scream queens.

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."

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.”

"Brooke," she says her name with a quiet sigh. "You're beautiful, charismatic, and smart as hell even though you play dumb at times...You know what you're not? Subtle. It's all over your face...I know something happened between you and Tyler. It's clear you're upset about something, and I know it's not Benny." The blonde slugger is handsome, quick on his feet, and looks great in jeans, but Caden doubts Brooke's interest in him.

"You know I'm not going to tell anyone and you know I won't judge you. I mean, I will, a little. But only because I love you." While she waits for Brooke to digest it all, she leans forward with her chopsticks and takes a piece of sushi from the dish. "I can even help. It's super toxic and I think you should just let go if you're holding onto something, but if you want...I can keep tabs on Tyler so you don't have to. In return, you can do a favor for me." She pauses, not for dramatic effect, but to let it sink in. "I want to go to the parade with Benny for thanksgiving. That gives you a month to make him get over you and onto me. Deal?"

“Wow,” she finally says, voice low, almost a whisper of disbelief. “Okay. You… you really just went straight for it.”

Her throat works around a swallow. She’s not sure if she wants to laugh, cry, or flip the table.

“I’m not—” she starts, then stops, because lying feels stupid when Caden is looking at her like she already knows every answer Brooke is trying not to say.

A slow exhale leaves her, and she presses her palms flat to the table, grounding herself. “I didn’t get swept up,” she says, quieter, steadier than before. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t planned. And I cut it off. A long time ago. Before it turned into something worse. Or before Nina could find out and kill me.” A dry smile ghosts across her mouth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, gaze drifting down. “I’m not upset because I want him. I’m upset because I didn’t want to be someone’s… mistake. And that night just made it really clear that I was.” She forces herself to sit back, to look like she’s more put-together than she feels. “That’s all.”

When Caden makes her offer, Brooke blinks—once, twice—before letting out a soft incredulous laugh.

“So let me get this straight,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “You’re offering me intel on Tyler—like you’re my own personal CIA—on the condition that I… what? Magically redirect Benjamin Thompson’s affection so he falls for you by Thanksgiving?”

She lifts her brows, somewhere between amused and overwhelmed.

“That’s… ambitious,” she admits. “And wildly unethical. And definitely manipulative.” A beat. “And also something I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell for even considering.”

She breaks eye contact, staring down at her lap, fiddling with the string of her sweater. “Benny’s a good guy. A really good guy. Getting him away from me would probably be doing both of us a favor.” Her voice dips, quieter. “But using that to… trade for Tyler surveillance? Caden, that’s insane.” And also something Nina would do.

She glances back up. “…and although I'm unsure, a part of me kinda wants to say yes anyway?”

Brooke sighs, defeated with herself, rubbing her thumb along the edge of her chopsticks. “Okay I'll try to persuade Benny to take you to the parade,” she says finally, the promise soft and reluctant but real. “But only if you promise not to go all Nancy Drew on my emotional trauma in the process.”

She reaches for another piece of sushi and points it at Caden like a warning. “And we never speak of this conversation again. Because, I already know I'm so going to hell for it.”

When they make eye contact for the umpteenth time, Benny's attraction to Brooke turns into something more. It took a minute for him to realize, but he doesn't just care about Brooke's safety. It's more than that. And when the cold seeps in through the cracks, she warms his insides with feelings he's never felt before. For the first time, he has a real crush. There's been girls he was into, girls he thought were hot, but he never would've jumped in front of a falling tree for them.

His hands stay planted, keeping him upright as Brooke continues tending to his knee. He can't stop admiring her candlelit features, delicate collarbones, and the exposed shoulder that slipped out of her oversized coat. The tan line of her bra strap causes a low fluttering in his stomach and his knee jerks. "Sorry," he laughs, "Just a nerve." Benny's always been good at holding eye contact, but his lie makes him look away—a tell she'll eventually catch onto.

"If I were a houseplant I wouldn't run away from you." Benny takes this information and stores it away for later. If they survive this, he'll buy her a houseplant and leave it to her as a gift. Maybe something she can remember him by. He knows she'll take care of it and if she doesn't, it'll die a good death. Just being around her will be worth what little time it's given. That's how he feels about it. If they must go their separate ways after rehab...he'll cherish the moments they shared. He feels bad for every girl that'll come after her because they won't be able to fill the empty spaces she'll leave. He'll always be thinking about her. It won't matter how much time passes. Benny won't forget her smoky eyes, dimpled smile, the sound of her girlish laugh, or the sassiness she uses as a defense mechanism. And he definitely won't forget this—the way she's taking care of him.

"I won't give up," he whispers, referring to baseball, but also them. Baggage or no baggage, Brooke's worth the fight. So when times get tough, he'll come back to this night. Small spaces, warm candlelight, and heartbreaking honesty.

