rainstormies

The Hawks haven't exactly warmed up to me since Coach Jensen announced I was joining them. I thought showing up tonight might help. Maybe if they saw me outside the rink they'd stop looking at me like I'm some sort of liability waiting to happen. The semester only started a few weeks ago, and I'm not even the only new player on the roster. Three freshmen made the team this year and nobody seems to have a problem with them. Me, though? That's different. I wasn't expecting balloons and a welcome cake. But I also wasn't expecting this. The stares. The awkward silences whenever I sit down near them. The way conversations seem to pause for half a second when I walk into a room. It's been two weeks, yet nothing seem's to have changed.

It's not outright hostility. Honestly, I think that would be easier. At least then I'd know where I stood. Instead, everybody acts like they're waiting for something. For me to prove myself. Or screw up. Or probably both.

The weirdest part is the practices. I haven't been checked once, which is ridiculous. Checking is hockey, it's part of the game. I've taken harder hits from sixteen-year-old girls than anything I've experienced at Briar so far. Every time somebody gets close enough for contact, they pull away at the last second like they're afraid they'll break me. It's infuriating.

I've had three practices with Dean and Logan since making the team. Dean at least talks. Mostly to tell me what I'm doing wrong or how to improve my shots. Logan doesn't say anything at all. Not on the ice. Not off it. Not even when we're running drills together. I'm still trying to figure out if he's uncomfortable because I'm a girl on the team or if he's just naturally this impossible to read.

My gaze drifts across the room and immediately lands on him. He's tucked into one of the booths near the back of the bar. A petite brunette is sitting beside him, leaning in close enough that her shoulder keeps brushing his arm. She's clearly trying to make conversation. Logan doesn't seem particularly interested, though. He's watching one of the televisions mounted above the bar instead. The glow from the screen catches the sharp angle of his jaw every few seconds. From the jerseys, it looks like the Rangers are playing Tampa Bay. A replay. Conference finals, if I had to guess.

The girl says something and Logan nods without taking his eyes off the game. I almost laugh. She's putting in far more effort than he's giving back.

I stand there for a second, debating whether approaching him would be completely pathetic or only mildly embarrassing. Then a voice cuts through my thoughts. "Faith!" I look up. "I didn't expect to see you here."

I turn just in time for Tucker to appear out of nowhere. He's got an easy smile that seems permanently attached to his face. His dark curls are cropped short, and he's wearing a Briar hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He's tall, athletic in the way all hockey players are, but there's nothing intimidating about him. While some of the guys carry themselves like they're constantly looking for a fight, Tucker moves through the crowd like he knows everyone in the room. Before I can answer, he's already grabbed my arm.

"Come on."

"Tucker—"

"Nope." He points toward the bar. "We're celebrating."

I allow myself to be dragged along. "Celebrating what exactly?"

"You making the team." I laugh. He looks genuinely offended. "I'm serious."

"Pretty sure nobody else is celebrating."

"Well, everyone else is stupid." The answer comes so quickly I can't help laughing again. Tucker flashes me a grin like that was his goal all along. I'm grateful for Tucker, and the fact that he's the first Hawk who actually treats me like a teammate.

A couple Jägerbombs later and I feel less like going home, getting into bed and hiding under the sheets. It doesn't make the constant awareness of being the only girl on the team disappear, but it takes the edge off it. Everything feels a little softer around the edges now. The noise of the bar isn't as overwhelming, the stares don't feel as sharp, and for once I'm not overthinking every single thing I do. The hockey team still feels like a world I accidentally walked into, though. Like I’m not supposed to be here, even if Coach Jensen clearly thinks otherwise.

I end up talking to the goalies for a while. They’re both surprisingly easy to be around. Simms - who I learn is actually called Kenny - has that quiet confidence goalies tend to have, like he’s used to being the last line between chaos and disaster. Noah, the backup, is a sandy-blonde senior who laughs at everything like he’s still not fully convinced he made it onto a Division I roster, even though he's been on the team for years. They don’t treat me like I’m fragile, or like I’m something they have to be careful around, which is… nice. Weirdly nice. For the first time tonight, I almost forget I’m being watched.

Almost.

When I glance up, I catch Logan near the bar. He's already looking at me. I don’t even think about it before I’m walking over. He notices me coming but doesn’t move, just takes a slow sip of whatever he’s drinking like he’s deciding whether I’m worth reacting to or not.

“Hi,” I say when I stop in front of him.

“Monroe.” His tone is neutral, like he’s testing the word.

I tilt my head. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

That gets a reaction. Not much, but something, his eyes flick up properly now, meeting mine instead of looking through me.

“I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“That’s a lie,” I say, and I can hear the faint edge of amusement in my own voice now. “You didn’t speak to me for three practices.”

He exhales through his nose like he’s debating on what to say.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

That makes me pause.

“What?”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he already regrets saying anything at all.

“After that night,” he says, quieter now, “I thought you were so drunk you wouldn’t remember half of it. And you didn’t call. Didn’t text. Nothing. And then you just waltz into practice, and Coach Jensen says you're joining the team.”

I blink at him.

He keeps going anyway, like he’s decided there’s no point stopping now. “I figured you were embarrassed, or that I was just part of whatever dumb night you forgot about. Didn’t want to make it worse by… pushing it.”

For a second, I don’t know what to say. Because I remember everything. And I definitely didn’t forget him.

“That’s not why,” I say finally, softer now. His eyes stay on mine, like he’s trying to work out if I mean it or if I’m just saying what sounds easiest.

“I… I guess I just had a lot on my mind with the team and everything. It's not like planned to join the team, it sorta just happened,” I admit, shifting my weight slightly. The words feel clumsy the second they leave my mouth. “I’m sorry, Logan. I kind of expected you to say something first.”

That earns a laughs from him. “Yeah?” he says, lifting his brows slightly. “Waiting on me to make the first move?” There’s something almost amused in his tone now, lighter than before. "Typical."

I narrow my eyes immediately. “Typical what?”

His gaze flicks briefly to my mouth before snapping back up to my eyes like he didn’t mean to do it. “Nothing,” he says too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” I cross my arms. “Finish that sentence.”

He exhales through his nose, like he’s already regretting ever opening his mouth in the first place. “I was going to say typical overthinking,” he says finally. “But I see you already filled in the blanks yourself.”

I scoff. “I did not.”

“You kind of did,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile now. “I just got blamed for it.”

“That’s because you’re suspiciously good at it.”

“Overthinking?”

“Being annoying.”

“Annoying,” he repeats. “That’s your first official assessment of me?”

“I’ve had three practices to work with,” I say. “You haven’t exactly been chatty.” He leans back slightly against the bar now, arms loose, but his attention doesn’t move off me. If anything, it feels like he’s settled into the conversation now instead of trying to escape it.

“I thought you didn’t want me talking to you,” he says.

That throws me off a little. “What?”

“After that night,” he continues, quieter now but still steady, “you didn’t exactly seem like you were looking for follow-up conversation after. Which is strange considering you were all over me that day.”

My face heats immediately. “I wasn’t— I just—” He watches me struggle for a second, and I swear there’s amusement there again.

“You were very busy,” I finish weakly.

“Busy,” he repeats.

“With… life.”

That actually makes him laugh under his breath. “Right,” he says. “Life.”

“Don’t make me regret coming over here.” I glare at him. "So what, then? You expected me to throw myself at you, like the rest of them do?"

His brows lift slightly at that, like he’s genuinely amused I think that’s what this is. “No,” he says simply. I wait for more, but he doesn’t give it to me.

That somehow annoys me more. My eyes flick past him before I can stop myself, toward the booth he was sitting in earlier. The brunette is still there. She's shifted her attention to Birdie now, although I'm pretty sure he's got a girlfriend and is ignoring her the same way Logan was.

I gesture vaguely behind him with my cup. “What about her?”

“What about her?” He doesn't turn around.

“The girl you were with.”

Understanding flashes across his face for a second, then disappears just as fast. He shrugs, like it’s not even worth the energy of a full explanation. “She’s just some girl.”

“Right,” I say, because that feels like the only acceptable response, even if it doesn’t sit quite right. There's a pause. He watches me for a second too long again, like he’s trying to figure out why I’m asking in the first place.

Then, quieter, almost casual he asks: “Why?”

I blink. “Why what?”

“Why do you care?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. Because the honest answer feels stupid.

“I don’t,” I say quickly. “Care, I mean. I was just asking.”

His expression shifts slightly, like he’s heard that exact sentence before and doesn’t believe it for a second. “Sure,” he says.

“It’s not a big deal,” I add, a little too fast. “I just saw you sitting with her.”

“With her,” he repeats, like he’s testing it.

I shrug, taking a sip of my drink even though there’s basically nothing left in it. “Yeah. With her. She seemed pretty interested from where I was standing.”

That earns a faint smirk from him now. “You were watching me.”

“I was not—” I stop myself before I dig a deeper hole. “I happened to look over.”

“Mhm.” He leans a little closer against the bar now, not invading space exactly, but definitely reducing the distance between us significantly.

“So you happened to look over,” he says slowly, “and decided I was in the middle of something intense with some girl you don’t care about.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t care,” I correct immediately. His brows lift again. That’s it. I’ve lost that round. I exhale, annoyed at myself more than him. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Enjoying what?”

"This." I gesture between us.

His eyes flick down to my hands, and then to my face. He shrugs, casual again. “You came over here.”

“I came over here to talk.”

“About me and the girls I hang out with,” he points out.

“No— well it just came up.”

“Right,” he says again, but this time it sounds like he’s barely holding back a smile.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re kind of insufferable, you know that?”

“And yet,” he says, finally letting that smirk fully show now, “you’re still here.” There’s a beat where neither of us moves.

The noise of the bar feels further away than it did a minute ago, like it’s happening behind glass instead of around us. Logan’s eyes stay on mine, steady in a way that makes it harder to look away than it should be. Then, like he’s decided something, he tilts his head slightly.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

It’s said so casually it almost takes me a second to process it. Then I laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because of course he would say that.

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re actually unbelievable.”

His mouth twitches. “Is that a no?”

“That’s a 'you’re a douche'.” That earns a quiet huff of laughter from him, like I’ve said something he’s heard before but doesn’t mind hearing again.

“Fair,” he says. I should leave it there. I should just turn around and go back to Tucker and the goalies and the safety of pretending this conversation never happen. But I don’t move. Which is annoying. Instead I take the opportunity to actually look at him properly.

Logan’s leaned back slightly like he owns the space around him, one arm resting along the edge of the booth behind him, the other holding a drink he’s not really paying attention to. He’s wearing a plain black tee under a slightly worn canvas jacket. His hair’s still a little messy, like he ran a hand through it and never bothered fixing it, and there’s this stupid ease about him that makes it look like he doesn’t have to try at anything. It’s irritating. It’s also… unfair. Especially the eyes. Bright blue, fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room he’s decided is interesting. I realize I’ve been staring for a second too long when one corner of his mouth ticks up like he’s caught me.

“C'mon, you’re not actually offended,” he says.

“I am absolutely offended.”

“Sure,” he says again, softer this time. “That’s why you’re still standing here.”

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because I am still standing here. And worse than that— I’m not entirely sure I want to leave.

The thought is enough to make something tighten in my chest, sharp and inconvenient. Logan’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s noticed the hesitation even if I haven’t said anything. And then he steps closer.

His hand finds my waist before I fully register what’s happening, pulling me in just enough that the space between us disappears. My breath catches. "Logan," I say, quieter than I mean to.

"What?" His voice is low now, different than it was a second ago. “You talk a lot for someone who’s apparently not interested,” he says. I let out a short laugh, but it doesn’t sound like it usually does.

“I never said I wasn’t interested...” His grip tightens slightly at my waist, not painful, just… deliberate.

“Mm,” he hums, like he doesn’t believe me. The bar is still loud around us, still packed, bodies brushing past and glasses clinking somewhere behind me - but none of it really reaches here. Not where he’s standing too close. Not where I can feel the heat of him cutting through the space between us. I should step back. But I don't.

Logan’s eyes flick down to my mouth for half a second before coming back up, and something in my chest reacts to it before my brain catches up.

“You always this difficult?” he asks.

“I think you bring it out in me,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Yeah?” he says. He shifts like he's about to close the distance again, and instinctively I press my hand to his chest to stop him. Not to push him away, but just holding him there like I need the reminder of where the line is. His shirt is warm under my palm.

“Careful,” I murmur. “You flirt like this with all your teammates?”

His mouth twitches. “You jealous, Monroe?”

I let out a short laugh. “God, no.”

“Good,” he says, like that settles it. Something in his expression shifts, as if he's realized I’m not just going to play along with whatever game he’s started.

Without saying anything, he catches my wrist gently and guides me away from the main floor. I don’t resist. We slip through the side of the bar toward the back exit, where the noise drops off into something distant and muffled. The alley outside is empty, lit by a weak yellow light above the door, the air cooler against my skin as soon as we step out.

The door clicks shut behind us and the noise of the bar drops off completely, replaced by the distant thud of bass through brick walls and the hum of the streetlight above us. For a second neither of us says anything. The alley is too quiet compared to everything that was happening inside. Too small. Too enclosed. Like there’s nowhere for either of us to hide the fact that we followed each other out here. Logan leans back against the brick wall like he belongs there too, watching me instead of filling the silence.

“You always this much trouble?” he asks finally. I don't answer.

His gaze drops to my mouth again, slower now, like he’s not even pretending it’s accidental. And I forget what I was about to say. The space between us feels smaller than it should. Logan pushes off the wall slightly, stepping closer, not rushing it - but not stopping either. Like he’s waiting for me to decide if I’m going to move away.

“Faith,” he says, quieter now. He’s close enough now that I'm completely surrounded by him. His scent hits first - clean, something faintly citrus underneath, layered with that warm, musky smell that clings to hockey gear and late nights. It shouldn’t be noticeable like this, but it is. For a second, it feels like my thoughts get quieter just from being this close. I reach up to grab the back of his head. My fingers run instinctively through his hair, pulling him closer by the nape of his neck until my lips find his.

The kiss is slow at first. Tender. But it deepens quickly, turning desperate. I'm very aware that this is something we definitely shouldn't be doing, and that the whole thing is a bad idea. But at the same time, I can't get myself to stop. Logan's hands slide down my back, pulling me tighter against him as if he can't get enough of me. When we finally pull apart, gasping for air, lips swollen, he looks at me with eyes filled with something I can't quite name.

"What are you doing?" I swallow, trying to keep my growing smile in check.

"Don't act all innocent now," he says as he pulls on my arm and turns me around so my back is pressed towards his front. "You think I haven't noticed? The way you look at me." His hand lands firmly on my hip as he pushes my me towards him. I whimper softly as he ruts forward, dragging himself right along the swell of my ass. I can feel him through his jeans, and suddenly there's nothing more I want than his hands all over me.

My hips buck back instinctively, searching for more of him. He grabs at my waist, holding me in place as he grinds against me. My moan comes out high and shaking, "Logan..."

"You got no idea how bad I want it," he murmurs.

Logan's hips roll forward again, slow and steady, grinding himself against my ass until I feel the throb of him through both layers of fabric. I whimper, rocking back against him, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more of anything. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath, grinding harder, his grip tightening on my hips. "You feel that? That's what you do to me."

He lets go of my arm, and suddenly his warmth is gone. I turn around to watch him take a step back. He's watching me, his eyes heavy with lust.

"So... I'll ask again. You wanna come home with me?"

btw although i mostly follow the show, i decided to keep Logan as a defenseman like he is in the books, as i feel like it fits him better

thank you for all the likes & comments<3

"Oh shit." Someone jumps back. The cold night air hits my face as I finish throwing up. My eyes water, and my throat burns.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and immediately regret being alive. "Well," a voice says above me. "That's one way to wake up."

I groan. Strong hands grip my elbows before I can faceplant onto the sidewalk. The entire world is swaying. Or maybe I'm swaying. Hard to tell.

