”

She clutched the tape to her chest defensively. “It’s Patrick Swayze!”

“Yeah,” Seth said dryly. “And?”

“And -” She faltered, because there wasn’t really an argument that didn’t make it that much worse. God, her face was just doing its own thing today, wasn’t it. It had been red for the vast majority of it.

“Unbelievable,” he huffed, brushing past her into the hallway. “C’mon. Before he passes out for real and we have to listen to him whine later about missing the opening credits.”

She followed, trying to compose her features into something neutral and failing miserably. “You’re very judgmental for someone with Baywatch posters.”

He didn’t break stride. “They’re cultural.”

“Right.”

“They’re iconic.”

“Uh-huh.”

He shot her a sideways look. “Don’t start.”

She smiled despite herself, cheeks still smarting.

They reached Richie’s door, and Seth nudged it open with his knuckles. “Movie delivery,” he announced.

Richie, eyes still closed, made a faint, hopeful noise.

Kate stepped back toward the bed, holding up the tape like an offering, watching the way Richie’s brow knitted as he concentrated on not moving too quickly.

And from behind her, Seth added casually, “She was real excited about it, by the way.”

Kate froze.

Richie’s eyes cracked open immediately.

“She was what?” he rasped.

Seth leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding loosely across his chest. “Real excited,” he repeated. “Lit up like it was Christmas morning.”

Kate did not turn around. She would not dignify that with eye contact. She stared fixedly at the television as if willing it to turn itself on.

“I did not,” she said tightly.

Richie pushed himself up a fraction, wincing at the effort but grinning anyway. “You like Swayze?”

There was something unbearably smug in the way he said it. Like now he was the one with something to hold over her head.

“It’s a classic,” Kate said, lifting her chin just slightly, like that settled it.

Richie’s grin turned slow and dangerous. Amazing how that happened when he was supposedly on his deathbed.

“Oh, it’s a classic,” he echoed, voice thin but delighted. “Hear that, Seth? She said classic.”

“I heard,” Seth replied from the doorway. “That’s a strong opinion for someone who was just judging it by the cover art.”

“I was not judging it,” Kate shot back, still not turning around. “I was making an informed cultural decision.”

Richie blinked at her. “An informed - Kate.” He started to laugh, then coughed. “Bad idea,” he reminded himself weakly.

“It’s iconic,” she insisted. “People reference it all the time.”

“Name one reference,” Seth said mildly.

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

“That’s so not the point.”

Richie let out a wheeze that passed for a careful laugh. “Oh no. You have absolutely never seen this movie.”

“I’ve absorbed it by proximity,” she said quickly. “It exists in the cultural landscape.”

Seth tilted his head. “So what drew you in, exactly? The gripping exploration of masculinity? The socio-economic commentary?”

Kate crossed her arms. “The aesthetic.”

Richie’s eyebrows shot up. “The aesthetic.”

“Yes.”

“Of what?” he pressed. “Bank robbers? Surfboards? Or Mr. Swayze’s…contribution to cinema?”

She refused to look at either of them, then, pulse fluttering in embarrassment. “He has presence.”

“Presence,” Richie repeated, clearly thrilled.

Seth made a thoughtful hum. “You did stare at the case for a long time.”

“I was absorbing.”

“You were smiling down at his face,” Seth corrected.

Richie shifted, wincing again, but still managing to prop himself up just enough to look at her like she was the most entertaining thing he’d seen in a good while. “You like the hair, Fuller?”

“It’s very chic,” she said defensively.

“So that’s a yes.”

Kate threw him a Look. “You are enjoying this far too much for someone who makes questionable food choices.”

“Mm,” he said, eyes glinting. “And if Patrick Swayze takes his shirt off, you’re going to remain completely academic about it?”

She grabbed up a pillow and lobbed it at him.

He barely had the strength to lift an arm, but he laughed briefly anyway, catching it against his chest.

“Careful,” he rasped. “I’m fragile.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“No, I’m cultured. Unlike you, apparently,” he corrected hoarsely.

Seth snorted.

Kate strode over to the dresser, and jammed the tape into the VCR with finality. “If either of you ruin this for me, I’m finding an infomercial.”

