My Girl. He didn't expect that to be her favorite movie, but he should have. Sentimental, heartbreaking, sweet; real. It capsulates her perfectly. When Brooke first walked through the doors of Pine Grove—designer sunglasses, designer bag, a strut that turned heads—she looked like a movie. Something sexy and mysterious. An erotic thriller like Basic Instinct or Wild Things. But after getting to know her, he noticed how soft and warm she was underneath all that Chanel and ice. It's heartwarming to know she trusts him enough to dissolve in his hands. She lets him see the vulnerable girl underneath the hard shell. He hopes she can't feel how fast his heart is beating.
The storm sounds distant, but not gone. The rain is still pelting the windows in the other room and blowing gusts of cold wind across rain-soaked floors. When the hurricane eventually fades into the twilight, her room will be wrecked and they'll have to find somewhere else for her to sleep. Benny will take Nick and volunteer their room. He doesn't care where he sleeps as long as he knows she's someplace warm and safe.
It just feels real, she says, and he nods even though he's never actually watched My Girl. What he's agreeing to is them, this—it feels too real to be a one-night thing. Saving each other changed everything. They're not just having reckless fun in rehab anymore. Their masks have slipped and their armor has fallen.
When her teeth begin to chatter, he holds her closer and wraps an arm around her back. When he talks, his voice is low—a gentle whisper against her cold cheek. He prays his breath smells good and that it doesn't smell like the spicy peanuts he was eating with Nick before the power went out. They were in the cafeteria before the storm hit, hanging around the vending machines and discussing baseball.
His eyes look up into hers when she bounces the question back to him. If anything, what movie would he choose to watch? His expression softens with a smile. He could say something obvious like The Sandlot, Angels in the Outfield, or Rookie of the Year - but something else comes to mind; something vulnerable. If she's going to open up, then he should too. "—Okay, don't laugh. But I would watch West Side Story." His face reddens because no one knows he likes old musicals. It doesn't go with his cool, mustang-riding, homerun-hitting persona. "Cry Baby, West Side Story, Grease...even, uhm, High School Musical." Why is he even telling her THIS? Well, if he's going to die, he might as well tell someone. This way at least ONE person knows the real him.
"Look, in my defense! I was in a band and I love music. The best ones are the older ones. '50s, '60s, '70s. There's something about old movies that feel...I don't know, magical." Embarrassed, he bites down on his bottom lip—if anyone finds out, they'll bully him relentlessly. Which is why he would normally say something safer like The Sandlot, Little Giants, or even Air Bud; because he loves dogs. Combine a golden retriever with a sport and you have a winner.
"And of course I'd let you fall asleep on me. I might even fall asleep on you if that would be okay?" He looks up, mesmerized by how beautiful she looks in the candlelight. Warm light flickers across her face and sparkles in her eyes. He wants to kiss her so bad, but he's overwhelmed with nerves and doesn't think she'd want him to.
Still flustered, he looks to the corner of the room where there's a small selection of damp paperbacks, including Pride and Prejudice, Say You'll Remember Me, Eleanor & Park, and Moonshot. They were quick grabs before the storm kicked in. If he could read any book it would have been Carve the Mark—a novel he's read many times over.
The snacks are closer so Benny reaches for those first. He stretches one arm out to reach for the bags of chips while keeping the other wrapped around Brooke. His hand rubs her back in soothing strokes, trying to keep her warm.
"Are you a salty girl or a spicy one? There's popcorn, but it's not drenched in an unholy amount of butter," he teases, grabbing a bag of SkinnyPop Popcorn. "Now you just have to choose the movie. It's no My Girl, but these are the books I grabbed. They're practically blind bags to me. I have no idea what any of 'em are about. But the baseball one looks cool."
Brooke tries—truly tries—not to react when he wraps an arm around her, but her body betrays her faster than her mouth ever could. Her breath slips out in a soft, shaky exhale, and she leans into him like her bones have been waiting for his permission.
That's when his warmth sinks into her and her shoulder presses against his chest. Her fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his coat without her even realizing it. Then, when he mentions West Side Story, she lifts her head just enough to look at him. And she beams.
Not the flirty kind, or the smirk she gives others when she’s performing for them. Nor the teasing curve of her lips that she uses to stay in control. No — this time is different. It's real. Unfiltered. It lights her whole face from the inside out.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, absolutely delighted. “You’re adorable.” She says it like she can’t help it. Like it slips out of her mouth before she has the chance to pull it back. And when he starts listing the others—
Cry-Baby. Grease. High School Musical, Brooke has to cover her mouth just to keep the laugh quiet, her shoulders shaking against him as she tries and fails not to melt at how embarrassed he looks.
“Benny Thompson,” she murmurs, lowering her hands and leaning in closer, “if you think for one second I am ever telling anyone you love High School Musical, you’re wrong. I’m keeping that a secret locked in a vault. With security. Maybe lasers. Who knows?”
She nudges her forehead lightly against his cheek — half affection, half reassurance. “And… I love that you love old musicals,” she adds more softly now. “It makes sense. They’re hopeful. Dramatic. Beautiful. And you—” her voice falters, then warms, “—you’re a lot softer than you pretend to be.”
He goes still at that. She notices. She feels the way his breath catches, the way his arm tightens around her back. And for some reason, she doesn’t tease him for it. Instead, she tilts her face so she can look up at him fully.
“You can fall asleep on me,” she says quietly. “I wouldn’t complain.” The way he looks away — flustered, overwhelmed, almost bashful — hurts in a good way. A way she knows she’ll replay later when she’s alone and pretending it meant less than it does now.
Then after he reaches for snacks, Brooke laughs under her breath as he stretch-reaches while refusing to let go of her. When his fingers graze her back, all slow and warm, her eyes flutter shut briefly for a second (or two).
She wants that hand to stay exactly where it is. Forever.
At the question about whether she’s salty or spicy, Brooke gives him a sideways glance. “Salty,” she says immediately. “Obviously.”
She plucks the SkinnyPop from his hand, grimacing like it personally offends her. Because, it does. It's not the movie theater kind, she prefers.
“I mean… thank you. But this popcorn is a crime. We’re committing enough sins in this coatroom without adding diet popcorn to the list.”
She sets it aside gently, then gestures to the books he grabbed. Her gaze catches on Moonshot — the baseball romance — and her brow arches. “Oh.” Her voice softens. “I’ve actually read this one.”
She hesitates. Then admits more calmly, “It’s really good.” Her chin tilts up, she's teasing him again but there's warmth underneath as she goes on to add, “Don’t get a big head about it just because there’s a hot baseball player on the cover.”
She reaches for the book, flipping it open, fingers brushing the page edges. She notices his eyes tracking her hands. Though, she pretends not to. “You can read to me,” she murmurs, handing him the book and shifting in closer, letting her head rest against his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “But fair warning — if you read the romantic parts in your normal voice, I’m going to be disgustingly into it.”
Her lips graze his coat collar as she whispers the next part without fully meaning to. “And I really shouldn’t be.” Then she settles against him again — soft, warm, trusting — and adds, barely above a breath: “But I am.”