"Easy." I blink up at the person holding me. James? Everything looks so blurry it's hard to tell. My gaze drops to the floor, focusing on his shoes. Luckily, they're spotless. Vintage Jordans. I've never once seen James wear Jordans. If he's not on the field, he's wearing slippers. With socks on. God, how I hated it when he would wear that.

I squint at him. "You got taller." The guy stares at me. Then he laughs. Actually laughs. A deep, surprised sound. "Nope, I don't think I have." he says.

"Huh." I consider this information carefully. Or at least I think I do. "You never laugh at my jokes, James."

"James?"

"Yeah." A pause.

"Who the fuck is James?"

I frown. Good question. The answer feels important. "I don't remember." That seems to amuse him even more. "Come on, Monroe."

My brain catches on one word. Monroe. Wait. That's my name. My last name. James has never once called me by my last name.

I stare at him. Really stare. The pieces slowly begin assembling themselves. Blue eyes. Huge. Hockey player. The asshole from ping pong.

"Oh." Understanding dawns in on me. "You were checking out my ass." The silence that follows is immediate. And increadibly satisfying. Logan closes his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

"I knew it was you."

"You absolutely did not."

"I did."

"You called me James just thirty seconds ago."

"Details."

He sighs. Then starts guiding me towards the dorm entrance. His hand stays lightly on my back to keep me upright. It's annoyingly sweet. "Hey, how do you know where I live?" I stop in my tracks. How would John Logan know where my dorm room is. Unless he's been stalking me.

"You told me when we first got in the car." He deadpans.

"What? Oh," is my dumb reply. "I'm not usually like this," I inform him.

"Drunk?"

"Pathetic." He glances down at me. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Could've fooled me." I gasp. Actually gasp. "That was mean!" I say as I hit his chest.

"You tried to use me to make your ex jealous."

"That was one time."

"It happened like an hour ago." I think about it. "Okay, fair."

We make it approximately three more steps before I stop walking entirely. Logan nearly walks straight into me. "What now?" he sighs.

I point d

ramatically at the dorm building. "I live there."

"Yeah."

"So, I made it home."

"You've made it to the sidewalk. And it's not like you were exactly good at it either."

"Still counts." For some reason, this is the funniest thing I've ever said. I start laughing. I can't seem to stop laughing. At everything. At me here, with John Logan the hockey player. The face that I went to tryouts today to get to play on his team. And now he's walking me home.

"You done?" he says. I nod. "Then keep walking, Monroe." I narrow my eyes at him. "You know, you're much nicer than I thought you'd be."

Something shifts in his expression. Only for a second. "Yeah?" I nod. "I thought you'd be a douche." His bark of laughter echoes through the empty courtyard. And for the first time all night, thinking about James doesn't hurt quite as much.

The walk to my dorm is thankfully short. Or maybe it isn't. Honestly it's hard to tell. The entire campus still feels slightly tilted. Logan keeps a hand hovering near my elbow whenever we go up a step, like he's waiting for me to fall over. I don't. Mostly because I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

We make it to the front door of the building in one piece. "I can take it from here," I announce. Logan looks up at the building and then back at me. Then at the building again.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." The second I say it, I trip over absolutely nothing. His hand shoots out and catches me before I can faceplant into the concrete. Yet again.

"Right," he says. "I'm walking you upstairs."

I don't argue this time. Mostly because arguing requires effort. And right now all I want is to be laying in my bed.

The elevator ride is silent. Not awkward, just quiet. By the time we reach my floor, the hallway is completely empty. Our RA is so strict no one dears make any noise after 10pm. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as we trigger the motion detectors and they flicker on. I fish my key out of my shoulder bag while trying very hard not to lean against the wall. I don't feel super steady on my feet just yet. I can already feel the terrible hangover I'm going to get tomorrow.

I manage to grab Logan's sleeve before he can reach for the door handle. His gaze drops to where my hand is clutching him. I'm not sure if Alex is home yet, and I don't exactly want her finding me with Logan. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just knowing her she'll get ideas and start asking awkward questions.

"You don't have to tuck me into bed, you know." I say.

"Tuck you into bed?"

"I can make it from here."

"Can you?"

"Absolutely." I immediately miss the lock on my first attempt. Logan doesn't say anything. I turn to where he's still standing. "You can go now." I shoo him away with my hand.

"You're very drunk."

I gasp. "I am not." He just chuckles at my reply.

The key finally slides into the lock, but I don't twist it just yet. Instead, I turn back toward him. For a second neither of us says anything. The alcohol has wrapped everything in a strange haze. Not enough that I don't know what's happening. Just enough that everything feels softer around the edges. I study him for a moment. The blue eyes. The stupidly nice face. The hockey player shoulders that barely fit inside a normal jacket. It's honestly unfair.

"You know," I say thoughtfully.

"What?"

"I don't think you're as scary as everyone says."

His mouth twitches. "Scary?"

"Well..." I wave a hand vaguely. "Not scary scary."

"Excellent clarification."

"You've got that hockey player thing."

"What hockey player thing?"

I stare at him. "That thing."

"Very descriptive."

"The mean face."

"I don't have a mean face."

I laugh. "You absolutely do." For a moment he's smiling. Actually smiling. Not the cocky smirk he always seems to wear. Something warmer. It catches me off guard. Then it disappears.

"Go inside, Monroe."

I lean dramatically against the doorframe. "You ordering me around now?"

"Someone has to."

"Rude."

He points at the lock. "Inside."

"Goodnight, Logan." I say, my gaze fixed on anything but him.

"Goodnight, Monroe."

I hear his footsteps retreat back towards the elevator. I stand there for a while, long after he's gone. He didn't ask for my number. Didn't try anything. Now that I think about it, he acted nothing like how I expected him to. He wasn't trying to get into my pants. For a second I genuinely thought he was going to invite himself into my room. But he just... made sure I got home safe. It feels strange. Not bad. Just unfamiliar. I push the thought away before it turns into something else.

Alexa is already in bed when I enter the room. Her fairy lights are on, casting a warm golden glow across the walls. She's lying stomach-down on top of the duvet, phone in hand, completely absorbed. She doesn't look up as I enter. "Did Livvy give you a ride home?" she asks. She's the only one out of the four of us that has a car on campus.

"Yeah." I answer, because I can't be bothered to tell her the truth. Not today. It's easier that way. Easier than explaining why one of the Briar Hawks defensemen were walking me home. I drop my bag on my desk and change into a pair of shorts and an oversized shirt I only wear for sleeping. The floor is cold under my feet, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of Alexa's phone. The covers are cold when I slide into bed. I set my phone on charge and turn onto my side. For a moment I stare at the wall. My mind should be loud. But surprisingly enough it isn't. And somewhere between the exhaustion and the alcohol wearing off, I fall asleep.

Monday mornings at Briar feel louder than they should. Not because anything is actually different. Just because the weekend is gone, and everyone is back in the same space pretending they didn’t spend the last two days recovering from it. I sit between Alexa and Isla in our usual row, notebook open, pen already moving even though I haven’t written anything useful yet. Cell Biology. Something about prokaryotic and eukaryotic cells. Something I’ll pretend I understand later. Alexa is vibrating beside me. Not literally. But close.

“I went on the Briar athletics page,” she whispers, like she’s sharing state secrets. Isla immediately turns in her seat. “You did not.”

“I did.”

“You’re insane,” I mutter, not looking up from my notes. Alexa ignores me like usual. “There’s literally a section about women in men’s sports programs,” she says, scrolling on her phone. “It says female athletes can request individual evaluations if there’s no women’s team.” My pen pauses. Just slightly. I keep my eyes on the desk.

“So?” I say.

“C'mon Faith,” Alexa shoots back. Isla leans closer, resting her chin in her palm. “So technically… you could ask for a tryout.”

“I’m not doing that.” I say it too fast. Alexa tilts her phone toward me anyway. “It says here you just have to speak to the head coach of the program.” My stomach tightens. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

Isla smiles like she’s already enjoying this too much. “We could go with you.”

That makes me actually look up. "No."

Alexa nods immediately. “After class.”

“I have to do this assignment for History.”

"You can do that after."

“You can’t just decide that.”

“We just did.” I stare at them.

“This is a bad idea,” I say finally. Alexa leans back in her chair. “You don’t have to decide anything,” she says. “We’re just talking to him.”

“First of all, we're not doing anything. I'll talk to him. And second, there is no ‘just’ talking to Coach Jensen.”

“Okay, perfect. We’ll go after class,” Alexa repeats.

Coach Jensen is not exactly happy to see us by the time we file into the rink. The second he spots the three of us heading toward the benches, his expression immediately shifts into one that suggests he'd rather be anywhere else. The team is already on the ice. They're running drills, sticks tapping against the ice, skates carving sharp lines into the surface. The familiar sound echo through the arena. Pucks slam against the boards. Someone whistles. An assistant coach shouts an instruction from the opposite end. For a second, I just watch. They've all got their helmets and cages on, making it almost impossible to tell who's who. Mostly I can only make out numbers and flashes of familiar faces when they skate close enough.

One player catches my eye immediately. Blond hair sticks out beneath the back of his helmet, longer than most of the others. He's impossible to miss, partly because he's one of the biggest guys on the ice. He glides backward across the blue line with an ease that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, intercepting a pass before sending the puck back up the ice. Dean, I realize. Alexa's hockey-player obsession.

A few feet away, another player loops around the faceoff circle. His skin darker than most of the team, his movements smooth and effortless as he carries the puck through traffic. He makes a quick pass that threads cleanly between two defenders before circling back for another rep. He's got an A plastered on the front of his jersey, marking him as the Alternate Captain.

I wonder briefly if Logan is out there too. Then I realize I don't actually know what number he wears. Or where he plays. I think he's a defenseman. He looks like he would be. But the two currently flanking the goalie definitely aren't him.

"Hey, Coach," I call as we reach the benches. "Could I borrow you for a second?" Jensen closes his eyes. Just for a brief moment, like he's already regretting this conversation. "Keep practicing," he barks toward the ice.

A few heads turn. I wasn't sure if they were going to be practicing today, and surprisingly enough Alexa claimed she didn't have their schedule memorized. Even though that seems to be every puck bunny's pastime. One player nearly misses a pass because he's too busy staring at us. Another nudges his teammate and says something I can't hear through the glass. Great. Exactly what I wanted. An audience.

Coach Jensen steps away from the boards and folds his arms across his chest. "What can I do for you, Miss Monroe?" I immediately regret coming. Beside me, Alexa nudges my elbow. I shoot her a look and she just smiles back at me.

"Well…" I begin. And suddenly every word I'd planned on saying disappears completely. "We were just wondering if we could schedule another tryout." Isla says before I can embarrass myself. "Considering there wasn't one for female hockey players." Coach Jensen looks her up and down. Not rudely. Just like he's doesn't quite believe she's ever touched a pair of skates before. Which, to be fair, she hasn't. The closes Isla's ever gotten to hockey is attending games with us. She's never even been much of an ice skater. We couldn't even convince her to go to the public rink with us last Christmas.

"For Faith, of course." Alexa quickly adds. As if Coach is about to throw Isla and Alexa onto the ice too.

"We already had tryouts." His tone is surprisingly patient. "Last week." I wince. Coach Jensen doesn't strike me as an unkind man. Strict, absolutely. But coaching a Division 1 hockey team probably requires a certain level of authority. Half of his job seems to involve yelling at twenty-year-old men and convincing them not to kill each other with sticks.

"I am aware of that, sir." I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "But..." The word hangs there. I'm not entirely sure how to phrase this without sounding like I'm accusing the university of violating federal law. "It says on the athletics website that female athletes are entitled to separate evaluations when there isn't an existing women's program."

Coach says nothing. So I keep going. "And while the men's team held tryouts last week…" I gesture vaguely toward the ice. "There wasn't exactly one for women." The silence that follows feels endless. Coach Jensen turns away from us and rests his forearms against the boards. Out on the ice, practice continues.

A winger flies down the right side before snapping a pass across the slot. The goalie somehow gets a glove on it. A chorus of groans erupts. Someone smacks their stick against the ice. The goalie raises both arms in celebration. Coach watches all of it without saying a word.

For a second, I think he's going to tell me no. Again. Honestly, I almost wish he would. At least then this would be over. "You know," he says eventually, "most players show up when tryouts are scheduled." Heat creeps up my neck. Alexa shifts beside me. Even Isla looks uncomfortable.

"I know."

Coach glances over his shoulder. "Then why didn't you?"

The question hits harder than it should. Because I don't have a good answer. Not one I can give him. Not one I'm willing to give anybody. I stare out at the ice instead. "Personal reasons." His eyes linger on me for another second. Then he sighs. A long one. The kind adults do when they're about to make a decision they know is going to cause them a headache. "You played center?" Relief hits me so suddenly I almost miss the question.

"Yes, sir."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like resignation. "Graham's our starting center." I nod. Of course he is. Phil Graham's son was practically hockey royalty around here. "We've got depth already."

"I understand."

"And if I let you skate, every player who missed tryouts is going to think they deserve another chance too."

"I understand."

Coach studies me. Really studies me. Like he's trying to figure out whether I'm worth the trouble. Finally he jerks his chin toward the ice. "When the boys get off, you'll get thirty minutes." For a second I genuinely think I imagined it.

"What?"

"Thirty minutes," he repeats. "You wanted an evaluation. You'll get one."

My heart practically launches itself into my throat. Beside me, Alexa makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeal. Coach immediately points a finger at her. "Don't make me regret this." Alexa clamps her mouth shut. Isla looks seconds away from exploding. I just stand there. Staring. Because after spending an entire year convincing myself hockey was over… I suddenly have thirty minutes to prove it isn't.

The thirty minutes pass quicker than I'd like them to. One second I'm stepping onto the ice. The next I'm pulling off borrowed gloves and trying to catch my breath on the bench.

While the boys finished practice, Coach Jensen sent me and my entourage to raid the spare equipment room. Most of the gear looked like it had survived several graduating classes and at least one war. I grabbed the smallest sizes I could find. The helmet fit well enough. Everything else was questionable.

The shoulder pads felt bulky around my frame, and the hockey pants sat awkwardly low on my hips no matter how much I adjusted them. The jersey hanging over it all was a men's small with the number 70 stitched across the back. Someone's old practice jersey. Someone who probably graduated years ago. Coach had waved away my concerns. "Good enough for today," he'd said.

Apparently he wasn't planning on throwing me into a full-contact scrimmage. Just evaluating. I reminded myself it was only thirty minutes. My actual gear was sitting in the back of my closet. Exactly where I'd left it over a year ago. I'd told myself a hundred times I should get rid of it. Donate it. Sell it. Move on. I never did.

The tryout itself goes better than I expect. The team filter toward the locker rooms while I'm getting dressed, shooting curious glances in my direction. A few of them slow down. A couple whisper to each other. I catch the words 'Jensen's daughter' from one group. I almost laugh. If only they knew. I guess they will soon.

Logan passes by a few seconds later. His gaze finds mine immediately. Holds it. Then moves on. No smile. No acknowledgement. Nothing. As if he hadn't driven me home Friday night. As if he hadn't practically carried me across campus after he watched me vomit all over the sidewalk. Honestly, I couldn't even blame him for pretending not to know me.

I push the thought away the second I step onto the ice. Coach had kept one of the goalies behind. Simms. That was his name. And despite the fact that stopping pucks was literally his job, he seemed oddly invested in seeing me succeed. "Not bad, Monroe," he'd called after one shot slipped under his glove. I nearly fell over from shock.

The man was good. Actually, good didn't even begin to cover it. Every shot felt like a challenge. And every time I managed to get one past him, he somehow looked more impressed than annoyed. Now, standing beside the bench, I steal a glance toward Coach Jensen. His expression gives absolutely nothing away. No smile. No frown. Nothing. Which somehow makes me even more nervous. Because if there's one thing I've learned from hockey coaches over the years— It's that the quiet ones are always the hardest to read.