When she slides two hands up his thighs, he nearly moans her name. Is she doing this on purpose or just totally oblivious? He does his best to recover by playing it off as nothing more than a painful grunt. Then with her help, he maneuvers himself upright and tightens his coat. As night darkens, the temperature drops and cold air disturbs their little sanctuary.

Prickled with goosebumps, Benny tries to keep his teeth from chattering as he holds onto Brooke and returns to their warm spot surrounded by candles and blankets. "Are you hungry? I also grabbed some books to read for the rec center, thinking I'd be bored. If you want I can read to you. It'll be like watching a movie together...We can pretend we're at a drive-in. What's your go-to theater snack and drink? And if you could choose any movie to watch, what would it be?"

Her breath hitches. Not visibly, but enough that she feels it in her ribs.

And then he looks at her like that. Like she’s not the screw-up daughter or the pretty distraction or the girl who cracks under pressure but something worth fighting for.

That’s the moment Brooke knows she’s in trouble. Real, actual trouble.

She helps him lower himself back onto their pile of blankets, the two of them sinking into the dim warmth of flickering candles. Her coat slides off her shoulder again, exposing more skin to the cold air, but she barely notices. Her head is spinning too much from what he said. From what he didn’t say out loud but she felt anyway.

When he asks if she’s hungry and offers to read to her, like actually read to her — something in her chest twists painfully, sweetly, in a way she can’t protect herself from.

He doesn’t understand what that offer does to a girl like her. Brooke sits beside him, drawing her knees in and hugging them lightly, the coat gathered around her like a blanket. Her shoulder grazes his arm, just barely—but enough that she feels the heat of him. Enough that she wants more.

“Read to me?” she repeats, her voice soft and riddled with disbelief. “God, you really are trying to make this impossible.” The not liking him thing. That she was so hellbent on doing at the beginning.

She pretends to adjust her hair so she doesn’t have to face the way he’s looking at her — like she’s something gentle. Something good.

“I’m hungry,” she admits. “Starving, actually. Adrenaline burns calories, right?” She nudges him lightly with her knee — playful, but there’s a tremor beneath it. “And yeah… I want you to read to me. But only if you promise not to do the dramatic voices. I’ll actually die. And probably record it.”

When he reacts, Brooke instantly regrets giving him the idea. Or maybe she doesn’t. She can’t tell anymore.

He asks about movies and snacks, and something inside her loosens. Softens. Their little coatroom feels less like a disaster shelter and more like the inside of a snow globe, a moment suspended outside real life.

“My go-to theater snack?” she echoes. “Popcorn. Extra butter. Like… real extra. The kind that makes the bottom of the bag translucent.” She lifts a shoulder. “And M&Ms. I know that’s controversial. I don’t care. I like what I like.”

His eyes linger on her mouth when she says I like what I like. She pretends not to notice. "And a Diet Coke,” she finishes. “Nothing fancy. Just a plain ol' Diet Coke.”

Then when he asks what movie she’d pick — out of anything — Brooke doesn’t hesitate.

“My Girl,” she says, voice as warm as the candlelight. “Always My Girl.”

Her gaze drifts back to the storm beyond the tiny coatroom window, lightning etching the sky. “It’s… sentimental. And heartbreaking. And sweet. It’s about loving someone before you even know what love means."

Her eyes slide back to him — slow, deliberate, vulnerable.

“It just… feels real.”

For a second, she thinks she’s said too much. She looks down at her hands, fiddling with the sleeve of the coat like she’s trying to tuck herself back into her shell.

Then, more softly: “What about you? If you could watch anything?” Her voice dips to a whisper, like they’re sharing a secret instead of killing time in the middle of a storm. “And… would you let me fall asleep on you during it?”

"I don't want someone easier or less complicated. I can't imagine myself wanting to be with someone more than I want to be with you." As a cold breeze blows through the front yard, Benny wraps his arms around her. He knows people have let her down her whole life, he doesn't want to add himself to that list. If he can, he'll keep kissing every bruise on her heart until she realizes she's not broken. Her ex-boyfriends don't define her worth. If anything, they were stupid for not seeing what they had before they ruined it. It'll be their regret, not hers.

"It doesn't have to be a fight..." Benny whispers before leaning in and planting a kiss on her head. "If that's what it comes down to then that's what it comes down to, but you are worth it." He lifts his head and looks up at the window where the party continues on inside. Everyone's so unaware of how cruel and evil they are to each other. And at the epicenter of it all is Tyler. He has his hands on Savannah's hips, whispering something in her ear. Then they disappear into another room and Benny figures he better act fast before they slip out of sight.