Richie’s grin softened at the edges as he sank deeper into the pillows, sickly but satisfied. “Sure you are,” he murmured.

And Seth, from the doorway, added dryly, “Spoken like a true academic.”

That absolutely tore it. “Oh my God,” she muttered, scanning for something - anything - within reach. Her eyes landed on a pile of rubber bands sitting near the edge of Richie’s desk.

“Okay, you know what?”

She scooped one up, twanging it between her fingers, and aimed squarely at Seth. His brows shot up. “Oh, you wouldn’t - ”

She did. It caught him cleanly in the shoulder.

He stared at her like she had just committed a federal offense. “Did you just - ?”

“Yes,” she said, already reloading.

He straightened slowly, deeply affronted. “I bring you culture. I supply the tape. And this is the gratitude I get?”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” she shot back. “Or are you on permanent harassment duty?”

Richie made a weak, breathy laugh into his pillow.

Seth pointed at him accusingly. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Too late,” Richie murmured. “She’s armed now.”

Kate pulled the rubber band back again, sighting down it with exaggerated precision. “I have excellent aim.”

“You seriously do not,” Seth said.

She let it fly.

This one missed - it ricocheted harmlessly off the doorframe.

There was a pause while everyone absorbed that.

Richie, still pale and rumpled and half-delirious, managed, “Specialist, huh?”

She turned slowly toward him.

“Careful,” he added faintly, eyes gleaming. “You’re losing.”

“Oh, I am not - ”

From the doorway, Seth clucked his tongue. “You are. That one wasn’t even close.”

“That’s it,” she said.

She marched toward the door before she could second-guess herself, planted both hands flat against Seth’s chest, and shoved.

He stumbled back a step into the hallway more from surprise than force. “Whoa - hey - assault - ”

“You are done,” she informed him, pushing again.

“I live here!” he protested, digging his heels in dramatically but allowing himself to be herded. “This is a shared residence! I have rights!”

“Exercise them somewhere else.”

“You wound me,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his heart as she continued walking him backward. “After everything I’ve done for you. The tape. The cultural enrichment - ”

“Goodbye, Seth.”

“This is censorship - ”

The door swung shut in his face with a solid click.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, from the other side of the door: “Oppression!”

Kate stood there for a second, breathing a little harder than necessary, hand still on the knob. A little bit in shock that she’d just dared to do that. She could still feel the hard muscles of his chest shifting beneath her hands. Discreetly, she flexed them, willing away the sensation.

Behind her, Richie laughed. It wasn’t a full laugh this time - just soft and helpless and thoroughly entertained.

Slowly, she turned. He was grinning at her like she’d just performed a feat of magic. “What?” she demanded.

“You,” he said, still smiling, “just herded my brother. Like a sheepdog.”

She blinked. “I did not herd - ”

“You did.”

“I gently encouraged - ”

“You manhandled him.”

Her eyes widened. “I did not manhandle him.”

Richie’s grin only deepened. He looked as smug as when he’d teased her about Swayze’s hair. “You totally did.”

Heat bloomed in her face all over again, pulse spiking - for an entirely different reason this time.

“I was making him leave,” she said defensively.

“Uh-huh.”

She pointed at him. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am,” he said, settling back into his pillow, pale but pleased. “This is very restful.”

From the hallway, Seth’s muffled voice floated back in. “I can still hear you, by the way.”

Kate lunged for the door again.

“Don’t you dare!” Seth yelped, footsteps retreating rapidly.

Richie’s hoarse laughter followed him all the way down the hall.

The sun was sinking beneath the clouds in a haze of pink and gold, a sight Kate appreciated as the three of them plunged into the crowd. She clung to Richie’s hand, as much to anchor herself as to make sure he wouldn’t wander off without them. Seth lagged a few steps behind, head on a swivel.

“So what did you wanna do first?” Richie put his mouth to her ear so she could hear him over the dull roar of the crowd, tugging her along after him down the causeway. The evening air was filled with the smell of popcorn, spun sugar, and too many bodies pressed in together. Kate took a deep breath, letting the scent catch on something old and fond and just out of reach.

She shook it off, focusing on the feel of Richie’s hand in hers. “I want a snack and a stuffed animal,” she declared, clutching him tightly.