"Good job, Faith." The praise catches me off guard. Coach Jensen isn't exactly the type to hand out compliments. I blink at him. "That shot." He jerks his chin toward the ice. "The one where Simms cheated to his glove side." I immediately know which one he means. Simms had been hugging the near post, expecting me to take the obvious shot. Instead I'd shifted my weight at the last second, dragging the puck across my body before snapping it top corner over his blocker. The puck had clipped the underside of the crossbar on its way in. Even Simms had smacked his stick against the ice afterward. "Not many players see that opening," Coach says. "Even fewer can execute it."

Heat creeps up my neck. I'm not used to hearing praise from coaches. Not anymore at least. I have no idea where he's going with this. If he's trying to let me down gently. Or if he's building toward something else entirely.

Coach stays quiet for a moment, watching the assistant coach gather stray pucks from the far end of the rink. Then he sighs. "I can give you a spot on the bench." My heart stops. "That's it," he adds immediately. There it is. The catch. "I can't promise you'll get ice time. We might need you." His gaze shifts to me. "We might not." It's still more than I was expecting. A lot more. "You did well Friday. And today." I stare at him. For a second I'm worried I misheard.

"Really?"

One of his eyebrows lifts. "Don't make me take it back." I immediately shut my mouth. Beside me, Alexa makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like she's about to burst into tears. Coach wisely ignores her.

"If you're going to be part of this team, we'll need to get you up to speed." I nod quickly. "Yes, sir."

"You've got skill. That's not what worries me." That statement alone manages to kill half my excitement.

"What does?"

"The physical side." Fair. Very fair.

"I've watched enough hockey - women's hockey too - to know you don't shy away from contact," he continues. "But Division One men's hockey is different." I think of the players I'd just watched flying around the ice. The hits. The speed. The sheer size of some of them. Dean, their right defenseman probably outweighs me by fifty pounds alone. Maybe more.

Coach points toward the locker room. "Our starting defensive pair is Di Laurentis and Logan." The name lands somewhere weird in my chest. "Rogers and Hollis rotate behind them."

I nod. Trying very hard not to think about Logan.

"Those boys play rough." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Especially Logan."

Alexa immediately perks up. Of course she does. Coach continues before she can say anything.

"I'm scheduling extra practice sessions." My stomach drops.

"With the defensemen?"

"With the defensemen."

I suddenly feel much less confident.

"They're not going to take it easy on you, Monroe."

"I wouldn't want them to." A smile threatens to appear. Just for a second. Coach points at me. "Good answer." Then his expression settles back into something serious. "The point isn't to knock you around." His gaze sharpens. "It's to prepare you."

I nod. This time without hesitation. Coach doesn’t say anything else. He just gives a short grunt like that settles it, then turns on his heel and starts walking toward the tunnel that leads into the locker rooms. I follow.

Alexa and Isla trail behind me in a mix of excitement and disbelief, whispering to each other like they’re watching something they didn’t think was real. The hallway leading into the locker room feels narrower than it should. Like it’s closing in with every step. Coach stops outside the door and actually pauses. He looks at me over his shoulder. “Wait here.” Then he pushes the door open just enough to stick his head in. “Everyone decent?” A couple of muffled responses come from inside.

“Yeah, Coach.”

“Mostly.”

“Define decent,” someone adds, and there’s a burst of laughter.

Coach doesn’t smile. “Monroe’s coming in.” That shuts them up faster than anything else. He steps back and opens the door fully. “Alright. In.” I hesitate for half a second. Then I step inside. The locker room hits me immediately with heat and noise and the smell of gear that’s been worn too many times without enough time to dry. It also hits me, rather suddenly, that I hadn't actually thought this far ahead. Tryouts, practices, games - I’d considered all of those. Locker rooms, apparently, had never crossed my mind. Which feels like a problem for future Faith. A very real problem. One that I decide to ignore for the next five minutes if at all possible.

I look towards the rows of benches. Hockey bags half-zipped open. Tape rolls, sticks, water bottles everywhere. And eyes. All of them on me. For a second, I just stand there. Completely frozen. It’s not like being watched from the stands. Out there, everything is distance and glass and noise and blur. In here, it's close. Too close. I feel it in my skin. Their eyes on me.

Coach clears his throat. “Boys." The room shifts slightly. Not in unison, not neatly, just enough movement to acknowledge him. “This is Faith Monroe.” A pause. I hear it. The unspoken question hanging in the air before he even says the rest. “She’ll be joining us on the bench.”

There it is. Joining us on the bench. Not on the team, not starting, not even roster addition in the way they’d say it about anyone else.

Just… the bench. Like it needs clarification. Like it’s temporary. Like it’s conditional. I tell myself I’m imagining it. Coach continues anyway.

“She’ll be training with us from now on. She played center for a good team in Michigan. And I'll be putting in extra sessions for her with the defense group for now. Don’t take it easy on her.” A few of the guys shift. I'm surprised he even remember that about me. But thinking about it now I feel like he used it to try and appeal me to the group.

Someone lets out a quiet whistle like they’re trying to decide if this is a joke. Another mutters something I can’t hear. I keep my face still. Keep my shoulders squared. Like I belong here. Even though every instinct in my body is screaming that I don’t. Coach steps aside slightly. “Get back to it in five.” Then he looks at me. “Stay for a minute.” Of course.

The room starts moving again, but slower now. Eyes still flicking back to me between conversations. Like I’m something new on the ice they’re not sure how to play yet. A couple of the guys are obvious. One of them - Dean, I remember now - leans back on the bench, studying me openly like he has no interest in pretending otherwise. Another gives a half-smirk before turning away. Then I feel it. Logan. I don’t even have to look straight at him to know. But I do anyway.

He’s a few feet away, sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, stick propped between his legs. Helmet off. His brown hair slightly damp from sweat. His gaze is already on me. Not surprised. Not amused. Not impressed either. Just… watching. Like he’s trying to figure something out.

I can’t read it. That’s the worst part. There’s no reaction I can attach to it, nothing clear to hold onto. Just that quiet, steady attention that makes me feel like I should either prove something, or leave. And I don’t know which one he’s already decided I am.

The room keeps moving around us, gear clattering, guys talking, skates hitting tile, but it feels like none of it is really reaching me properly.

Then he gets up.

No warning, no hesitation, just pushing off the bench and walking straight over like he’s decided whatever he was thinking doesn’t need any more time to sit.

“You didn’t tell me you played hockey,” he says when he stops in front of me. The remark makes me laugh before I can stop it, mostly because I suddenly feel so awkward I don’t know what else to do with my face.

“Yeah,” I say, shifting my weight a little like that somehow makes this less strange, “I play hockey.”

“Cool.” His answer is immediate, flat in a way that makes it impossible to tell if it actually is cool or if he just doesn’t care enough to pretend. Then he tilts his head slightly, eyes still on me. “You any good?”

“She’s more than good,” Simms cuts in before I can even open my mouth, like he’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Her slap shot’s ridiculous.”

I glance at him, surprised, because he doesn’t owe me anything and still says it like it’s obvious. A couple of the other guys shift at that, exchanging looks, like they’re recalibrating something in their heads. Logan doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me like he’s still waiting for his own answer.

I hesitate for a second. I hadn’t really planned what I was going to say once I got here. Briar doesn’t have a women’s hockey team. A lot of college’s don’t. Not unless there’s enough interest. Not unless it’s worth the investment.

“You here for the tryouts?” His gaze flicks to the sports bag slung over my shoulder.

“Yes.” The word comes out thinner than I want it to.

“You brought skates?”

I nod. Of course I did. They’ve been in my bag all day, heavier than they should be. Like they knew I wasn’t sure I’d actually use them. He doesn't say anything about me being a girl.

“Show me what you got, then.” No reaction. No judgement. Nothing. He just waits. It takes me a second to realise he’s not going to say anything else. That he's waiting for me to do something.

Right.

I crouch down and pull my skates out. They’re still too new. Barely broken in. My dad bought them over a year ago, before everything - before I stopped, before I decided I was done.

I lace them up quickly, fingers moving on muscle memory alone, then step onto the ice. It feels wrong at first. Not having any gear on, the stands being so empty. No teammates. Just the sound of my blades cutting into the fresh ice and the echo that follows. I push off slowly, testing it. Letting my weight settle. It’s been a while. Long enough that I almost forgot how it feels. Almost.

It comes back quicker than I expect. A few laps, then a few more. My stride evens out, edges digging in clean, familiar. My body remembers what my head’s been trying to ignore. I stop by the benches, a sharp spray of ice kicking up as I come to a halt. Coach Jensen reaches down and grabs a stick from the pile left behind. He still hasn’t mentioned that I’m late. It’s been, what - thirty minutes since tryouts ended? I was here. I made it. I just… didn’t go in.

I stood outside like an idiot, staring at the doors like they were going to make the decision for me. I applied to Briar fully ready to be done with hockey. Told myself it was just a high school thing. Something I used to do. Something that didn’t matter anymore.

Freshman year, I didn’t think about it once. Classes, parties, watching football games. Repeat. And now I’m here. Back on the ice. In front of a coach who’s waiting for me to prove something I’m not even sure I still have.

I grab the stick and push off again before I can think about it too much. Grab a puck from the pile and carry it over to the blue line.

I wind up and take the shot. It’s not my strongest. The contact’s slightly off, but the puck still rockets forward, slamming into the back of the net with a satisfying crack.

Good enough.

I don’t stop moving. Forehand, quick adjustment, wrist shot high glove. The rebound kicks out and I’m already there, shifting my weight, snapping it low blocker before it settles. I circle back, picking up speed through the neutral zone. Cut in tight. Toe-drag across my body, smooth, controlled, release. Top shelf.

My edges bite hard as I stop, pivot, and come back the other way. This time I skate in like a breakaway. Fake forehand, pull it to my backhand, and lift it just under the bar.

It slides in clean.

Of course it does. I’ve done this a thousand times before. I just forgot.

Forgot how it feels when everything lines up. When your body moves without hesitation. When the ice feels like the only place you actually make sense.

I slow to a stop, breath steady, chest rising just enough to remind me I’m still here. Still-

I glance up. Coach Jensen is leaning against the boards, watching me. Really watching me. He gestures me over. I skate back, slowing as I reach the bench. “What’s your name?” He asks.

“Faith.”I hold his gaze, trying to read something in his expression. Anything. But I get nothing.

“Well, Faith,” he says, “where’d you learn to skate like that?”

“Ashford Academy,” I answer. “I was on the varsity women’s team. It’s a high school in Michigan.” I add in the last bit as I’m not sure how familiar he is with high school women’s hockey. Most likely, not very.

“A good one too,” he says. “Scott O’Reily went there, right?” That catches me off guard. I nod. “Yeah.” Scott was signed at 18 by the Edmonton Oilers and is one of our few alumni who currently play in the NHL. He must’ve noticed my surprise because he chuckles as he takes the stick from my hands.

“You’re not bad, Faith.” A pause. “What made you choose Briar?” How come you didn’t pick a college where you could actually play is what he really wants to say. And he’s not wrong for thinking that. I received an offer from the University of Michigan. Their women’s team is relatively strong, winning their fair share of playoff titles. It’s a Division 1 team. Playing for them had long been a dream of mine. But instead I ended up here. Trying out for a Division 1 men’s team. It’s almost completely unheard of. No way they would risk having a woman on their team. Not with them potentially making it as far as the Frozen Four this year.

“I actually came here to study Biology… That’s my major.” I say instead. I’m not sure what else to say. After what happened during my senior year I put hockey behind me. I focused on my studies and having a strong GPA. I barely scraped by as top 15% of my class, but luckily Ashford wasn’t exactly brimming with students ready to study natural sciences. A lot of them were solely interested in hockey, and got by with a full-ride scholarship.

“Biology, huh.” Coach Jensen doesn’t seem all that convinced. He studies me for a second. “Must be demanding.”

“Yes, sir.” Silence stretches between us again.

“You want to play for the Briar Hawks?” He asks eventually.

The question lands heavier than it should. Do I? I thought I had put it all behind me. But getting to step back on the ice had brought so many memories rushing back. There’s a reason I started playing hockey in the first place. My father’s always been a die hard Red Wings fan for as long as I can remember. Our home team based in Detroit. And as his only child, he taught me everything he knew on the ice. He never played in the pros himself, but he was a forward on his college team. Like me. And I know how much he loves the sport. It didn’t matter that I was a girl. Out on the ice it was just me and him, and our shared love for hockey.

“Hockey’s a very demanding sport, Miss Faith.” He continues when I don’t respond. “Brutal, sometimes. And I’m sure you’ve seen our boys—“ he glances out toward the empty rink, like he can already see them there “—they’re very... aggressive.”

“I’ve been playing since I could walk.” I say. A small breast of a laugh escapes me. “I know what I’m getting into.”

He nods slowly. “So you know how competitive it is. How hard it is to make a D-1 roster. Hell, some of the kids who come here - talented kids - don’t even make it onto the team. I only allow the best of the best to represent us.”

“I’m aware, sir.”

“And I’m sure you’re also aware we don’t have a women’s team.” His tone shifts slightly. More deliberate now. “Although technically we are required to provide equal athletic opportunities for everyone…" he sounds like he's reciting from the school's website. "Which means we’re required to allow tryouts. Not to offer spots.” I nod again. I know exactly what this is. A technicality. A courtesy.

“But,” he adds, tapping the clipboard lightly, “as it seems, you missed tryouts.”

That— that hits me harder than anything else he’s said. My stomach drops. “Oh.” Brilliant response.

“I’m sorry, Faith. Maybe next year.” He gives my shoulder a brief pat before looking back down at the clipboard, like the conversation is already over. I glance at the page. Names. Lines. Decisions already made. People who showed up on time.

I unlace my skates in silence, fingers moving slower than they did earlier, like something’s weighing them down now. I shove them back into my bag a little harder than necessary. My eyes sting, and I blink it away immediately. Absolutely not.

I’m not even sure why I’m this upset. Even if I’d made it in on time, I probably wouldn’t have made the team. No way a group of D-1 guys would just accept a girl skating alongside them. Maybe as a benchwarmer, I think bitterly. If that.

By the time I get back to my dorm room, it’s empty. The room feels quieter than usual without Alexa in it. Too still. Too… mine. We’ve been roommates since freshman year. Met during freshers week when we realised we’d been assigned the same room. She’s a biology major too, somehow surviving the same workload I am, but everything about her is the complete opposite. Alexa lives like nothing bad has ever touched her. All sunshine and rainbows. Someone who doesn’t automatically assume the worst.

It’s only 5pm, so she’s probably still at the library. The place where we unfortunately find ourselves most evenings these days. Organic Chemistry 1 has really been kicking our asses lately. Which makes me even more worried for Organic Chemistry II next semester. Our professor seems adamant on breezing past the topics without stopping long enough for anything to actually sink in. Then assigns about two hundred pages of reading like that’s reasonable. And the labs— Three hours of recrystallization this Tuesday. It was brutal. And I’m pretty sure I still smell like ethanol.

I drop my pink sports bag by my bed and let myself fall back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. I should probably change, but after my disastrous tryout that wasn’t even really a tryout today, I can’t be bothered. Instead I grab my phone and find a bunch of unread messages from the group chat. Livvy and Isla are already talking about some football after-party tonight. It’s Friday night and the team just got back from some game. Judging by the noise I passed on the way here, I’m guessing they won. I’m not really in the mood. But maybe that’s exactly why I should go. Some cheap tequila to drown my sorrows in, and a cute guy to hookup with.

I haven’t been going out much lately. Not that I’m super against them, I just don’t have the time. Or energy. It seems like I don’t have much time for anything these days. I tried the whole relationship thing last year. It didn’t stick. We barely saw each other much during the semester, and when summer came around, I realised I didn’t actually miss him. Not in the way you’re supposed to. James was… fine. Nice. Too nice, sometimes. Like he was waiting for me to turn into this version of a girlfriend that didn’t exist. Someone who’d show up to all his games, smile on cue, stand beside him while he showed me off to his teammates.