When his eyes slide back down to Brooke, a small smile curves his lips. "That will not be our last kiss of the night. I want to stay with you, too. More than anything. But this isn't about ego. It's about letting them know they can't keep fucking with you. I won't stand by and let someone hurt you." He slides his fingers through her hair, tucking strands behind her ears. "Do you remember the storm we beat together? You called me your hero. What kind of hero would I be if I let you think you're not worth protecting?"

The tenderness Benny was touching Brooke with hardens into something else, something protective and angry. The last time he got into a fight was in Rehab when he punched an employee for harassing her. He doesn't fight often but when he does, it's always for a good reason.

"I'll be back." The calm blue of his eyes turn dark and it's like he becomes a different person when he walks back into the house. He's no longer here to make friends and so when people approach him, he ignores them with a cold shoulder. He doesn't stop moving through the party until he finds Tyler guiding Savannah toward the stairs. Keep calm, don't just attack him.

Benny reaches out and grabs onto Tyler's shoulder, forcing him to turn around. Confusion shifts to anger when Tyler realizes who touched him. "If you ever touch me again, I'll break your hand." Hazel eyes shift to Savannah, he was planning to take his frustration out on her, but Benny will do. It's bad enough he caught Brooke's attention, now he's after Savannah's? That's what Tyler assumes given the fact that Benny was talking to her before he left with Brooke.

"I don't care what games you're playing. From now on, you're going to leave Brooke out of them." So it's not about Savannah? It's about Brooke and what he walked in on. Tyler smirks, a short laugh filling the spaces in between chatter and music. "You're an idiot. I took her from you once, I'll take her from you again." Tyler knows this confession won't score him any points with Savannah, but he doesn't care. "Give it a week and she'll be scratching up my back aga—" Tyler's words cut off, muffled by a groan after Benny's fist collided with his mouth.

When he stumbles back, Benny throws another punch. Tyler ducks and then tackles him. They fall into Myles' piano and wrestle for the upper hand. Tyler lands a vicious shot to Benny's ribs and when he doubles over, Tyler grabs a heavy picture frame from the wall to smash over his head.

A second before having the chance to crack Benny's skull open, Jake pushes through the crowd and grabs ahold of Tyler. "Yo, bro! No!" He doesn't like Benny either, but his mother would kill him if she came home to shattered heirlooms she had shipped from Mexico. "It's not worth it!" Jake hollers over the music, holding Tyler back as Benny recovers. "She is worth it-" Benny argues. Jake doesn't understand, but Tyler does and it only makes him angrier. Something ugly twists in his stomach and it feels an awful lot like jealousy. What's going on with him and Brooke? Is it not casual? Tyler's not used to people confronting him. Normally they cower in the shadows. It's clear to him now this guy's going to be a real problem if he doesn't get rid of him soon.

"If I see you again, you're dead," Tyler threatens, pushing Jake's hands off him. Benny doesn't scare easily. "Just stay away from her," he replies, voice leveled, fearless as he admires the bruise forming on Tyler's cheekbone. It'll serve as a reminder for both him and Brooke. He'll know his actions have consequences, and whenever Brooke sees it, she'll know he has her back.

She asked him not to fight. And, she meant it. But the look in his eyes… a darkness that replaces the warmth… She knows exactly where this is going. Or rather, where he's going.

“Benny—” Her voice barely leaves her throat. It's a cracked whisper that, the wind steals almost immediately.

She takes one step toward the door — then freezes when she hears it: the roaring surge of voices, sharp and electric, spilling out through the walls. Then, a crash. A thud. A chorus of “holy shit!” from partygoers inside.

Her stomach drops. “No, no, no—” Brooke’s heels scrape against the porch as she sprints for the door, heart slamming so violently in her chest, she feels it in her fingertips. The second she pushes into the house, heat, noise, and bodies swallow her whole. People are yelling, laughing, filming —because, of course they’re filming.

And at the center of it— is the two of them.

Her breath stops. Her mind blanks. Benny and Tyler are locked together in a violent tangle, crashing into Myles’ piano. Benny’s fist is smeared with blood — Tyler’s lip is split, she thinks — and the room is vibrating with the kind of chaos she knows all too well.

“STOP!” Brooke’s scream cuts through the noise, sharp and panicked enough to scratch her throat raw.

But she’s too far. And too late. Tyler slams a punch into Benny’s ribs, and Brooke feels it as if the blow had hit her — her knees almost buckling. Benny gasps, doubling over. Tyler reaches for a framed photograph, heavy and gleaming as he raises it above his head—

Then, FINALLY Jake barrels in and grabs Tyler by the shoulders, ripping him off. Brooke doesn’t stop to think. She’s already shoving through the crowd, tears stinging hot down her cheeks.