“What is this, kindergarten? You gonna need a nap, too, Fuller?” That was Seth.

Kate rolled her eyes, reaching back with her other hand. “Stop with the whole looming bodyguard thing and get up here. I don’t wanna lose you.”

He widened his stride until he drew parallel to them on Kate’s far side. “Not a chance,” he said gruffly, and took her offered hand. She squeezed it, and got a tighter grip in return.

“Cotton candy dead ahead. That work?” Came Richie’s voice near her ear again. She turned, and he was right there, the neon lights reflecting off his glasses and his grin.

“Yes, please,” she beamed up at him.

Then, snack procured, she dragged them off towards the games. “Shooters,” Seth insisted, and Kate agreed.

The balloons popped one after another under Seth’s aim - sharp cracks that cut through the low, constant din of the crowd and rides overhead. Kate and Richie whooped as he nailed the final one.

“Show-off,” she accused, laughing.

“You love it,” Seth said, smirking back at her.

The lights flickered brighter as the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, neon bleeding into everything - pink, blue, electric gold. The air felt thicker now, louder, alive in a way that made her head spin a little.

The airy music swelled - kiss me beneath the milky twilight - and she sighed happily, taking it all in. Arms now full of stuffed tiger, she handed her half-eaten cotton candy to Richie, who proceeded to inhale it.

“Great, he’ll be bouncing off the walls all night,” muttered Seth.

“You’re welcome,” Kate laughed. He tweaked her ponytail in retaliation.

Grinning, Kate hooked a finger into his belt-loop, steadying herself. He went still, and she leaned up, aiming for his cheek.

At the last second he turned, about to speak, and she caught the corner of his mouth instead. She felt his breath catch against her.

Blushing, she pulled back. Behind her, Richie piped up, sounding indignant. “Hey, where’s mine?”

“It’s not an orange, it’s a tangerine,” she informs him dryly. 

“Oh, well excuse me, Miss Tangerine Queen. How ignorant of me not to know the difference.” 

Kate rolls her eyes and pops another wedge in her mouth. He’s in a mood to tease, and it’s probably better that she keeps her mouth occupied or he’d be picking on her the whole way. 

But an old memory surfaces - Scott, she thinks wistfully - and the temptation is too great to resist. Trying to keep a straight face, she pushes the wedge in front of her teeth with her tongue. And she waits. 

He glances over a second later, catching her eye. Blinks. Stares.

She’s doing her best not to giggle. Waggling her brows, she silently dares him to say something.

“You,” he finally declares, “are a certified dork.”

“What,” she replies innocently, voice muffled. Then she slurps it down, a wet sound in the small space of the car. She is not embarrassed. “Watch the road,” she adds. 

Seth makes a noise low in his throat. He stretches, wedging a knee between the steering wheel and door. His hands aren’t even on the wheel. But they’re still going straight, which soothes her somewhat. Show-off.

She rolls her eyes, popping another slice in absentmindedly, and isn’t expecting it when he reaches over. Blinking, she looks around, just in time for him to grab her face in one hand and pull her in. She goes unresisting, eyes wide, and he kisses her, mouth opening hers wide, tongue sweeping inside and scooping up the piece of tangerine. He sucks it out of her mouth with a wet pop, and her entire body flushes as she watches him chew.

He smirks at her, licking the juice off his lips. She swallows. “Are you allowed to do that?” She whispers a little unsteadily, eyes on his mouth. That same mouth had been saying and doing things to her a few hours earlier that she’d never dared imagine before; she’s still so new to all this. She doesn’t know the rules, if there even are any at this point. 

She licks her own lips, and it’s there; sweet, sharp - and realizes he tastes like her now.

His mouth is running again, on autopilot as usual. Comebacks are as easy as breathing for him. He still can’t bring himself to look directly at her as he addresses her, however, choosing instead to pour himself a third, but doesn’t throw it back just yet.

“Don’t worry darlin,’ he’s just doin’ his job. Right?” Throat and head now a little numb, he looks at Jacob, at the way he’s holding himself. Like he knows something Seth doesn’t. Like he’s so above this place and time that he might as well be on another plane of existence.