He’s a wide receiver for Briar football. Which is exactly why I’m not thrilled about the idea of a football frat party tonight. He’ll be there. And if the rumors are true, he won’t be alone. Not that I blame him. It’s been two months.

I’m just about to come up with an excuse not to go when the door slams open.

“Fay!” Alexa bursts in like she’s been holding in energy all day and finally has somewhere to put it. She drops her books onto her desk in a messy pile that definitely isn’t staying contained for long. While Briar U might be known for their extensive sports programmes, they’re not exactly the best when it comes to housing. While freshmen usually have to share rooms, there’s not enough suites to go around for the older students. Which means a lot of the sophomores still have to share a room. Luckily, they were lenient enough to let me and Alexa share a room this year too. The room is split cleanly down the middle. Her side is chaos. Clothes draped over her chair, her desk covered in makeup and hair products she somehow uses all at once, fairy lights strung unevenly along the wall. Polaroids taped up above her bed — friends, family and a few of her family’s dog Camille. Her bed is unmade, as it is most days. She claims there’s no point fixing it if she’s just gonna mess it up again. I gave up arguing about that months ago.

My side is— different. Everything has a place. Clothes don’t touch the floor. Ever. My desk is clear, my bed made, everything where it’s supposed to be. If it’s not, it feels wrong. Like the whole day’s off before it even starts.

“You coming out with us tonight?” Alexa asks, already halfway across the room. She must see the hesitation on my face because she rushes to add, “I promise it’ll be fun. And I won’t leave you. At all. And I’ll make sure James doesn’t come anywhere near you— unless you want him to, obviously, I mean do you—”

“If I say yes, will you stop talking.” She freezes. Then grins.

“Yess!” She launches herself onto my bed, and I immediately shove her off. She barely even protests as she tumbles onto the floor, laughing. Absolutely not. God knows where her clothes have been. Probably all over that senior she’s been hooking up with lately. Apparently the hottest man alive, if Alexa’s to be believed.

“Is Dean gonna be there?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. She lights up instantly. “Of course he’s gonna be there. That’s how I found out about the party.”

Of course it is. I bite back a comment. I’ve heard enough about Dean to know exactly how this ends. He’s been all she’s been able to talk about lately. I don’t want to ruin things for her, but from what I’ve heard, he’s a massive player. She says she doesn’t mind, but I’m not so sure anymore. I know as soon as he moves onto the next willing puck bunny, she’s gonna spiral and be heartbroken for a year. And then I’ll be left to pick up the pieces. Not that I mind. After only knowing her for a year, I’ve learnt that there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do for this girl. And if that includes kicking some hockey player’s ass then so be it.

“Fine,” I sigh. “But only because I need to forget how terrible today was.”

Her expression shifts immediately. “Oh shit. That was today?” I stare at her. Not like I had spoken about it almost everyday for the past week. “Yes.”

“What happened? Did they not want you?”

“I was too late.” The words come out flatter than I expect. “I couldn’t—“ I stop, exhale. “I couldn’t get through the door. And when I did, the coach let me skate, but… that was it. Said I could try again next year.” There it is. That tight feeling in my chest cracks just enough for everything else to slip through. I blink hard, but it doesn’t help. “I know I wasn’t going to make first line or anything,” I add quickly, like I need to justify it. “But I thought maybe — bench, at least. Something.” Because I know I’m good enough. Even now. Even after a year off. “I could’ve played,” I say quietly.

Alexa sits up from the floor, frowning. “That really sucks,” she says. Then, after a second, “Is it because you’re a girl?”

“No. I don’t know.” I swallow. “Maybe.”

“That’s so messed up. They should have a women’s team. Hockey’s huge here, there’s no way you’re the only girl who wants to play.” She’s not wrong.

“Can we just get ready?” I wipe at my eyes before anything actually falls. “I wanna get drunk.”

Alexa’s grin is instant. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Two hours later, we end up at Isla’s boyfriend’s house. His parents live in Hastings, only a 30 minute drive from campus. And even closer to Greek Row. They live in a nice Victorian house, and are currently away for the weekend. Which makes for the ideal pregame spot.

Music spills out the second we step onto the porch, bass heavy enough to feel in my chest before we even get inside. The front door is wide open, people coming in and out like it’s a revolving door.

The house is already packed. Not in an overwhelming way—just enough people to fill every room with noise and movement. Leo’s friends aren’t all football or frat guys, but they carry the same kind of energy. Loud, easygoing, already a few drinks in. I’m still on my first. Vodka cranberry, mostly ice at this point. I take small sips, letting it last. I know myself well enough to pace it. It doesn’t take much for me to go from fine to tipsy, and I’m not trying to peak before we even get to the actual party.

Alexa, on the other hand— Already gone. She’s halfway standing on the coffee table, arguing with some guy over the speaker. They’re both leaning over it like it’s a life-or-death situation, voices raised over Pitbull blasting through the room. “You cannot skip this!” she insists, pointing at the screen.

“It’s been playing for three minutes!”

“And it should play for three more!”

They both have such similar taste in music, I’m not sure what the point of this feud even is.

Livvy drops into the chair beside me, her curls bouncing slightly as she settles in. She opens her mouth to say something, but I’m not in the mood to talk. Not yet. I down the rest of my drink instead and stand up. “Refill,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. She nods like she gets it.

The kitchen is blissfully empty. No music blasting directly into my skull, no bodies pressed too close. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint echo of the party bleeding in from the other rooms. I hop onto the counter, legs tucked in slightly and grab the nearest bottle. Vodka again. This time I mix it with the lemonade sitting by the sink. It’s warm. I can’t seem to get myself to care.

“Faith, right?” The voice comes from the doorway. I glance up, blinking once as my eyes adjust from the bright overhead light. It’s harsher in here, washing everything out, making him look sharper around the edges. He’s leaning against the frame like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting or not. Dark hair, slightly messy. Clean jawline. The kind of face that’s just… easy to look at. He’s holding a red cup loosely in his hand, fingers relaxed around it like he’s not paying much attention to it at all. He’s cute. I don’t say that out loud.

“Yeah,” I answer after a second, not moving from where I’m sitting. There’s a small pause before he pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, stopping just in front of me.

“You into football?” he asks, nodding slightly toward my shirt. “I think I’ve seen you around.”

I huff out something that almost passes for a laugh. “Hockey.” That gets a reaction. His eyebrows lift slightly, like that wasn’t what he expected. “I don’t really know much about it,” he admits. “Seems fun though.”

“It is.” Short. Simple. I take another sip of my drink, letting the silence stretch just enough that it’s not awkward, but not comfortable either.

“Faith, there you are.” I turn at the sound of my name. Isla walks in, Leo right behind her, his arm already settling around her waist like it belongs there. She looks— effortless. She really does look beautiful tonight, her reddish-brown hair pulled up into a slicked back ponytail. She’s got a black minidress on that compliments her body perfectly. I can’t help but feel a bit underdressed compared to her. I’ve got a denim mini skirt on, with a cropped Detroit Lions shirt. I thought the football shirt would be fitting. While Isla’s got her platform heels on as always, I chose to wear my beat up white sneakers.

“Ready to go?” Leo asks, pulling her back against him slightly. They make a cute couple. They started dating during freshman year, after becoming lab partners.

“Yeah,” I say, hopping down from the counter and finishing my drink in one go. Stronger than I thought. The room tilts for half a second, just enough to throw me off. I steady myself with a hand against the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the guy’s hand lifting slightly, like he was about to help, but he stops himself. I don’t even know his name. I forgot to ask.

Alexa and Livvy appear as we head out, falling into step with us as we move through the house and out onto the patio. Halfway down the steps, I stop. Wait. Did I— “Wait, I need to-“ I forgot to check if I forgot to turn off the lights.

“Fay.” Alexa cuts me off instantly. “I watched you turn them off.” I blink at her. Sometimes I swear she can read my mind. “Right.” I force the uncomfortable feeling away and keep walking.

The party’s already in full swing by the time we get there. Music so loud it drowns out everything else, bass vibrating through the floor, through my chest, through my ribs. The whole place feels like it’s moving, like the walls are barely holding it together. Alexa leans into me, her voice loud in my ear. “So— how do you feel about Luke? Isla said you two were hitting it off earlier.” I laugh.

“I didn’t even know his name until just now.”

She gasps like I’ve offended her personally. “So what? He’s hot. And he clearly likes you. You should go for it.” She nods toward the ping pong table. I follow her gaze. He’s already looking at me. And the second he realises I’ve noticed, he looks away.

Subtle.

I look him over properly this time. Tall. Athletic. The kind of build that screams sports without being overly bulky. Strong arms, broad shoulders. He looks like he could be on the football team, but I don’t recognise him. Not that I go to games unless I have to. Football’s never really been my thing. Isla and Livvy dragged me into that world. They’re both varsity cheerleaders, that’s how we met.

Back when I was still playing the role of supportive girlfriend, showing up to James’ games, clapping at the right moments, pretending I cared. Isla introduced herself like she’d known me forever. The rest just… stuck.

“Go,” Alexa mouths, nudging me toward the table. I go.

Luke grins when I step up beside him, handing me the ball. “You wanna play?”

“I’m not very good,” I say.

It’s a lie. A complete one. I’m actually really good. It just feels weird stepping into their game like this. Like I don’t quite belong here. They don’t seem to mind. If anything, they’re a little too interested. I lean over the table to line up my shot and catch one of them staring. He’s looking down, clearly trying to get a better view of my ass. I scoff under my breath. Subtlety really is a dying skill.

He stands out immediately. Not because he’s trying to. Because he doesn’t have to. He’s bigger than any of the other guy’s crowded around the table. Not taller necessarily, though he has a few inches on most of them. Just broader. Built like someone who spends most of his life throwing his body at people for fun. His navy t-shirt stretches across his shoulders in a way that feels unfair, sleeves tight around biceps that look ridiculous under the dim frat-house lighting.

When he catches me looking, he doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitches.

Asshole.

His eyes are what catch me off guard, though. Bright blue. They’re fixed on me with an intensity that makes it obvious he’s not paying attention to the game anymore.

Or maybe he wasn’t even paying attention in the first place.

I lean over the table to serve, and sure enough, when I glance up again he’s still looking. Not at my face.

My grip tightens around the ping pong ball as I pick it up from the cup it just landed in. Some men truly have no survival instinct.

“Logan,” one of the guys beside him says, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “You gonna drink it or what?”

A few of them laugh.

Logan finally drags his attention away from me, and reaches for the cup. He downs it in one go. I roll my eyes as I toss the ball into the air. 

The ball hits the table, ricochets off the edge, and disappears somewhere into the noise and bodies behind me. No one really reacts. The game keeps going like I didn’t just lose track of what I was doing. I don’t care. Or I pretend I don’t. Because I can still feel it - his eyes. Logan’s. Burned into the side of my face even when I’m not looking at him.

“Again,” Luke says, sliding another ball toward me. I shake my head slightly. “Later.” My attention drifts before I can stop it. Across the room. And that’s where I see him. James. It’s like my brain lags a second behind reality, like it takes time to process that he’s actually here and not just some unlucky coincidence my alcohol is inventing. Except he is here. Leaning against the far wall, relaxed in a way I remember too well. Same easy smile. Same posture like nothing in the world has ever actually stressed him out. And next to him—

Of course. A girl. Blonde. Perfectly curled hair. Short black dress, hand resting lightly on his arm like she belongs there without even thinking about it. I’m not sure if this is the same girl I’ve been hearing about. Brooke.

Apparently, she’s James’ new girlfriend. The thought lands a second too late, like my brain was still hoping it wasn’t real. My grip tightens around the edge of the table. Right, okay.

I take a slow sip of my drink. It doesn’t taste like anything anymore. Just sweet and sharp and warm in the back of my throat. Alexa is somewhere behind me, laughing too loud at something. Livvy’s voice cuts through the music briefly, but it doesn’t stick. Everything feels slightly too far away. And then I feel it again.

That weight. Logan’s attention. Still on me. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who can keep his attention on something, or someone, for too long.

I don’t know what expression I’m wearing, but I fix it quickly. Flatten it out. Reset. Because I refuse to look like anything right now. James laughs at something the girl says. I catch it out of the corner of my eye and it hits worse than I expect it to.

Two months. Apparently that’s all it takes.

“Faith,” Luke says, closer now. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie automatically. Except it comes out wrong. Too flat. Too late. I step back from the table. “I need another drink.” No one argues.

The kitchen is busier now than it was earlier, but I still push through it. Shoulders brushing past people I don’t recognise, laughter bouncing off the counters, cups everywhere like no one plans on cleaning any of this up ever. I grab whatever bottle is closest. It burns a little more going down this time. Good.

I’m not sure how many I’ve had at this point. Not enough to be gone, but enough that the edges of everything feel softer than they should. I turn around, leaning back against the counter—

And there he is again. Logan. Like he just… followed. He’s not leaning this time. Just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me like he’s trying to figure something out without asking directly. “You always disappear like that?” he asks.

I blink at him slowly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to bite someone’s head off and then decide not to.”

A laugh almost comes out of me, but it dies halfway. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t look convinced. There’s a pause. He glances past me, briefly, toward the noise of the party. Then back to me. “You looked like you needed a break,” he says, quieter this time. That annoys me more than it should.

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t.”

Another pause. This one stretches longer. He’s too close in a way I didn’t notice until now. Not invading, just present. Like he actually decided to stay in the same space as me instead of orbiting it like everyone else. And I hate that I notice that. Because I do. Outside, the bass shifts. Someone cheers too loudly. Glass clinks somewhere behind us. I finish my drink without thinking. Bad idea.

The room tilts slightly when I put the cup down. I steady myself on the counter again, slower this time. Logan’s eyes flick to my hand. “You’re done for the night,” he says.

I let out a short laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You’re done for the night.”

“I didn’t realise you were in charge of that.”

“I’m not,” he says simply. “But you’re not exactly steady right now.”

That makes something sharp flare in my chest. “I’m fine,” I repeat, but it’s weaker this time. Even I can hear it. He doesn’t argue. Just studies me for a second. Then sighs like he’s made a decision.

“Come on.”

“No.”

He raises an eyebrow slightly. “No?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Fair,” he says. No offence taken. Which is worse somehow. “Then I’ll call you an Uber.”

“I don’t need—”

I stop. Because I see him again. Not Logan. James. Still across the room. Still laughing. Still holding her hand like it’s nothing. And something in me just… tips. He hasn’t even glanced my way once. Like I don’t exist. Like what we had meant nothing to him.

I turn back to Logan too quickly. “You know what,” I say, “actually—never mind.”

His brows knit slightly. “What?”

I step closer before I can think better of it. Too close. He doesn’t move away. Which is the problem. Because now I can smell his cologne. Something clean. Something real in a room that suddenly feels too loud and too fake and too full of people I don’t want to look at anymore. “Nothing,” I say.

And then I grab his shirt and kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not soft. Not anything like it should be. It’s messy and wrong and fueled entirely by vodka and anger and the fact that I just saw my ex with someone else. For half a second, he doesn’t react. Then he moves—

Not into it. Away. Carefully.

He pulls back just enough to break it, hands lifting slightly but not touching me. “Hey,” he says, voice lower now. Steadier. “Hey—stop.”

I frown, blinking up at him. “What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he says, not unkind. Just firm.

The words don’t land immediately. Then they do. Heat crawls up my neck, embarrassment cutting through the haze for a second too sharp to ignore. He exhales once, like he’s trying to decide something. Then he nods toward the hallway.

“C’mon,” he says. “I’m taking you home.”

“I don’t need—”

“You know,” he called down, voice smooth and bright, “most people use the front door.”

You rolled your eyes. “And miss out on the cardio?”

He grinned and lowered toward you, landing a few feet away with a flick of flame that simmered into steam. He looked you up and down — leather, zipper, silver-lined gloves — and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the city’s favorite cat burglar.” He folded his arms. “What are you stealing this time? High-end throw pillows?”