“Benny!” Her voice cracks open as she drops to her knees beside him, hands fluttering but not touching him yet, too afraid to hurt him more. “Benny—oh my God—are you okay?” Her fingers hover near his jaw, trembling uncontrollably. He looks up at her when asked, jaw clenched, eyes still burning with adrenaline — but softening when they land on her. Thank God.

“He’s fine,” She thinks she hears Tyler? spit from a few feet away, wiping blood from his lip, eyes glinting with spite. “He just learned not to get in my—”

“Shut up!” Brooke snaps, cutting him off or whoever else was talking, before she can stop herself, whipping around with enough raw, shaking fury to cut through bone. “You don’t get to say his name. You don’t get to look at him or me ever again. You don’t even get to pretend you’re anything but a bully and an asshole.”

Tyler’s jaw twitches— a flicker of something like surprise, then anger, then something uglier like: jealousy— materializes across the room, where Nina stands frozen with a red Solo cup in her hand, eyes wide, mascara smudged. She saw the whole scene unfold. She watched him try to take Savannah upstairs. Saw him boast about Brooke clawing at his back again in a week. Saw and heard everything. And now? She was watching Tyler stare at Brooke like he’s never seen her before, when clearly he has. And, naked no less.

“Really?” Nina snaps, stepping forward with a wet laugh that’s all teeth. “You want to humiliate me at every party, flirt with every girl you pass, sneak off with Savannah for kicks, and now you’re jealous of him with her?” She points at Benny then Brooke, as both her heckles and then, her voice rises. “The girl you fucked apparently, just to piss me off? The same one you swore a couple weeks ago you didn’t give a damn about?" Tyler’s face looks as if it drains of color — then flushes red.

“So much for her meaning nothing to you, am I right?” Nina turns her glare towards Brooke, venomous but still, cracked down the center. “Congratulations. You really are his favorite toy.”

Brooke doesn’t even flinch this time. When normally, she would have because well... ouch. She’s too focused on Benny though. Kneeling beside him. Her hands on his chest— before gently cupping his face as she scans for any other injuries.

“Benny,” she whispers, blocking out everything else. Including Nina and Tyler. “You didn’t have to do that. I told you I wasn’t worth it.” She presses her forehead lightly to his regardless, eyes closing as relief and fear crash through her in waves. “You scared the hell out of me,” she whispers, voice trembling. “I never want to see you get hurt because of me.”

Someone mutters, “Damn,” behind her, as the whole room watches them together with the kind of silence that’s full of shock, curiosity, and envy.

He lets out a sigh, long and shallow. What hurts the most is not knowing what he wants. Baseball has been his dream since he was old enough to throw a ball, but the pressure of being great has sucked the fun out of it. Being a mechanic wouldn't be the most awful thing, but he doesn't love cars. Not the way his dad does.

"Guess this ends baseball season for me?" For a moment, he becomes detached, lost in thought. When he comes back, he looks up and their eyes meet. Instead of feeling dread or panic, Brooke's presence calms him. He wishes there were a way to feel like this all the time—carefree, brave, excited. But he only feels that way when he's with her. "It's probably for the best. My dad will love it. He hates that I play baseball, thinks it's a waste of time. He'd rather I work in the garage like him and my two uncles."

The muscle in his jaw tightens as Brooke tends to his knee. If he wasn't in agony, he'd be more turned on by the sight of her kneeling down between his legs. The more he thinks about it, he faster his body betrays him. Desire fills his stomach and travels down to his groin. He bites his bottom lip, hard, distracting himself with more pain. Think of something else...

Propped up on his elbows, he leans back, looking down at her. Damp hair dripping down his face and neck. The candlelight is soft, a delicate flickering that feels warm and safe in contrast to the storm.

"You're good at this. How come?" He means taking care of him, patching him up. "Let me guess, you have an older brother who used to tear your stuffed bears apart and you'd spend hours fixing 'em back up?" he teases, needing to keep things light and playful so his mind doesn't wander back to wondering what she would feel like touching other parts of him.

She lifts her eyes to his, and for a heartbeat, none of her usual defenses show up. No smirk. No sarcasm. No curated city-girl indifference. Just worry. Real, unfiltered worry.

“Don’t talk like that,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Not like it’s over. Not when we don’t even know that it is.” Baseball, she means.

Her fingers slide a little farther up his thigh as she adjusts her hold— steady and supportive. It’s innocent in its intention, but not so innocent in its effect. She can feel the muscles flex under her palm when he tenses, feel the heat rolling off him in waves even while soaked and injured. Candlelight paints amber across his skin; Brooke tries not to look too long, but she’s human. And, she's a girl. She can't help it.

When he talks about his dad, her jaw ticks. Not in anger but in recognition. “Funny,” she murmurs, bandaging the cleaned cut with careful precision. “My dad hates that I cheer too. Thinks it makes me look shallow and unserious. Says it’s a distraction from…well.” Her lips press together. “From everything else he thinks I should be interested in. Like Debutante balls.”