It sets his teeth on edge, that look.

“Papa bears, they grumble.” A note of bitterness creeps in, despite himself. “It’s what Papa bears do.”

Jacob lifts his chin. “You think you’re in control ‘cause you got the keys? Think you’re on top of the world, don'tcha. The notorious Gecko brothers, got away clean with a cool few million in their pockets.”

He angles himself forward a little, eyes locked on his. “But guess what: you’re not. You’re at the bottom. And you’re scared.” His brows raise, then, and the look he gives Seth - it’s as if he’s found something disgusting on the sole of his shoe, and is now faced with the chore of scraping it off.

Immediately Seth is leaning over the table, pointing an accusatory finger at Jacob. “And you think you’re better than me. Don’t you. Pastor Jacob Fuller, too high and mighty to have a drink with a common thief.”

Seth’s reaction is visceral, knee-jerk honest. He’s not just talking to fill the dismal silence now. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t your lord and savior do just that? Didn’t he eat and drink with the criminals, the whores, the afflicted?” He gestures over his shoulder at the stage behind him.

“Or is that all a show? A smokescreen. Pulled the wool over your flock’s eyes, back in little Bethel, didn’t you, preacher. Your family - “

“You don’t get to talk about my family.” Jacob’s voice has gone rough around the edges.

Bullseye. Seth had known it would work, just as intended.

Family.

That’s the word that does it. Not the anger - Seth’s used to that. Not the posturing. It’s the way he says it. Like it still means something clean. Untouched. Like it belongs to him, and him alone.

Seth’s gaze flicks, quick and involuntary, to the girl. She’s eyeing him again, but when she sees him looking she averts her gaze across the table, towards her old man. She’s got this look on her face, when she glances over at Jacob - as if drawn, like someone at sea searching the horizon for land. Something in Seth’s chest tightens, sharp and mean.

Yeah. No. He can work with that.

He goes for the throat, then. Leaning back slowly in his seat, he hooks a deceptively casual hand around the back of the girl’s chair again. “Well, like it or not, we are a family.”

Jacob won’t understand - not for a while, not until the girl tells him, and Seth knows she will eventually. She keeps glancing at her father like it’s a reflex she can’t break.

That look grates on his nerves, yet somewhere locked behind his ribcage is the quietly pervasive hope that the preacher’s half the man she thinks he is.

“Maybe a broken, messed up, sad excuse for a family,” Seth continues doggedly, syllables a little looser now, though he knows nobody will notice - he’s too good at what he does, him with his flair for acting.

He rattles on. “But goddammit, we got love for each other, don’t we?”

The word sits wrong in his mouth - too soft, too close to something he doesn’t bother naming.

Ignoring that, he dares a glance in her direction before turning back to Jacob. His mouth curls just a bit as he rocks back in his seat, his hand never leaving the back of her chair. “Love and forgiveness.”

He knows how he sounds, right now. Mocking, glib. From the corner of his eye, he sees the girl’s brows lift, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

His grin leans crooked as he reclines back further in his chair, hand still stubbornly behind her, fingers just starting to feel a little distant at the tips. His body’s loosening up, thoughts running a shade slower now, but his mouth keeps pace out of habit.

“I mean, that’s what gets us through the day, right?”

The smile that follows never quite reaches his eyes. It never does. He holds Jacob’s gaze, not letting it drop. “Or is that somethin’ you only save for Sundays?”

The preacher doesn’t answer. Just holds his gaze, steady and unmoved - like Seth isn’t even worth engaging.

Seth is sick to death of that look. His guards wore it. Cops. Every good and righteous man who ever thought he had the moral high ground - right up until the mask slipped. Like he’s already been measured and found wanting. Like he’s nothing.

He blames the tequila for pretty much everything that happens after that.

Keeping his eyes on Jacob, Seth hooks his fingers into the back of the girl’s chair and pulls.

He hears her make a noise, a breathless little thing that makes his blood run hot, and all three of them startle in their seats, Jacob especially. There it is. Finally, another reaction.

Seth’s mouth curves, slow and satisfied, but his pulse has already kicked up a notch, something potent and heady threading through the alcohol buzz. He tells himself it’s just a sound, something he’s heard other women make. Nothing to read into.