“Tempting,” you said, standing from your crouch, your smirk sharp. “But no. Just here to borrow a few trinkets. I’ll return them. Eventually.”

“You know I’m supposed to stop you, right?”

“You could try.”

He took a step forward, flames licking around his boots. “I don’t like thieves.”

You stepped toward him too, heel clicking against the concrete. “I don’t like show-offs.”

He tilted his head, that cocky grin deepening. “Good thing I’m incredibly charming.”

“And flammable,” you added dryly. “Must be hard keeping a girl’s attention when you’re one wrong touch away from setting her hair on fire.”

“Oh, I keep their attention,” Johnny said. “Just ask anyone.”

You chuckled and slowly circled him, the way a cat might circle a bird — graceful, silent, taunting. “Mm. I bet you’ve got the phone numbers to prove it. All those poor women, so dazzled by the Human Torch they forget he’s got the emotional depth of a puddle.”

“That’s offensive,” he said, mock-scandalized. “I’ve got layers.”

“Like a well-cooked crème brûlée?”

He smirked. “Exactly. Sweet, hot, and just a little dangerous.”

You rolled your eyes again — but it was harder this time to fight the twitch of a smile tugging at your lips.

“Listen,” Johnny said, turning to face you as you paused near the roof’s edge. “You’re not really gonna rob that apartment, are you?”

You shrugged. “Not if someone gives me a better offer.”

He raised a brow. “Dinner?”

“Cash.”

He laughed. “See, now we’re talking.”

But his grin faded just a little, turning thoughtful. “Why do it, though? You’re clearly good at this. Why not use your skills for something that doesn’t involve... felonies?”

You leaned in, your breath brushing his jaw. “Maybe I like things that sparkle.”

His throat bobbed, eyes locked on yours. “You would.”

“I bet you do too,” you whispered.

There was a long pause.

Then Johnny stepped back — not out of fear, but restraint. Barely. “You’re trouble.”

“And you’re late to the party.”

“You know I’m going to have to stop you,” he said again, voice quieter now.

You gave him a little wink. “Then catch me, hotshot.”

And with that, you backflipped off the edge of the building, a grappling line catching the nearest ledge as you vanished into the dark.

Johnny cursed under his breath and flared into flame, launching off the rooftop after you — not out of duty, not really. But because he couldn’t help himself.

After all, nothing burned quite like curiosity.

The diamond sparkled between your gloved fingers, cool and perfect in the low light. You stood near the floor-to-ceiling window of a lavish, barely-lived-in penthouse — the kind rich people bought just to say they had. The place was still. Empty. Quiet in that expensive way, like money muffled sound.

You slipped the gem into the velvet pouch at your hip and turned, already halfway to the skylight, when—

“Took your time,” came a voice behind you.

You froze.

Then turned slowly — and sure enough, there he was.

Johnny. Leaning against the doorframe like he’d lived here his whole life, arms crossed, golden hair tousled, flame still faintly glowing beneath his skin like a low simmer. The soft orange flicker lit the shadows in his face, casting a halo over his shoulders.

You blinked, genuinely surprised. “How the hell did you find me?”

He tilted his head, one brow arched. “Please. You’re many things, Hardy — quick, flexible, annoyingly smug — but not unpredictable.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You stalking me now?”

“Just keeping tabs on a known criminal.” His voice was playful, but there was something sharper underneath. Something he was trying not to show. “Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to hit another target tonight.”

You smirked, stepping out from the window and into the ambient glow of the apartment’s overhead lights. “I like to keep busy.”

“I noticed.” His gaze flicked to the bag on your hip. “So. That what I think it is?”

“Maybe,” you said sweetly, walking slowly toward him — hips swaying, smile just a little too sharp. “You here to take it back, Officer Storm?”

His eyes tracked your every step like he couldn’t help it. “You really want me to play the hero card right now?”

“Why not?” you purred. “It’s what you do best, right? Punch the bad guy. Save the day. Flash a grin for the camera.”

His jaw tensed. “Is that what you think I am? Some fire-powered pretty boy who doesn’t think past his own reflection?”

You didn’t answer — not with words. Just stopped a few feet away from him and tilted your head. “You tell me, hotshot.”

There was a beat.

A long, quiet, charged beat.

Then he took a single step forward. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off his chest. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin to meet his gaze.

“I think you like the game too much,” he said, voice low. “You like being chased.”

“And you like doing the chasing.”

“Only when it’s worth it.”

Another pause. Tension thick like honey between you.

Then your hand brushed his chest — not softly, not affectionately, but like a dare. Like you wanted to see if he'd flinch. He didn’t.

“You’re not gonna stop me,” you whispered.

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah.” You leaned closer, your lips nearly grazing his, your breath mingling in the space between. “Because if you were really here to stop me... you wouldn’t have waited until after I stole it.”

His breath caught — just barely.

Then, suddenly, he was touching you — hands at your waist, firm, grounding. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”

“You’re flammable,” you breathed, looping a finger into the collar of his jacket. “But you still came back for more.”

Silence fell again — not empty, but dense with everything you weren’t saying. You hated him. Or were supposed to. He was everything you weren’t. Flashy. Loud. Good.

But he looked at you like he saw right through all of it. And maybe, just maybe… you didn’t mind being seen by him.

“You gonna kiss me,” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, “or arrest me?”

He smiled, slow and wrecked. “Don’t tempt me.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t polite. It was heat and teeth and a week’s worth of pent-up frustration — of games and chase and too many close calls. His lips crushed against yours like he wanted to win, and you kissed him back just to prove he wouldn’t.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, and Johnny was right there with you — heat and tension pressed into every inch of your body. His mouth was hot and urgent, fingers gripping your waist like you were slipping through smoke and he didn’t want to let you go.

You tangled a hand in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan — low, dizzy, like it knocked the wind right out of him. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, and that was all it took.

He slipped his hands down, palms rough against the smooth curve of your thighs, and in one swift movement, he lifted you — like you weighed nothing. The wall was cool against your back, his body hot against your front, and every time he rolled his hips forward, a noise escaped you that you couldn’t hold back.

He kissed you deeper, tongue brushing your lips, and you let him in, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. Everything about him felt like fire — consuming, hungry, unstoppable.

To your left, a velvet couch glowed dark red in the low light. Johnny broke the kiss long enough to glance toward it, then didn’t hesitate. He pulled away from the wall, still holding you close, and practically threw you onto the cushions — like he couldn’t get you horizontal fast enough.

You landed with a soft bounce, heart pounding, and before you could catch your breath or make a snide remark, his shirt was gone — flung somewhere behind him — and he was climbing on top of you.

His elbows bracketed your face, holding his weight as he hovered, eyes flicking over every inch of you like he was memorizing the moment. Then his lips crashed into yours again, no warning, no teasing this time, like he couldn't stop himself.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, and it was too much — too fast, too good — and not nearly enough.

And for once, you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t want to.

You broke the kiss first, just enough to breathe, your voice breathless against his mouth. “You still gonna turn me in?”

He grinned, breath hitching. “Maybe.”

“You’d have to catch me first.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted through fire. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And you like it,” you said.

He didn’t argue.

But outside, the city buzzed. Sirens in the distance. Somewhere far below, the real world called. You both heard it — and you both ignored it.

Because right now, in this stolen sliver of time, it was just you and him. Felicia Hardy and Johnny Storm.

Two sides of the same burning coin.

And neither of you ready to fold.

He kept talking, oblivious. “So I told Coach, right? Like, I was the one who called the play, not Drew. That’s why it worked.”

Someone tossed a chip across the table. Jake caught it in his mouth. The guys howled, and someone clapped him on the back like he’d just performed a miracle.

You looked down at your tray. You hadn’t touched your food.

“Hey,” Jake said, nudging you with his shoulder. “You okay, babe? You’re all quiet.”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He grinned, kissed your cheek, and went back to talking to Drew about something to do with basketball.

Just tired.

It was easier than saying you were bored. Or confused. Or starting to feel like maybe you didn’t fit here as well as you used to.

The cafeteria buzzed around you — voices echoing, sneakers squeaking on tile, lunch trays clattering — and that’s when the air shifted. Just slightly. Like something tugged at the edge of your attention.

You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

Eddie Munson strolled past your table, same as he did every day. Worn leather jacket, denim vest, combat boots thudding against the tile like a rhythm only he could hear. His walk was unbothered. Confident in a way that wasn’t about who liked him or who didn’t — it was the kind of confidence that said, I already know who I am. You figure the rest out.

You noticed the same things you always did. The way his curls spilled into his eyes. The scattered rings on his fingers. The binder under his arm covered in Sharpie scribbles — band logos, D&D symbols, little doodles of dragons and skulls. He was chaos in a school full of rules. And you… well, you were a rule-follower. At least, you always had been.

“Jesus,” Jake muttered under his breath. “Does that guy ever wash his hair?”

A few people at the table laughed.

“Bet he sleeps in that same damn jacket,” Drew added.

You didn’t laugh. You were too busy watching Eddie out of the corner of your eye.

He didn’t flinch at the comments. Didn’t pause. Just gave a half-glance back, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching like he could say something, but didn’t care enough to waste the breath. His gaze skimmed over the table.

Then landed on you.

Just for a second.

It wasn’t a long look. It didn’t linger. But it held. Long enough for your stomach to twist in a way that felt inconvenient. Long enough for your heart to thump louder than the cafeteria noise. Long enough that you looked away too fast, hoping no one noticed the heat rising in your cheeks.

But Eddie kept walking. Smooth, unrushed, like he had somewhere better to be — and probably did.

“You hear me?” Jake asked suddenly, pulling your attention back.

You blinked. “What?”

He frowned a little. “I said you should stop by before the party. Derek’s bringing tequila.”

“Right. Cool.”

Jake smiled again like nothing was weird, like you hadn’t just been caught staring at another guy mid-conversation.

And maybe nothing was weird. You were still here. Sitting beside your golden-boy boyfriend, surrounded by friends, wearing the same uniform you’d always worn.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like a costume.

Like maybe it never really fit the way you thought it did.

Your fingers picked at the edge of your lunch tray. Across the room, you could just make out Eddie at his usual table — feet propped up on a chair, deep in some conversation with the younger kids from his club. His hands moved when he talked, expressive and wild. The others laughed, clearly entertained. And even from this far away, you could see it — that look in his eyes.

Like he wasn’t pretending to be anyone.

Like he didn’t have to.

“Babe?” Jake said again, touching your leg under the table.

You smiled too quickly, swallowing the rest of your thoughts. “Sorry. Just zoned out.”

“Better not be thinking about anyone else,” he said, joking, but not really. His hand slid up a little higher.

You pushed it gently back down, still smiling. “Just tired.”

And again, he let it go.

You took another peek across the cafeteria.

Eddie wasn’t looking at you anymore.

But somehow, it didn’t matter.

Because you were still thinking about the way he did.

Jake leaned against your locker like he always did — casual, cocky, with that half-smirk he wore like a varsity jacket. The hallway buzzed around you, students flooding out from seventh period, chatter bouncing off the tile like static. You tucked your books into your arms, fingers tight on the spine of your notebook.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “party tonight. You’re still coming, right?”

You nodded automatically, out of habit more than desire. “Yeah, I guess.”

He leaned in a little closer, his cologne too strong, too sharp for the stuffy hallway air. “Not just any party, though. Derek’s parents are out of town. All night. No rules.”

His voice dropped low like it was supposed to mean something. Your stomach twisted.

“Right,” you said, and your tone was probably too flat, too careful.

Jake didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.

“I mean, c’mon, babe,” he added, flashing you a smile like he was handing you something special. “We’ve been together a while now. Everyone’s gonna be there. And I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s time we—”

You shifted your books in your arms. “I don’t know, Jake.”

He paused, annoyed. “Don’t know what?”

“I just—don’t feel like doing anything big tonight. I thought it was just a party.”

“It is a party,” he said quickly, eyes narrowing a little. “Don’t make it weird. We’re just having fun.”

You tried to step back, but your shoulder hit the locker. His hand brushed your arm. It wasn’t harsh, but it was heavy enough to make your spine stiffen.

“Look,” he added, “we don’t have to make it a whole thing. Just… don’t overthink it.”

You didn’t reply. Your throat was tight.

The bell rang for the final period, and Jake rolled his eyes.

“I’ll see you after,” he said, and in the same motion, turned and walked away. His shoulder bumped yours as he passed, just hard enough to knock your notebook from your arms.

You bent down quickly, cursing under your breath, heart still pounding. But before you could grab it—

A pair of worn boots stopped beside you. Then a hand.

Long fingers, silver rings. Careful.

You looked up into Eddie Munson’s face, his expression soft — not smug, not laughing. Just steady.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, already stacking your notebook with your other books, handing them back like you mattered.

You nodded, your throat suddenly too dry. “Yeah. Thanks. I… thank you.”

He glanced down the hallway where Jake had vanished, then back at you. “He always that much of a dick, or just when there’s an audience?”

You blinked. A breath hitched in your chest. “I don’t know.”

Eddie shrugged lightly. Not dismissive, not cruel — more like he didn’t want to push. “Guess I’ll see you around, cheerleader.”

He didn’t smirk when he said it. Just gave you the tiniest hint of a smile, like he was letting you decide what the name meant.

Then he turned and walked off, boots scuffing gently along the tile.

You stood there a second longer than you should have, your pulse roaring in your ears. Then you turned, barely remembering to breathe, and ducked into the girls’ bathroom as fast as your feet would carry you.

The bathroom smelled like strawberry lip gloss and drugstore perfume — cloying, too sweet, the way it always did after last period. You were fixing your hair in the mirror when the door creaked open behind you, and in came Camille — Drew’s girlfriend. Blonde, tall, too pretty for her own good, with a laugh that could either pull you in or tear you apart depending on her mood.

She spotted you and smiled, the kind that didn’t always reach her eyes. “Oh my god,” she said, sliding up beside you. “Was that Eddie Munson I saw helping you earlier? Jesus.”

You flushed instantly. “I dropped my notebook. He was just being nice.”

Camille popped a piece of gum in her mouth and blew a tiny bubble. “Nice?” she repeated, grinning like it was hilarious. “God, he’s such a weirdo. Like — metalhead dungeontroll nice? C’mon.”

You looked back at your reflection, pretending to fix a loose strand of hair. “He’s not that bad.”

“He’s literally the definition of that bad,” she said, then leaned in like she was sharing something sacred. “Don’t tell Drew I said this, but he gives me the creeps.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because your stomach was still twisted from earlier — from Jake’s hand on your back a little too low, the way he leaned in and whispered about the party tonight like it meant something else. Like you already owed him something.

Camille, oblivious or just uncaring, leaned against the sink. “Anyway,” she said, popping her gum again. “I finally did it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“With Drew.” She grinned. “Last weekend. His parents were gone, and, y’know…” She trailed off, making a face that said duh. “It was really good, actually. Better than I thought.”

“Oh,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Cool.”

Camille looked at you out of the corner of her eye. “You and Jake haven’t yet?”

You froze.

Her tone wasn’t cruel. Just curious. Like she was asking if you’d tried a new lip balm. But still — the question hit too close, too sharp.

“I mean…” you started, fumbling for words. “Not… like that.”

Camille raised her eyebrows, chewing slowly. “Seriously?”

You laughed awkwardly. “It’s not a big deal.”

She shrugged, sliding her lip gloss back into her bag. “I mean — you’ve been dating for what, like four months? That’s forever in high school.”

You stared down at the sink. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know. I want to wait, I think.”

Camille rolled her eyes, but not in a mean way. “You’re overthinking it. We’re literally teenagers. It’s supposed to be fun. And Jake’s hot — if you don’t do it soon, some other girl probably will.”

You looked up at her, that familiar weight pressing against your ribs. The one that always came when people said this is what being a girl means. When they said this is what’s normal. What’s expected.

She didn’t notice your silence — or didn’t care. She just fluffed her hair and threw you a wink. “See you at the party tonight, okay? Maybe we’ll both get lucky again.”

And just like that, she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her.