For a moment, she looks like she might leave it there — but then she adds, softer, “Parents have a gift of killing anything that makes us happy. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.” Her touch moves with instinct— gentle, thorough, maddeningly tender— and his compliment catches her off-guard. She blinks up at him, startled, then scoffs like she’s trying to outrun the warmth rising in her cheeks. “Good at this?” she echoes. “Please. I’m barely qualified to keep a houseplant alive. Most would run when they see me, if they could.”

But he keeps looking at her — really looking at her — and the candlelight doesn’t help to lessen the heat she's feeling in her chest. Shadows kiss the curve of her cheek, the bridge of her nose, and the bow of her mouth. She feels his gaze just like she feels the heat against her skin.

“I don’t have a brother,” she answers, returning to his knee, her voice smoothing into something quieter. “Just a dad who doesn’t like it when I cry. I learned to fix things fast. Or pretend I could.” Her hands resume their slow, careful work. A thumb brushing away stray blood. Fingers pressing gauze into place. The coat slips off one of her shoulders, exposing a thin tan line — she doesn’t bother fixing it.

She’s too focused on him. “Besides,” she goes on, and this time there's a flicker of a smile there — small, wry, and heartbreakingly soft — “it’s not difficult to take care of someone who actually lets you.”

Her gaze flicks briefly, dangerously, to the line of his throat, the cut of his collarbone, the rise of his chest as he breathes in and out. Then she meets his eyes again. “That doesn’t happen a lot for me. People trusting me.” Her voice dips. “I’m usually the one everyone assumes needs fixing.”

She ties off the bandage, fingers brushing his skin one last time, lingering without meaning to. “You trust me right now,” she murmurs. “And I… don't hate it.”

Brooke leans back on her heels slightly, not fully breaking the closeness, just giving them both some room to breathe. There's a beat. A tiny moment of choice.

“For the record?” Her eyes lift, gleaming with something warm enough to melt the thunder outside. “I don't think baseball is over for you. Not even close. So don’t you dare give up on it before you even know the truth.”

Her hand slides up his thigh again as she stands — steadying herself on him, steadying him through the storm now raging inside his head, probably. “Hold on to something else,” she finishes softly. “Or someone else.” Her thumb brushes his hip bone — barely-there, but burning without knowing it. “Anything but the coat rack. Safe to say, it's a little wobbly, I've noticed.”

"I didn't know she was going to meet him here...or that they would be matching." The room feels hot all of a sudden. Savannah's choices don't just affect her, they create ripples for them both. That's the curse of having an identical twin sister. If Nina goes after Savannah, she'll have to step in and then both their heads will wind up on the chopping block. Why does she have to be so damn careless? Tyler O'Neill is on the fast track for prison. There's no sense in getting caught up with a guy like him.

"Brooke, I'm not trying to set myself up with anyone. Steven? No way. He's like my brother. And Tyler's gross. I'm embarrassed by my sister. That's why I didn't tell you. I thought it was a onetime thing." She twists the diamond horseshoe ring on her finger, trying to distract her nerves. "I was trying to protect her reputation and I guess mine. Because whatever she does looks just as bad on me. People will start to think I hooked up with Tyler. As if." He's hot, sure. He has nice hair and a great body, but his personality lacks any kind of warmth or compassion. Why not settle down with a guy who'll be nice to you? Someone who'll remember your favorites and take care of you when you're sick, and doesn't have a long history of one-night strands.

"Sav must be going through something." Something being the loss of their mother. "He's not the kind of person she should be distracting herself with though. He's a player. I don't know who has more notches on their belt, him or Nina." She crosses her arms, eyes steady on Savannah and her stupid red costume that bares a little too much cleavage and thigh.

"Either way, Steven is nice. He helps take care of his little sister and even works at the diner when he has time to help his parents. Plus, he plays football and doesn't have a girlfriend like Tyler does. Honestly, my sister should have gone for him but since she's acting out, her loss can be your gain."

She lifts her cup again just to have something to do with her hands. The alcohol doesn’t burn this time; she barely tastes it. “Okay,” she says slowly, eyes still following the red cape cutting through the crowd. “So you didn’t know.” There’s relief in her voice, but it’s thin, fragile. “I guess I just… needed to hear you say that.”

Brooke finally drags her gaze back to Nora. And the look on her face isn’t angry — it's tired. Hurt in that quiet way she refuses to ever admit out loud. “Sav going through something doesn’t mean she has to drag Tyler into it,” she mutters. “Or me," she wants to say but doesn't.