Then he turns - again, tequila - and faces her head-on for the first time since she spoke the words.

Up close, it’s worse. Better. He can’t decide. There’s something about her that feels - familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense, like recognizing a place he’s never been.

He leans into it, forgetting for the briefest flicker of a moment that he’s not supposed to, that he should be keeping his distance. But he needs to see her react to what he’s about to say, hear it. Love and forgiveness. He wonders just how deep that Christian charity of hers goes.

“Alright,” he says, voice roughened just slightly, eyes on hers. “Here goes, sis.”

The word is deliberate. A jab. A cover. He watches carefully for a reaction, and gets a sharp look in return, quickly stifled.

He continues. “I left some bodies on the ground back in Kansas.” Casual, like he’s talking about the weather. “Now, no doubt they were good men and true - but they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they stood between me and my freedom.”

He tilts his head, just a fraction, studying her face up close for the first time. Waiting for something, anything.

It takes him a few seconds of watching her, but then, with a strange jolt in his chest, he realizes that her eyes aren’t hazel, like he’d first thought at the motel - they’re actually green, a soft jade that persists even through the strobing lights of the Twister. Right now they look startled; thick, full lashes trembling. There’s something soft but wary in them - prey assessing a predator.

Seth has to look away from her then, before he does something that would get him slapped - or worse. He levels a look at Jacob instead, hoping he doesn’t look as rattled as he feels.

Okay, so maybe he shouldn't have thrown those shots back so close together. Sue him for trying to make up for lost time.

He continues, speaking to Jacob, to Scott. “So I did what I had to do. What anybody would do.”

Fuck, that’s not true. He knows it. But it doesn’t matter.

He can feel it sitting there now, the shape of the thing he’s been circling since he said the words - love and forgiveness - handed out like it doesn’t cost anything. Like it fixes something.

Like it means something.

His gaze drifts back to her before he quite realizes he’s done it.

That’s how it works, right? Say the words. Mean them, don’t mean them. Doesn’t matter. You get absolved either way - that’s the deal. Don’t priests do this every day? Probably hear the most heinous shit imaginable, and yet they still have to say the words.

His lips twitch, something close to a smile, but not quite. Might as well test it.

He leans back in, eyes on her mouth. He can’t help himself. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

She hesitates - of course she does - and when she finally speaks, her voice is soft and unsure. “I - ”

He tilts his head toward her mockingly, closing the space just enough to catch the hitch in her breathing. “I can’t hear you.”

Her eyes flick away - not to him, but past him, to Jacob. Reflex. Always back to home. Something in Seth coils tighter at that, something hot and resentful.

Then she looks back. “I - yes.” This time it’s quicker. More certain, or at least more forceful.

“Yeah?” he presses, voice dropping low, but no less intent. “Yes what?”

A beat passes before she answers, more reluctantly now, like the words have to be pushed past her better judgment. As she says it, she gives him a look that says she’s just about fed up with his bullshit. “I forgive you.”

It hits him wrong. Or maybe right; it’s hard to tell through the light buzz he’s got going on. For a second, he almost -

No.

He nods, turning to look at Jacob triumphantly - See? Even your daughter has more sympathy for the devil than you. “Bingo.”

But of course, Jacob gives him jack shit. Typical.

He scoops up the shotglass, rolling it between his fingers for a moment, before throwing out a salute in the girl’s general direction. “Good girl.” And he knocks it back, staunchly ignoring the odd look he can see her giving him.

The shot hits like the others - hot, immediate - only now it lingers longer, settling in his head, in his limbs, softening the edges just enough to notice. Less aware of what’s at his back and more focused on what’s right in front of him.

He sets the glass back down with a soft thunk and turns to look at her again, right into her eyes. Hers widen, but she doesn’t look away this time.

“Okay,” he says firmly, voice settling into something quieter, more focused. “Now you.”

She frowns, obviously thrown. “Now me what?”

He watches her for a lingering moment. Tracks the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s still half-turned toward her father without realizing it.

Then his mouth curves, just a little.

“Confess.”

TBC.

Next up: Yep, more Twister.

Dividers credited to @saradika-graphics ❤️