You stood there, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your lip gloss was perfect. Your hair was curled just the right way. But none of it felt like you.

You weren’t sure who you were supposed to be anymore.

By the time you arrived at the party, the bass was already thudding through the walls of Derek’s too-big house, the kind with marble counters and no parents for miles. Camille clung to Drew’s arm, laughing too loud, and Jake kept his hand glued to the small of your back like it was some kind of claim. You let him guide you through the front door, blinking against the flashing lights, the scent of beer and cheap weed clinging to the air like fog.

Someone shoved a Solo cup into your hand almost immediately — tequila, warm and sour — and Camille raised hers like it was a toast.

“To Friday nights and bad decisions,” she giggled, and threw her head back to take a long sip.

You smiled weakly and took a small sip, just enough to wet your lips. Jake was already on his second, talking with Drew near the kitchen. Camille stayed close.

“You need to loosen up,” she said, bumping her shoulder into yours. “Seriously, one drink won’t kill you.”

You glanced around at the crowd — bodies pressed close, music shaking the floor, laughter and smoke curling in the corners of the room. You felt dizzy already.

“I just don’t really like tequila,” you said, trying to keep it casual.

Camille rolled her eyes. “God, it’s not like you’re gonna die. Just drink it.”

You took another sip, deeper this time. The burn hit the back of your throat, and you winced, eyes watering slightly. Camille giggled and topped off your cup before you could protest, the tequila sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“Jake’ll like it if you’re a little tipsy anyway,” she added, like it was some kind of helpful advice. “Boys like that.”

Your stomach twisted, but you said nothing. You just nodded, half-listening, and took another sip — smaller this time. You didn't even like the taste, Camille had mixed it with cranberry juice which somehow made it taste worse, but it was easier than saying no.

Camille clinked her cup against yours and downed half of hers in one go. “You’ve gotta keep up, girl.”

You laughed weakly and took another sip, then another. It burned less now. Or maybe you were just getting used to it.

Someone passed by and bumped your shoulder. The music was pounding harder, and the lights from the living room strobed in and out of the hallway. You hadn’t even realized you were sweating until you touched your upper lip.

Camille wandered off after that, laughing at something Drew whispered in her ear, and you were left standing there — sticky cup in hand, head starting to float just slightly. Not dizzy. Not wasted. Just loose. Like someone had untied the tension from behind your ribs and let it spill out.

You stood alone for a minute, letting the noise blur around you. You didn’t even want to be here. The music was too loud. The air too warm. The tequila too strong. You weren’t that kind of girl. The one who knew how to flirt and sway and drink like it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

You drained the last inch of your cup anyway and set it on the nearest table, wiping your hands on your jeans.

You wandered toward the living room, hoping for a breeze near the sliding door, or maybe a quieter corner where the lights weren’t so harsh — when Jake found you again.

His grin was wide. His pupils blown. His arm slid around your waist with the kind of practiced ease that made you wonder how many girls he’d held like this.

“There’s my girl,” he said, pulling you against his chest. “You having fun?”

You nodded, though your head felt light, your knees a little unsteady.

He kissed you, warm and sloppy. It wasn’t bad — not at first. Just familiar. His hands slid down your back and you let him, tried to ignore the spinning feeling building in your chest.

But then his fingers curled under the hem of your shirt. Then up. Too fast. Too much.

“Jake,” you said, pulling back slightly, “I don’t… I think I’m too drunk.”

He just smiled, like that was the point. “That’s perfect.”

Your skin went cold. You stepped back, but he held your wrist.

“I said no,” you repeated, firmer this time, trying to twist free. “I don’t want to.”

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” he said, tugging you toward the stairs. “You’re fine.”

“I’m not,” you said, panic rising in your throat. “Jake, let go of me.”

He sighed, annoyed now. “Why are you acting like this? You were fine a minute ago.”

“Because I said no.”

You yanked your arm harder, stumbling slightly, the world tilting too fast — and then, all at once, a voice cut through the haze.

“She said let go.”

Jake turned just as Eddie Munson stepped forward from the crowd, eyes dark, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t look scared. He looked ready.

The contrast couldn’t have been sharper — Jake in his designer polo, hair gelled to perfection, and Eddie in his black band tee and ripped jeans, his fingers already curling like he’d been waiting for a reason.

Jake scoffed. “Oh look, the freak’s here. What, you stalking her now?”

Eddie’s voice didn’t waver. “No. Just not a fan of guys who don’t take no for an answer.”

Jake’s grip tightened. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, stepping closer, “it does.”

“She’s my girlfriend, Munson.”

Eddie’s eyes flicked to you — just a split-second, but enough to check. Enough to ask if that was still true.

“She said she didn’t want to go with you.”

Jake shoved him.

It was fast. A blur. But you saw it.

Eddie’s fist connected with Jake’s jaw, sharp and clean.

The crack of it rang out over the music — loud, raw, ugly. Like the moment ripped straight through the party.

Jake staggered back, one hand flying to his face, eyes wide in disbelief. He hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, sliding slightly before catching himself.

“What the fuck?” he roared, blood blooming bright against his lip. “Are you serious, Munson?!”

Eddie didn’t flinch. His shoulders were squared, fists still clenched, breath hard and fast like he hadn’t even realized he was holding it. His curls fell loose in his face, wild and damp from the heat of the room.

“She said no,” Eddie growled. “You think that means keep going?”

Jake sneered, spit pink with blood. “You don’t know shit, freak. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“You laid hands on her when she told you to stop,” Eddie snapped. “That makes it my business.”

Jake lunged, his fists tightening, but Drew jumped between them — arms out, palms up, the nervous kind of energy that said he was used to fights but not ones like this.

“Jake, man, no — not worth it,” Drew said, shoving him back. “You’re bleeding. You’re drunk. Just chill.”

Jake jerked his arm out of Drew’s grip. “Don’t touch me.”

“Then stop acting like a goddamn asshole,” Drew snapped back. “Jesus.”

“God,” Jake laughed bitterly, wiping at his mouth, “Look at this shit. Are you serious right now?” Jake suddenly turned his attention toward you, it took you a second to realize he was addressing you. “Running off with him?”

Your name came out like a curse.

You were still frozen. Still clutching the hem of your shirt like it might hold you upright.

“Don’t,” Eddie said sharply, stepping between you. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Jake tilted his head, smiling without humor. “What, you gonna hit me again, freak? Gonna take her back to your little dungeon trailer and play D&D while she cries about how mean I was?”

Eddie’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t move.

“Bet she’s just another little tease anyway,” Jake added, voice louder now, like he wanted the whole room to hear. “Playing shy till someone actually tries to give her what she wants.”

You flinched. Heat flushed your cheeks, your ears, your neck.

“Fuck you, Jake,” you said, your voice shaking but loud enough to carry.

He stared at you. Like he couldn’t believe you’d actually spoken.

“I didn’t want that. You didn’t listen. That’s not my fault.”

Jake scoffed. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep tonight, princess.”

“Let’s go,” Eddie said gently. His voice dropped low as he turned to you. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home. You don’t have to stay here.”

You hesitated. People were still watching. The bass still pulsed through the floor. You could feel the weight of every stare, every whisper already forming.

“I—I don’t want to cause a scene,” you said softly, embarrassed.

Eddie gave a humorless smile. “Bit late for that, sweetheart.”

You cracked a tiny laugh — the kind that tasted like shame and relief at the same time. Then you nodded.

“I just wanna go home.”

“You sure?” he asked, searching your face. “We can find your friend—”

“I’m sure,” you cut in, voice firmer now. “Please.”

Behind you, Jake muttered something under his breath — slut, maybe, it might have been bitch — but Drew stepped in again, pushing him back with a rough shoulder and a hard glare.

“Get a grip,” Drew muttered to Jake.

Eddie wrapped his hand around your wrist — not tight, just enough to ground you — and guided you through the crowd. The whispers followed, but you didn’t look back.

Not at Jake.

Not at the house.

Not at what you were leaving behind.

You only looked at Eddie.

And for the first time all night, you felt safe.

The front door slammed behind you as Eddie led you down the porch steps, his hand still lightly wrapped around your wrist like he wasn't sure you'd keep walking if he let go. The street was darker out here, quieter. The distant thump of music faded into nothing behind you, replaced by the rustle of wind in the trees and the gravel crunching under your shoes.

You walked in silence for a few minutes, your heart still thudding too hard, your hands too cold. Eddie kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to break or bolt. He was quiet too, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. It was… thoughtful. Like he was giving you space to breathe.

After a few blocks, he veered slightly off the sidewalk, nudging your shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the woods. “Shortcut through the trees.”

You hesitated, glancing at the line of tall dark pines rising behind the houses. “Seriously?”

“It’s not haunted,” he promised, grinning. “Well. Maybe just a little. Depends on how cool you are with raccoons.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Raccoons?”

“Yeah, y’know. The masked bandits of the forest. Local gang. Might try to mug us for snacks.” He shrugged like this was a completely normal concern. “We’ll have to establish dominance.”

That made you laugh — small and real — and he grinned like he was proud of himself for getting it out of you.

It was ridiculous, honestly, how quickly the weight in your chest had started to lift. How just a few words from him made everything feel better. Like everything that had happened at the party wasn't so important anymore.

“It’s just trees,” he said, nodding toward the narrow dirt path between them. “You’re safe with me.”

The words hit deeper than they should’ve. Maybe it was the way he said them — not dramatic or flashy, not performative — just steady. Sure.

You followed him in.

The trail was overgrown in places, but the moonlight peeked through the gaps in the trees, casting everything in soft silver. It was cooler here, the air sharp against your skin. You crossed your arms, mostly for warmth, and Eddie noticed. Without saying anything, he shrugged off his worn denim vest and handed it to you.

“You’ll freeze,” you said.

“I’ve got layers,” he replied. “You’ve got goosebumps.”

You took it, letting the worn fabric settle over your shoulders. It smelled like him — faint smoke, motor oil, some kind of cologne — and it was oddly comforting. Familiar in a way Jake never managed to be.

After a minute, you spoke quietly. “Thanks. For… back there.”

Eddie looked down at you, brow furrowed just a little. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” you said. “No one’s ever really… stood up for me like that.”

He exhaled, slow. “You shouldn’t need someone to. That guy was a dick.”

You gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. He was.”

Eddie kicked a branch out of the way and slowed his pace so you could keep up. “Y’know, I’ve seen you with him before. And I always wondered if he actually saw you.”

You glanced over. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged again, but it wasn’t careless. “You’re not just some pretty girl in a cheer skirt. You’re funny. Way smarter than any of those guys realize. You have this little nervous habit where you twist your ring when you’re overwhelmed. You do that when you answer questions in class, too — not that you need to, you’re always right — but I don’t think you even notice.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Your fingers brushed the ring on your middle finger, and you looked down in surprise. He was right.

Eddie noticed. Jake never had.

“You always sit with your back to the windows, like you don’t like people watching you,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck like he hadn’t meant to say so much. “And when you smile, like really smile, it kinda ruins me a little.”

You stopped walking.

Eddie did too — only a few steps ahead now, the leaves crunching under his boots, hair silver in the moonlight.

You swallowed. “Why do you pay so much attention to me?”

He turned back to face you, and his voice was quieter now. Less teasing. “Because I see you.”

The breeze rustled through the trees, and for a second, all you could hear was the sound of your heart thudding in your chest.

“I saw you even when you didn’t see yourself,” he added. “That first week of school when you sat behind me in English, I thought you were gonna laugh at me. But you just asked to borrow a pen. And then you said thank you. That was it. That was the moment.”

You stepped forward, the words catching behind your ribs. “The moment for what?”

He gave you a crooked smile. “The moment I realized you weren’t like the rest of them.”

You looked at him then — really looked. At the way his lashes curled long and dark over his cheekbones, the scar on his eyebrow, the softness in his eyes that didn’t match the way people talked about him in the halls.

You had no idea what to say.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You reached for his hand.

And he took it like he’d been waiting forever.

The world paused for a heartbeat — your hand in his, your pulse like a drum — and then the first drop landed. Soft. Cool. Right on your cheek.

You blinked up at the sky.

Another. And then another.

A few seconds later, it was pouring.

“Shit!” you gasped, a surprised laugh bubbling up in your throat as the rain turned fast and sudden, soaking through your hair and clothes like the sky couldn’t wait another second.

Eddie laughed too — a startled, real, chest-deep sound — and tugged your hand tighter. “Come on!”

You ran.

Your sneakers slipped slightly in the grass as you both sprinted toward the road, water smacking against the pavement and splashing up from puddles you couldn’t dodge in time. You were soaked within seconds — hair plastered to your cheeks, makeup probably running, your shirt sticking to your skin — but you were laughing, and so was he.

It wasn’t a perfect run. You tripped once and nearly lost your balance, and he caught you by the elbow, steadying you with a grin that made your stomach flip. You clutched his arm, breathless, dripping.

“This is so gross,” you said through a laugh, rain catching in your lashes.

“Gross?” he echoed, squinting at you, curls dark and flat now against his face. “This is peak cinematic romance, sweetheart. I think this is where I’m supposed to say something poetic and then kiss you like we’re in a John Hughes movie.”

You raised a brow. “You mean, like... Pretty in Pink?”

“More like Sixteen Candles. Rain, angst, unrequited love… Except I’ve got way better hair than Jake Ryan.”

You let out a laugh, half-shocked, half-swooning. “You wish.”

And then you were both laughing again, so breathless you had to stop just before the sidewalk that led to your house. The porch light glowed a few yards away, blurred behind the curtain of falling rain.

You turned to run again — but Eddie didn’t move.

You felt the tug first — his hand pulling you back — and then his arms sliding around your waist, warm even through the damp fabric of your clothes. Your breath caught as you turned to face him.

His eyes searched yours — wild, soft, all at once — water trickling down the curve of his jaw, over the tip of his nose, his lips pink and parted.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he murmured.

You didn’t even have time to answer.

His mouth met yours in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was full of everything unsaid — every second he’d watched you from afar, every time he bit back a thought because he didn’t think he deserved to say it out loud. It was hungry. Careful. Real.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping his soaked shirt as you kissed him back. He tasted like rain and mint and something a little bit like courage. He tilted his head slightly, deepening it, one hand cradling the back of your neck like he was afraid to let go.

The world around you disappeared. No rain. No trees. No porch light. Just him.

The kiss broke for half a second — barely — and you gasped for air, your forehead pressed to his, both of you laughing breathlessly, dripping with rain and something that felt dangerously like love.

“You realize this is insane, right?” you whispered, your voice shaking with adrenaline.

“Yeah,” he breathed, brushing his thumb across your jaw, his smile lopsided and beautiful. “Completely. But you kissed me back.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

And then you kissed him again.

Softer this time — less like lightning, more like a promise — and his fingers curled into your waist, pulling you closer.

Rain soaked you both down to your skin, but neither of you cared. Not even a little.

When you finally pulled apart, still grinning, still dizzy, he nudged your nose with his. “Let’s get you home before you melt.”

“Too late,” you said, laughing as he laced his fingers with yours again.

And this time, you didn’t let go.

did you guys miss me??<33 i know it's been ages and im sorryyy, but im back ! w a long one too, excuse the mistakes it was written at 3am

will i ever stop writing about eddie x popular girl? probably not. maybe it's cause i was a cheerleader in high school and fell in love w the guy who introduced me to metallica and black sabbath

No hum of diesel engines or crackle of radios barking out orders.

No sandstorm in the air. No pressure in his chest.

Just the faint scent of rosemary and garlic. Something was simmering on the stove.

Sam let the bag slide from his shoulder. It hit the floor with a muted thud. His leg — the right one, the one that still ached on cold mornings — protested slightly as he shifted his weight. The doctors had told him it would keep healing, that he'd walk fine again eventually. But what they didn’t say was how it would feel. How foreign it would be, moving through a world that no longer demanded survival from you every second.