Because Brooke is collateral damage — again. She exhales sharply, shaking her head as if to fling the feeling off her shoulders. “And for the record? People wouldn’t confuse you with her.” Her lips lift into a ghost of a smirk. “Savannah’s the twin who runs toward fire. You’re the one who calls an extinguisher.” But when she glances back toward Tyler — the way he leans in to hear Savannah talk, the way Savannah flips her hair like she knows he’s watching — her spine goes stiff.

Brooke forces a smile, the kind that tightens her cheeks but not her eyes. “Steven’s probably great.” She says it like she’s trying to convince herself. “I’m sure he’d be a refreshing change from… all that.” She gestures vaguely in Tyler’s direction, refusing to say his name because she knows it’ll crack something open in her voice. And well... she can't.

Then, quieter, almost to herself: “Nice sounds good. Nice sounds… safe.” But Brooke Maddox has never once been attracted to safe.

She squares her shoulders, trying to shove down the mix of jealousy, resentment, and the stupid leftover ache from Benny that’s been sticking to her ribs all week. “Okay,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “Introduce me.”

A beat. Her eyes flick one last time toward Tyler. “And hey, if Savannah wants to play games…” Her voice drops to a murmur, smooth and edged with something dangerous. “…I bet we could play them better.”

As the music comes faster, louder, he keeps his hands planted firmly across her asscheeks. There's no way she doesn't feel his hard on and he's not making any attempt to hide it either. Not while Brooke is watching. How hot would it be for her to watch him maul Savannah right in front of her? Those are the kind of games he's used to playing with Nina. He doesn't actually realize how toxic they are or how much he's hurting Brooke in the process. In some ways, he thinks she enjoys the thrill of the hunt.

"That's it? Dancing? You really are innocent," he smiles with a hint of danger and something else. His heart rate picks up as he considers fanning the flames around them. What would she do if he slides his hands beneath her red dress and fists two palmfuls of bare skin?

Brooke takes off before he can act on his impulses. That's too bad, he was hoping she would stick around. Because despite what she said at Caden's, nothing she said to him was true. He didn't make her do anything she didn't want to. When he tempted her, she gave in. How important could Benny actually be? Clearly not enough to say she's into someone else. Instead, she asked him to fuck her the same way Savannah will.

Finally his hands slide under the red material and both hands grip around warm flesh. "How many guys have you been with, red?" he asks, low and heavy against her ear.

But being used as bait doesn’t bother her. Not tonight. Not when his touch feels this reckless. She exhales a shaky laugh against his throat, fingers sliding up the back of his neck and tangling in his hair. “Bold question,” she murmurs, tilting her hips just enough for him to feel how willing she is to play. “Most guys take me to dinner before asking that.”

His grip tightens, and Savannah bites her bottom lip to keep a sound from slipping out. God, he’s dangerous—too much attitude, too much heat, too much ego. Exactly the kind of man her sister would warn her about. Exactly the kind she’d run headfirst into.

“How many guys have I been with?” she repeats, letting her nails scrape lightly against his scalp. “Let’s just say enough to know when someone’s good…” Her body rolls instinctively with the music—and with him. “…and enough to know when someone just thinks they are.”

She pulls back just a fraction, enough to look him in the eyes—dark, sharp, hungry. “And right now?” Her voice turns velvety soft. “I’m curious which one you’re going to be.”

Sav doesn’t break the stare. Doesn’t shy away. Doesn’t give him anything but pure invitation wrapped in daring. “Your move, wolf.”

"I'm not just angry because you decided it was worth it knowing I was downstairs waiting for you. I'm also angry because you deserve so much better than that, Brooke. It frustrates me that you don't know how beautiful and exciting you are to be around."

She's not just golden hair, smoky eyes, and sweet dimples. When she lets loose, she's so much fun. He can spend all day with her and he'd still miss her the second she's gone. No one makes him laugh the way she does. She has a silly side he's almost certain no one else knows about because if they did, they would want to get to know her more outside the bedroom. Tyler, Jake, the unnamed guy—none of them experienced Brooke as a friend. Because if they had, they would hold onto her for dear life. Benny would give up baseball if it meant he could hang out with her all day, laughing at cat videos, getting drunk on tire swings, and swimming in the lake at three in the morning. It makes him happy to know he's seen more of her, but also sad because no one deserves to be treated like a conquest. Looks fade and bodies change. If they don't love her soul then they shouldn't be allowed to love her body either.

"You deserve someone who cares about you, Brooke. I don't want them to dim your spirit. They're going to keep dragging you down and making you think that's all you're worth and it's not true. It pisses me off because you're, like, amazing. I never thought I'd have so much fun with a girl. But I can hang out with you all night and not need anyone else." He draws a deep breath and exhales a cloud of cold air. That's when he steps closer, blocking the wind with his back so the chill doesn't wrap around her bones. He's told her a million times to wear a coat. Sometimes he thinks she holds out just so she can wear one of his sweaters or jackets without making a big deal out of it. It's not romantic if she doesn't ask. But he caught her once or twice, pulling at her collar or raising a sleeve to smell his cologne on a borrowed shirt. That's why he always wears layers, just in case.

"I root for a losing team, remember? I'm not going to give up on you just because you had a bad day. I'm mad, but my anger and my hurt doesn't supersede how much I like you." His jaw flexes, hard and controlled. He doesn't want to show emotion but she shatters every defense when she admits to liking him. The tension in his shoulders and the fight in his arms seem to mellow. For awhile there, he was planning on storming back inside the house and knocking that stupid grin off Tyler's smug face. Even if he were to get his ass beat, it would be worth it. Because Brooke is the kind of girl you fight for. The kind of girl you defend even when she's wrong.

"You like-like me?" his voice is soft, almost in disbelief. "I like-like you too. I actually really like-like you." And just like that, he shrugs out of his biker jacket and wraps it around her shoulders before pulling her into a kiss.

His lips are cold from the weather, but full of promise. He promises to be kind to her heart no matter what mistakes she makes and to keep falling for her no matter who her friends are.

When he pulls back, he smiles down at her, all blue eyes and high cheekbones. "That," he murmurs, “wasn’t for anyone else. It's because I wanted to." he says, quoting the exact line she used on him when they kissed in the rain. It was their first real kiss. One that crossed the threshold for many more to follow throughout their days in rehab.

His jacket is heavy on her shoulders, warm in all the places he was just standing, and when his lips leave hers, she stays suspended in the moment, eyes half-closed like she’s afraid moving will make it disappear.

When she finally looks up, her expression is undone — wide-eyed, stunned, and a little bit wrecked in the best way.

“Benny…” she whispers, voice shaking with something fragile and overwhelmingly relieved. One of her hands lifts, fingers brushing her own lips as if she needs to feel proof that the kiss really happened. “You—you didn’t have to do that.”

Her laugh is small and trembly, the kind that only happens when she’s on the edge of tears. “But God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you I liked you. I just—I don't know... I guess I just kept talking myself out of it. Telling myself you’d realize you deserve someone easier, or less… complicated.” Her voice softens, her eyes never leaving his. “But you still chose me.”

She steps closer, this time without hesitation, letting her hands slide around his waist and bunch gently in the back of his shirt. She presses her forehead to his chest for a moment, breathing him in, grounding herself.

When she pulls back, her eyes are glossy but clear. Determined. “I don’t want you fighting Tyler,” she says quietly, but not because she doubts Benny. It’s something else — something protective. “Not because he doesn’t deserve it. He does. A lot. But I don’t want you hurt because of me. I don’t want you bruised or pissed off or dragged into their bullshit. Trust me, it's not worth it. I'm not worth it.”

Her jaw tightens with the first real spark of confidence she’s shown all night. “And besides, I’m done letting them use me like some kind of pawn in their game. I’m done letting Nina and Tyler write my story for me. I don’t need a public scene to prove that.”

She swallows, eyes softening as they drift over his face — the concern, the steadiness, the fire he only ever aims in her defense.

“You having my back… that’s enough for me. More than enough, actually.” Her hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she looks at him with something vulnerable and honest. “And I want you to stay. With me. Out here. Where it's just us.”

Her fingers tug gently at the lapel of his jacket around her shoulders, pulling him down just a little. “Unless,” she adds, voice dropping to a whisper with a shy, almost teasing edge, “you want that kiss to be the only one you give me tonight.” Her smile — small, shaky, hopeful — feels like the bravest thing she’s done in months. Because it has.

"Come on guys, you don't believe everything happens for a reason? It's all about timing! That's why karma exists, it has to reset some of your egos!" She looked directly at Cubs, who got his nickname from sleeping too much. Or in his words, hibernating. "Have you ever met someone and it just clicked? One second you're strangers and the next you're like two peas in a pod? That happens because you were meant to meet at that exact time. It's not random...it feels too perfect to be random." The boys continued dragging their bats tiredly through the outfield, groaning and making mocking noises. Benny walked slower, his blue eyes thoughtful under the brim of his hat. "None of you ever wonder what your future wife is doing at this exact moment in time? Or how you can live without her now, but won't be able to once the universe decides it's time?" They exit the park. "It's called the cosmic timing theory. Not that I think any of you have the braincells to comprehend anything outside of baseball."

After that night, Benny forgot all about the cosmic timing theory. It didn't apply to him. He met a lot of people but none of them felt connected to him like that. Until now.