His eyes scanned the space — the coat still hung on the hook, your sneakers by the door. There were flowers in a chipped vase on the table. The ones he always forgot the name of. You’d told him once, on a lazy Sunday. You were wearing his hoodie, your hair twisted up in a messy knot, sitting cross-legged on the couch while reading out loud from some magazine article.

And now he was back. And you were here. Somewhere in this house, humming under your breath, like no time had passed at all.

Sam closed his eyes for a second. Took a deep breath. Let the warmth wash over him.

That’s when he heard it — your voice.

Not words. Just that little tune you always hummed when you were distracted. Off-key, endearing, the same one you sang while folding laundry or watering the plants. It floated through the air like the house itself was whispering:

You’re safe now.

He turned the corner, breath caught in his chest, just in time to see you in the kitchen — towel in one hand, hair up in a twist, wearing one of his old shirts like it belonged to you more than it ever did to him. Which it did, in every way that mattered.

You looked up, expecting a quiet night. A pot on the stove. A moment of peace.

And there he was.

Sam. In the doorway. Thinner, yes. A bit pale. Shoulders straighter than you remembered — like he still hadn’t unlearned the posture of a man on high alert.

But he was here. Whole.

The towel slipped from your hand. You didn’t even realize it. Your breath caught. “Sam?”

He smiled, slow and tired and completely undone. “Hey, baby.”

You crossed the room without thinking. One heartbeat, two — and then your arms were around his neck, holding onto him like you’d collapse if you let go. He smelled like dust and sun and something vaguely metallic, but underneath it all — he still smelled like him. Like home.

“Jesus,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to touch his face. “You’re really here.”

“I told you I’d come back,” he said softly, resting his forehead against yours. “You never believed me.”

“I did,” you said. “I just didn’t think it'd be so soon.”

He laughed. A real one, low in his chest. It made your heart jump. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your fingers threaded into his hair — shorter than before, buzzed close, but still him. You touched the scar near his temple, your thumb brushing over it gently. Proof. Evidence. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask.

“I made soup,” you whispered.

Sam smiled. “Of course you did.”

“I burned the first batch.”

“Wouldn’t be home if you didn’t.”

He let you lead him into the kitchen. You were so careful with him. Your fingers brushing against the sleeve of his jacket. The way you noticed his slight limp and adjusted your pace without saying a word. You tucked a pillow beneath his leg before he could ask, then wrapped his hand in yours like if you stopped touching him, he might disappear again.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just listened to the way the soup bubbled, the sound of your voice humming again, the soft clatter of silverware. He memorized it. All of it. The quiet, the warmth, the safety.

“You oiled the door,” he murmured suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He glanced toward the hallway. “The front door. It didn’t creak.”

You looked surprised for a second, then smiled. “It was squeaking like crazy. Figured it could use a little help.”

He nodded. But you saw the way his eyes softened — like it meant more than just a quiet hinge.

Dinner was slow and quiet. You sat beside him, knees touching under the table. Every time he winced, you noticed. Every time he smiled, your eyes lit up.

After, you pulled him to the couch. He stretched out carefully, back against the cushions, and you curled beside him, your head resting just over his heart.

“I used to lie here and picture this,” you whispered. “Like maybe if I imagined it hard enough, it would come true.”

Sam kissed the top of your head. “Me too.”

His fingers traced slow lines over your spine. You tucked your feet under his legs and leaned closer.

Outside, the last of the daylight melted into dusk. The trees swayed in the breeze. The radio played something soft and nostalgic. Time seemed to pause.

“I’m not going back,” he said after a while.

You froze. Lifted your head to look at him. “What?”

Sam looked at you — really looked. “I’m done. No more tours. No more sand or blood or sleeping with one eye open.”

“But… I thought—”

“I’ve thought a lot about it. About what matters.” He exhaled. “I know now.”

Your eyes filled. But your smile came easy. “You’re staying?”

“For good.”

You leaned forward and kissed him — slow, reverent, full of the months you’d lost and the life you still had ahead.

Later, when the world had gone quiet and the sky turned violet-gray, you led him upstairs. Helped him out of his shirt. Tucked the blanket around his waist. You kissed the scar on his chest like it was something sacred. Then you turned off the light and crawled in beside him.

The bedroom was warm with your shared breath. Outside, a storm threatened in the distance, but it didn’t matter.

You pressed your cheek to his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.

His arms wrapped around you.

“Cold?” he murmured, voice half-asleep.

“No,” you whispered. “Just… happy you're here.”

He smiled against your hair. “Me too.”

A breeze slipped in from the window, lifting the curtain, brushing across your skin. Goosebumps rose. You closed your eyes and let it pass over you like a promise.

And when you looked at him again — this man who’d left for war, who’d been broken and rebuilt and still managed to smile at you like you were his whole world — you knew it would be okay.

Not perfect. Not easy.

But okay.

Because love had survived.

Because the storm had passed.

Because you were safe.

Together.

And outside, just beyond the glass — the sun was rising.

a little shorter than usual, hope u enjoy anon<3 lmk if u want this scenario for any of the other warfare boys

“You think I’ll ever walk again?” Sam’s voice was hoarse but laced with hope. 

Layla smiled softly, trying to keep her own fear locked away. “I believe you will,” she said, her voice steady. “You’re stronger than you know. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

He turned his head slowly to look at her, as if committing her face to memory. “Layla,” he whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Her chest tightened. It was the kind of moment she’d never expected — in a war zone, in a hospital in the middle of chaos, with blood and pain all around them. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised, reaching out to clasp his hand gently. 

The room seemed to hold its breath with them. The sharp, relentless world outside faded away for a while — just the two of them, fragile and real, holding on to the tiniest thread of hope. 

Suddenly, the door creaked open. 

Layla’s hand slipped away from Sam’s, almost instinctively. She turned slowly, heart tightening. 

Her mother stood hesitantly in the doorway, her face etched with worry more than anger. Her dark eyes searched the room, finally settling on the two of them. 

Layla rose carefully, stepping toward her mother, while Sam looked on. 

Her mother’s voice was low but trembling, heavy with fear. 

“Layla, maatha taf’aleen?” Layla, what are you doing?

Layla’s throat tightened. She swallowed hard, trying to keep calm. 

“Atakallameen ma’ahu? Hal ta’arefeen annahu Amreeki? Huwwe ‘aduwwana.” You’re talking to him? Do you know he’s American? He’s our enemy.

Sam’s eyes flicked between them, puzzled by the sudden tension. 

Layla took a slow breath, stepping closer to her mother. “Ummi, huwa laysa ‘aduwwi. Laysa li.” Mama, he’s not my enemy. Not to me.

Her mother looked down for a moment, the worry softening her features. 

“Walidik maat fi hadhihi al-harb. Kaifa yumkin an tansa thalik?” Your father died in this war. How can you forget that?

Layla’s heart ached. She reached out as if to explain, but words felt too small, too fragile. 

She spoke gently, “Ana la ansa. Lakin Sam laysa ‘aduwwan. Qad qata’oo ma’akum, ma’ana.” I don’t forget. But Sam isn’t the enemy. They fought with you, with us.

Her mother’s eyes filled with sorrow, her voice barely a whisper now. “Al-harb akhadhat minna katheeran. Al-hubb fi hadha al-waqt al-alam.” The war has taken so much from us. Love at this time is painful. 

Layla nodded, feeling the truth in those words — the pain, the loss, the fear — but still, she couldn’t stop the fragile hope rising inside her. 

She looked back at Sam, who was still watching silently, too young and confused to understand. 

“I’m not afraid, Mama,” she said softly in Arabic, though Sam couldn’t hear. “Laysa akhaf, lahu, wala min hadhihi al-harb, wala min ma sayati.” I’m not afraid, not of him, not of this war, not of what comes next. 

Her mother reached out and touched her arm, a silent gesture of both warning and love. 

“Kuni hadhira, ya Layla.” Be careful, Layla. 

Layla smiled sadly. “I will.”

The door closed gently behind her mother, leaving Layla alone with Sam once more — two souls caught in the storm, holding onto something fragile and real. 

Layla stepped into the hallway, her head still full of her mother’s words. The air felt heavier somehow, like the weight of everything unsaid lingered in the spaces between. 

She needed a moment. A breath. 

Quietly, she padded down the corridor, past the rooms lined with thin hospital curtains, until she heard a burst of laughter — light, unburdened. Familiar. 

Peeking into one of the open rooms, she found her little brother sitting cross-legged on the floor, crayons scattered around him, a sheet of paper smudged with bright red and green. Across from him, lying on her stomach, chin in her palms, was Allie. 

“Wait, wait,” Allie was saying with exaggerated seriousness. “You’re telling me this is a dragon? No way. It has bunny ears.”

Samir laughed, a full-bodied, boyish sound that felt like sun on old stone. “No! It’s a special dragon. It listens with its ears.”

“Ohhh,” Allie nodded solemnly. “The hearing dragon. A rare species.”

Layla leaned against the doorframe, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She had no idea Allie spoke Arabic. And the Iraqi dialect, too. The brunette didn’t seem like the type to bother learning someone else’s language. But then again, most people in Ramadi didn’t speak English. 

She looked towards her brother. It had been so long since she’d heard Samir laugh like that — not the brittle kind, not the nervous kind. A real laugh. 

Allie looked up and spotted her.

“There you are!” she said brightly in English, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “Your brother’s a better artist than me, and I’m very bitter about it.”

“I told her my dragon’s real,” Samir said proudly, still in Arabic, holding up his drawing like a flag. 

Layla stepped into the room and crouched beside them. “That’s the best dragon I’ve ever seen,” she said sincerely, brushing a hand over his hair. 

Samir grinned. “I’m gonna make one for Sam next. With armor”

Layla’s smile faltered just a little. “I think he’d like that.”

Allie watched her, quietly, then patted the spot beside her on the floor. “You okay?”

Layla hesitated, then sat. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“That’s the definition of being alive right now,” Allie said, her tone still light. “Though, to be fair, your life is a whole lot crazier than mine. And I grew up with six siblings and one bathroom.”

Layla laughed softly. “That sounds worse.”

Allie nudged her shoulder. “Thanks for earlier. With Mina. You’re kind of a badass, you know?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, you do. You helped a lot of people. You helped us. I think Sam’s still breathing because of you.”

Layla looked away, a little overwhelmed. “I’m not used to people saying things like that.”

Allie tilted her head. “You should be.”

There was a pause. 

“I thought you were naïve at first,” Layla admitted suddenly, looking down at Samir’s dragon. “With your smile, and the way you talk about America.”

“I am naïve,” Allie said cheerfully. “That’s how I survive.”

Layla laughed again — real and warm — and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel quite so alone. She didn’t know what to say. No one, none of them, had even tried. Not the translators assigned to them, not the ones who passed through the hospital. They barked orders. Pointed. Assumed. 

Allie had learned. She took care of the children, played with them. 

“Will you stay?” Samir asked, looking up at them both. 

Allie grinned. “If your sister lets me.”

You should’ve gone to bed too. Slipped into the covers and shut your eyes like it was any other night.

But instead…

You wandered down the hallway.

Eddie’s door was cracked open just enough to see the soft amber glow of the lamp on his nightstand. It spilled golden light across the floor, a sharp contrast to the silvery moonlight spilling in from his window.

The same window that overlooked the Munsons' big backyard and the willow tree you’d always loved — its heavy, sweeping branches shivering gently in the night breeze.

You hesitated outside his room for a second, heart knocking too loud in your chest. Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you pushed the door open with a soft creak and peeked inside.

He was lying back on his bed, arms crossed under his head, one leg bent at the knee. His dark curls were a mess against the pillow, and his shirt had twisted up slightly at the waist. The radio was on low, some dreamy track playing that you didn’t recognize — all slow guitar and murmured lyrics.

Eddie turned his head when he saw you, his lips twitching into a smile.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and soft. “Julie conked out already?”

You nodded. “Out cold. I didn’t wanna wake her.”

He sat up a little, propping himself on one elbow, and gave you a look. “So you came to hang with me, huh? Must be real bored.”

You smiled shyly. “Maybe.”

He patted the bed beside him, smirking just enough to make your stomach flutter. “C’mon, princess. Sit.”

You hesitated. Then — without quite knowing why — you stepped fully inside and quietly pushed the door closed behind you.

Eddie raised a brow.

You didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room and perched on the edge of his bed, fingers curling into the hem of your shorts.

Outside the window, the willow tree rustled. The moonlight poured in, painting the bedsheets silver, casting soft shadows across his posters, the scattered picks on his desk, the black nail polish bottle left uncapped by his amp.

“Didn’t think you’d come in,” he said, after a beat.

You shrugged. “Didn’t think I would either.”

Eddie’s gaze flicked to yours. The warm lamp lit his cheekbones, made his eyes look darker, softer.

“Y’know,” he said, “you’ve been coming around here for years, and I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked like this.”

You laughed under your breath. “Well, you were the weird older brother.”

He made a face. “Still am.”

“Maybe,” you said, looking down. “But… I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

The quiet stretched again — not awkward, just… full.

Full of something you didn’t know how to name.

Eddie reached for the edge of your blanket, tugged it gently. “You really think I’m weird?”

“I think you’re you,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “I think you’re funny. And smart. And really… kind.”

You could feel the way your pulse stuttered in your neck.

“And,” you added, a little braver now, “I think people don’t see that. But I do.”

When you looked up, he was already watching you.

His eyes were wide. A little stunned.

“You notice more than I thought,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “All these years…”

“I guess I always did,” you whispered.

He reached for your hand then — slow, gentle. His fingers brushed yours, testing the water. And when you didn’t pull away, he laced them together.

Your breath hitched.

“I’m glad it was you,” he said. “Out there. That night. At the movies. Anywhere, really.”

“Eddie—”

But then he leaned in, so close you could see the speck of gold in his eyes. The freckles across his nose. The scar on his chin.

And when his lips met yours…

It was soft.

And then not soft.

Like falling. Like summer rain. Like something you’d waited your whole life to feel.

He kissed you like he didn’t want it to be over.

Like he’d been holding onto it for a while now.

You shifted, crawling closer, your hand coming up to rest on his chest. His heartbeat thudded under your palm. Your knees brushed his thigh, and then he was pulling you gently into his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You settled there, heart racing, eyes half-lidded. Your hands found the soft curls at the nape of his neck. His fingers pressed against your spine, keeping you close.

“You okay?” he whispered between kisses.

You nodded, lips brushing his.

“Better than okay.”

The radio kept playing something sweet and sleepy in the background.

Outside, the willow leaves danced.

And in that moment — in the hush of moonlight and tangled limbs and all the things you didn’t say — it didn’t matter how wrong the timing was.

You were exactly where you wanted to be.

With him.

The first thing you felt was warmth.

Not the kind that made you sweat or twist the sheets away — but the soft, slow kind. Like being wrapped in sunlight.

The second thing you felt was his heartbeat.

Slow and steady beneath your cheek, thudding gently against your ear like a grounding rhythm. Like a lullaby you’d accidentally fallen asleep to.

You blinked your eyes open.

It took a second to register where you were.

Not Julie’s room.

Not her bed.

But his bed.

His room.

And he was still holding you.

Eddie Munson, of all people.

You stayed still for a while, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell the night had left behind. The sun had barely risen, but it already painted the room in gold. Slants of morning light poured through the open window, falling across his record shelf, his posters, the floor strewn with tangled jeans and tossed shirts.

Your bare legs stretched just beneath the blanket, one tangled with his, the other sliding forward until your foot reached the window.

The sill was cool against your toes.

You stretched, just slightly, and nudged the window open a little wider with your heel.

A breeze swept in — light and crisp, the first breath of morning air. It rushed across your skin, kissed your knees, slipped under the oversized shirt you’d pulled on sometime in the night. Goosebumps rose along your legs. You didn’t mind.

You tilted your head, listening.

The leaves in the willow tree outside rustled, whispering quietly. Somewhere, a lawn sprinkler started ticking in the next yard over. Birds chirped, and the smell of cut grass and warm earth filled the room.

Your eyes drifted to the boy beneath you.