Thunder rumbles in the background, snapping Benny out of his thoughts just in time to hear Brooke's admission over the rain. She cares about him? More than she should, more than she wants to. Hearing her say that makes his stomach flutter. The only sensation he can compare it to is the feeling of being on a rollercoaster with no seatbelt. Equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

When Brooke turns around to face him, he looks up and feels the ground shift. It feels like falling.

His body tingles everywhere and he stands up to get a better look. Candlelight frames her face with a heavenly glow, making her eyes twinkle with something Lily would've described as celestial. "What are you talking about, Maddox? You look gorgeous." He didn't think she'd be able to make an old coat look like it belonged on a runway, but she did. Or maybe that's just her. She can make anything look good.

His eyes remain on hers, allowing what he's feeling to crash into her like waves that can be felt, not seen. When he eventually breaks eye contact, it's only for a second. His gaze drops to her mouth, traces the shape of her lips, then returns to her eyes.

Another crash of thunder breaks the spell and Benny looks away, realizing he'd been holding his breath. It takes him a moment to recover. Then he realizes he doesn't have to hide behind a mask. Not with her. Not after she revealed a sliver of vulnerability herself.

"Okay, I'll let you play doctor. Roleplay's hot..." he teases, limping toward a shadowy corner where the candlelight barely touches.

"Oh, and feel free to look. I have nothing to hide, doc." Whether she's looking or not, he pulls out of his wet t-shirt. The coat section is limited. He's tall, therefore he can't cover everything the way Brooke can. So he settles on wearing one around his waist. However, when he gets to removing his sweatpants, he makes a loud painful sound. Ugh damn. "It's okay—I'm okay. I was just...grunting because I'm frustrated you chose the better coat."

She knows it.

But the second Benny starts untying the knot in his drenched shirt, her eyes betray her — flicking up, down, then snapping back up to his face like she’s offended he’d even think she’d stare.

Except she absolutely does stare. A little. Or okay... maybe a lot.

Her breath catches in her throat when he peels the wet fabric over his head, candlelight catching on the lines of muscle across his stomach and the curve of his shoulders. Storm or no storm, the coatroom suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer.

She forces herself to swallow, her pulse tapping a frantic rhythm against her throat.

“Roleplay is not hot,” she says quickly — too quickly — as she crouches by the pile of supplies to avoid looking directly at him while he strips. “You’re delirious from blood loss. Or male ego. Hard to tell.”

But when he grunts — not the cocky kind, the hurt kind — Brooke whips around so fast her hair hits her cheek. Her heart drops.

“Benny.” It comes out sharper than she means it to, like fear cutting through the syllables. She rushes toward him as he’s halfway out of his sweatpants, ignoring the embarrassment, the awkwardness, the very obvious fact that he’s shirtless and beautiful and entirely too close. Her hands land on his waist before she has time to think. Warm palms, worried touch.

“You’re not okay,” she says, softer now, eyes scanning his knee, his leg, the tension in his jaw. Rainwater still clings to his skin, slipping down over bruises forming beneath the surface. She bites her lip as she looks up at him. “Don’t lie to me. Not right now.”

He jokes about the coat and she scoffs, rolling her eyes to mask the way her chest tightens. “Please,” she mutters, smoothing the coat around her shoulders like she’s posing on purpose. “I look better in everything. Even apocalypse chic.” She takes a breath — slow, steady, bracing — and sinks onto her knees in front of him. The coat pools around her, candlelight warming her face as she gently lifts the hem of his pant leg to assess the damage.

His knee is swollen, bleeding, angry. Her voice drops to a whisper.

“Oh, Benny…” She’s careful — impossibly careful — as her fingertips glide around the wound. No pressure, just presence. The kind of tenderness she rarely lets anyone see.

She looks up, and for once, there's no smirk, no wall, no practiced chill — just raw worry.

“You saved my life,” she murmurs. “So now you’re going to sit still and let me take care of you. Because if you pass out or lose that leg or anything dramatic like that—” her voice wobbles, barely noticeable “—I’m gonna be super pissed.”

She pushes the makeshift coat around his waist a little higher for modesty’s sake, but her eyes flick up to his bare torso for a heartbeat — traitorous, lingering, warm — before returning to his knee.

“Hold still, Thompson.” She grabs one of the dry towels from the supply bag, her hands surprisingly steady as she begins cleaning the cut. And even though her head is bowed, she can feel him watching her — those soft, blue, dangerous eyes tracing over her like he’s memorizing each version of her she never shows anyone.

After a moment, without looking up, she speaks quietly.

“I wasn’t kidding, you know.” Her thumb brushes lightly near the edge of his knee. “I care. Enough, that I'd be sad if you were to die on me because of your stupid heroism.”

Her next words are even softer, meant only for him and the storm trying to tear the world apart outside their little coatroom. “So please, don’t ever scare me like that again.”