Eddie’s hair was a mess of curls against the pillow, fanned out in a halo of dark brown. His lips were slightly parted. One arm was tucked under his head, the other wrapped around your waist like he didn’t plan to let go anytime soon.

You smiled without meaning to.

You’d never been this close to someone before.

Not like this.

You’d never woken up in a tangle of limbs and sunlight, the steady rise and fall of someone’s chest beneath your cheek, his breath fanning gently across your forehead.

You shifted a little, just to see him better.

And he must’ve felt it, because his brow furrowed slightly — then his eyes fluttered open, slow and sleepy.

They met yours, heavy-lidded.

And then softened.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. A little raspy. A little Eddie.

“Morning,” you whispered.

He blinked up at you, clearly still waking. But the way he looked at you — like the sun had come up just for this — made something flip over in your chest.

His hand slid up your back, slow and gentle. His thumb brushed the curve of your spine through the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re still here,” he said, more to himself than to you.

“I am.”

“Didn’t dream it?”

You shook your head, smiling against his skin.

He exhaled, eyes closing for a second as he tilted his forehead toward yours.

“Good.”

You tucked your hand beneath his shirt, palm pressing lightly against his chest. His heart was still beating under your fingers — still that same steady rhythm you’d fallen asleep to. The room smelled like him. Like cedarwood and old records and something warm and familiar.

You moved your foot back from the windowsill, brushing it against his calf.

“Cold?” he asked, half-smirking.

You shrugged. “Not really.”

His smile was lazy and perfect.

“I should probably let you go,” he said. But his arms didn’t move. “Before Julie barges in and murders us both.”

You laughed, burying your face in his chest. “She’d probably drag me back to her room by my ponytail.”

“She’d do worse to me,” he mumbled. “I’m her weird older brother, remember?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him — his sleepy smile, his ridiculous hair, the faint scrape of his stubble.

“You’re more than that,” you said.

His smile faltered just a bit. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You’re… kind. And smart. And really, really not what people say you are.”

He didn’t say anything for a beat. Just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then: “Neither are you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“People think you’re sweet. Quiet. Julie’s straight-laced best friend. But you’ve got a little bit of fire in you, don’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

“I see it,” he whispered. “You’re not scared of anything.”

“I am,” you admitted.

He brushed your cheek with his thumb. “Yeah, well… me too.”

The breeze picked up again, sending the leaves outside into a soft frenzy.

He leaned up, kissed your shoulder, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth.

“Let’s stay like this for a little longer,” he said, voice muffled.

You let out a soft, content sigh and melted back into his arms.

The day could wait.

The questions could wait.

For now, there was nothing but sunlight, sleepy smiles, the scent of honeysuckle drifting in through the screen…

…and him.

You must’ve drifted off again. Only for a few minutes — long enough for the sun to climb higher, warm your skin through the window, settle in golden patches on the sheets. Eddie’s breathing had slowed, and your head still rose and fell with the rhythm of his chest.

Then a voice broke the stillness.

“There you are. Thought you left.”

You blinked your eyes open again. The warm bubble around you popped.

Julie stood in the doorway. Barefoot. Hoodie zipped halfway up. Hair messy from sleep. But her voice—her voice wasn’t casual, not really. It was careful. Neutral in a way that felt unnatural.

Eddie stirred beside you. He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with the heel of his hand. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I was gonna—yeah. I should shower.”

He moved to stand, already looking for a shirt.

Julie didn’t budge. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Eddie froze.

She crossed her arms, shifting her weight. “What are you guys doing?”

There wasn’t any malice in her tone. Not yet. Just confusion. A sharp kind of disappointment, like she didn’t know where to aim it.

Eddie looked at you for a second. His eyes softened. Then he sighed. “I’ll let you two talk.”

And then he slipped past her, one hand brushing her shoulder gently. She didn’t react.

When the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt heavier. Julie walked over and sat on the edge of the bed — not too close, but not far either.

You sat up, the blanket slipping from your shoulders.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly, Julie said, “I’m not mad.”

Your throat felt dry. “Julie—”

“I’m not.” She shook her head. “I’m just… surprised, I guess.”

You tried to find something to say, something to make it better. But the words got stuck. You couldn’t read her expression. She wasn’t angry. But there was something else there.

Hurt, maybe.

“You know,” she added after a beat, eyes fixed on the comforter between you, “I always thought you and Eddie were like total opposites. I didn’t think you’d ever…” She trailed off.

“I didn’t plan it,” you said, voice small. “It just… happened.”

Julie nodded. “He’s better than Matt.”

You blinked. “Matt?”

“Nick’s friend. From the movies.” She gave you a flat look. “The one who tried to grab your leg and then called you stuck-up?”

“Oh,” you said. “Right.”

“Eddie may be a lot of things,” she continued, “but he’s not that.”

You nodded slowly.

“I just—” she sighed, pushing her hair back. “I wish you’d told me. Even if it was him. I mean, he’s my brother, yeah, and he’s weird and annoying, but… you’re my best friend.”

You looked down. Guilt twisted low in your stomach.

“I didn’t know how you’d react,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to make things weird.”

Julie didn’t answer right away. She picked at a loose thread in the blanket.

“I get it,” she said finally. “But still. I just… thought we told each other everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at you, really looked. And she wasn’t mad. Not exactly. Just… disappointed in a quiet way.

“I’m not mad,” she said again, softer this time. “I just don’t want to lose you to him.”

You reached for her hand. “You won’t. I promise.”

She raised a brow. “Even if he starts inviting you to every band rehearsal?”

You laughed, relief flooding your chest. “Even then.”

“Good,” she said, squeezing your hand once before letting go. “Because if you start ditching smoothie nights, we’re gonna have a problem.”

You smiled. “Never.”

From the hallway, the shower turned on.

Julie stood and stretched. “I’m making pancakes. Don’t make out with my brother while I’m gone.”

You threw a pillow at her as she left, laughing.

But once the door closed again, the smile faded just a little.

Because even with her forgiveness… something had changed.

Something real.

And you weren’t sure if you could ever go back.

You sat there for a while, legs tucked under the blanket, listening to the water running through the old pipes. The faint sound of birdsong filtered in through the open window. The willow leaves shifted in the breeze, casting shadows across the wall.

You stared at your hands in your lap. You weren’t exactly scared. Just… aware. Aware of the lines you’d crossed. The ones you couldn’t uncross. You didn’t regret it, not even for a second — but the weight of it, of what it meant, still sat with you. He wasn’t just your friend’s brother anymore. And you weren’t just some girl he teased when he passed by in the hallway.

The door creaked open behind you.

Your eyes lifted.

Eddie stepped into the room, towel around his shoulders, curls still damp and sticking to his forehead. He wore a faded Iron Maiden shirt and jeans that hadn’t fully buttoned yet. He looked like someone who belonged exactly here — messy, half-dressed, warm from the shower and the summer light.

But when he saw your face, the casual grin he usually wore softened into something quieter.

“How’d it go?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.

You let out a slow breath. “I think it’s gonna be fine.”

He nodded once, then crossed the room and sat beside you on the bed. His thigh pressed against yours. His shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t say anything for a moment — just stared at his hands, fingers fiddling with the edge of the towel.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he said finally, voice low. “Me and you. I know it’s messy. And I don’t want to screw anything up between you and Julie.”

You turned to look at him.

He still wasn’t looking at you — just kept picking at a thread in the hem of his towel.

“I just…” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know. You’re her best friend. You’re not supposed to be—”

“Someone you fall for?” you said softly.

That got his attention.

He looked up, brows raised, mouth slightly parted.

You gave him a shy smile. “I know.”

He let out a quiet breath — like relief, like maybe he hadn’t realized just how scared he’d been.

You leaned into him a little. Shoulder to shoulder. Close enough to feel his breath when he finally whispered, “But I did. I do.”

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head and looked at him — really looked at him. His eyes were warm, wide open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.

Then you reached up, brushed a wet curl away from his cheek, and kissed him.

Not rushed.

Not frantic.

But soft. Intentional.

Your lips pressed to his like a secret you’d both been keeping, the kind you finally had the courage to say out loud. His hand found your knee, fingers curling around it gently. The other lifted to your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw.

He tasted like toothpaste and something sweet — like orange juice or syrup, maybe from earlier — and you kissed him again just to make sure you hadn’t imagined it.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead pressed to yours, and he let out the smallest laugh.

“What?” you whispered.

He shook his head, eyes still closed. “Nothing. Just… I think this might be the best morning I’ve had in a long time.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Even with your sister looking to kill us?”

“Especially with that,” he said, grinning now. “Adds a little thrill, don’t you think?”

You laughed quietly and leaned your head against his shoulder.

Outside, you could hear the sizzle of pancake batter hitting the skillet and the sound of Julie and her father speaking.

Inside, it was just the two of you. Warm skin, morning light, the slow quiet that comes after something brave.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t afraid of what came next.

Because it was him.

Julie turned. "Seriously. He’s not like super annoying. He's kind of funny."

You hummed. "If you have to convince me he’s not annoying, he probably is annoying."

Julie threw a pillow at your head.

But you agreed. Mostly because Julie asked and because she was your best friend and because saying no would mean spending the evening alone, eating leftover mac and cheese at home while her night unfolded into something romantic.

You got dressed. Nothing fancy. Low-waisted jeans, your favorite worn sneakers, a navy tee. A little mascara, maybe. Just enough to feel like you could be on a date, even if you already knew you didn’t care.

The Hawk Theater was buzzing when you got there — popcorn smell thick in the air, flickering marquees overhead, teens spilling out from the arcade side of the lobby. Nick and his friend, Mark or Matt or… Mike? — whatever his name was — were already there. Julie waved when she spotted them.

Nick leaned against the pinball machine like he thought he owned the place. His friend looked you up and down like you were on some kind of test. You forced a polite smile and stayed close to Julie.

The movie started — something dumb, a horror comedy that didn’t commit to either genre — and you sat through it trying not to make it obvious you weren’t having a great time. Julie giggled a little too hard at Nick’s jokes. Nick whispered in her ear and she shushed him playfully.

Halfway through, the guy next to you — the one you were supposed to be with — leaned a little too close. You caught the smell of bubblegum and BO and whatever cheap body spray boys used when they were trying too hard.

His hand brushed your thigh.

You flinched.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

A few minutes later, he tried again. This time his hand actually landed on your leg, fingers curling like he had any right. You froze.

"Don’t," you whispered.

He leaned in, smirking. “Relax.”

"I don't want you to." You pushed his hand off.

He rolled his eyes. “God, don’t be so stuck-up.”

You didn’t say anything — your heart was thudding too hard. You turned toward the aisle, considering getting up, maybe even walking out. You’d done your part. You came for Julie. You played nice.

But then a voice — from a few rows back:

“Didn't she say no?”

Your head whipped around.

Eddie.

He was slouched in a seat, arms crossed, legs kicked out — and somehow still managing to look like he might leap out of it at any moment. Next to him sat Jeff and Gareth, both half out of their seats too.

The guy next to you straightened, confused. “Who the hell are you?”

Eddie stood. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shout. Just spoke slow, clear, and with an edge sharp enough to cut through the buzz of the theater.

“She said no,” he repeated. “And when someone says no, you listen.”

Julie turned around too, eyes wide.

Nick looked between Eddie and his friend, obviously weighing his odds.

You stood before it could escalate — you hated attention, hated scenes — but Eddie didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His eyes were locked on the boy still sitting beside your now-vacant seat.

“Let’s go,” you said, grabbing Julie’s hand. She hesitated only a second before following you into the aisle.

Behind you, you heard one of the boys — maybe Gareth — mutter, “Dickhead.”

Julie’s hand tightened in yours.

Outside, the air felt cool and sharp against your cheeks. Your heart was still pounding.

Eddie and his friends came out a few minutes later. He looked at you briefly, then at Julie.

“Next time Nick wants to take you out,” he said flatly, “say no.”

Julie frowned, pushing hair out of her face. “I didn’t know him and his friend were gonna be such assholes.”

“Now you do.”

It was quiet for a second. Then Julie let out a laugh — half embarrassed, half relieved. “Okay, yeah. That was… not great.”

Eddie smirked a little, then nudged her shoulder. “That’s what big brothers are for.”

It was strange, in a way. Eddie didn’t usually act like a brother. Not in the stereotypical way. He didn’t lecture Julie. Didn’t go through her things. They weren’t close. But in that moment, you saw something click into place. An older sibling standing between her and the world.

It made something ache in your chest.

You walked with them for a bit. Julie was quieter than usual, and you were still a little too stunned to say much. Jeff and Gareth talked about the movie like nothing had happened. Normal conversation. Comfortable.

Eddie, at some point, fell into step beside you.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t do much.”

You gave him a look. “You stepped in. That’s not nothing.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked ahead.

“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” he said eventually. “That guy’s a dick.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “He is.”

The way he glanced at you then — quiet, serious, almost gentle — made you want to stop walking altogether. Your cheeks flushed. You looked away.

The group split at the corner — Jeff and Gareth heading one way, Julie and you the other. Eddie hung back, hands in his jacket pockets, like he wasn’t in a rush.

As you walked away, you turned to glance back.

He was already watching.

Julie was unusually quiet on the walk home. The neon lights of the Hawk sign still cast a faint glow behind you, buzzing like an afterthought.

She finally broke the silence.

“Okay… maybe you were right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“Nick,” she sighed. “He is kind of the worst.”

You nudged her. “Only took you two weeks to figure it out.”

She groaned. “I’m never gonna live this down.”

You laughed. “You’ll survive.”

She glanced at you sideways. “Hey…”

“Yeah?”

“You okay? Back there?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… glad your brother was there.”

Julie rolled her eyes dramatically. “God, don’t tell him that. His ego’s big enough already.”

But you couldn’t help it — some part of you wanted him to know. Because it wasn’t just about him saving you. It was about the way he looked when he did. Like you mattered. Like he saw you.

And for a moment, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you weren’t invisible to him after all.

The sun had baked the wooden deck so thoroughly that every step made the soles of your feet sting.

It was mid-July, and Hawkins was in the middle of one of those heatwaves that made the pavement shimmer like it was sweating. Julie had dragged two lawn chairs into the patch of shade near the fence, claiming it was “the only habitable part of this hellhole,” and you were both sipping smoothies she made in the blender, watching the condensation drip down the plastic cups.

Your thighs stuck to the chair. The back of your neck burned. You didn’t care.

The Munsons’ backyard was quiet except for the buzzing of cicadas and the occasional bark of the neighbor’s dog. You could hear the faint sound of a guitar from Eddie’s window upstairs, but you hadn’t seen him in a week — not since the night at the theater.

Not since he stepped in and made your heart trip over itself.

Julie nudged you with her knee. “Okay. You’re thinking about him again.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That stare. It’s the same one you had when I played the new Madonna tape on repeat. You hate Madonna.”

You laughed and looked away. “I wasn’t thinking about him.”

Julie raised a brow. “Mhm.”

Of course Julie didn't know who Him was. She had just assumed you were daydreaming about some guy you'd met at the corner store your parents owned.

You were saved from further interrogation by the creak of the back door. Eddie stepped out onto the deck barefoot and squinting in the sun like a vampire who hadn’t seen daylight in years.

Your breath caught a little in your throat. He had a towel slung over one shoulder and a garden hose in the other hand. His jeans were ripped, as always, and there was a smudge of black on his cheek, like he’d been fixing something in the garage.

“Christ,” he muttered. “It’s like walking on the surface of the sun.”

Julie groaned from beside you. “Tell me about it.”

Eddie looked over, grinned — and without warning, lifted the hose and sprayed.

Water hit your legs, then your chest, and you screamed as the cold shocked your skin.

“EDDIE!” Julie shrieked.

You dropped your cup, laughing as the smoothie sloshed onto the deck.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” Julie shot up, dripping and furious.

Eddie doubled over with laughter.

You were soaked. Your shirt clung to you in all the wrong places, your hair plastered to your neck, and somehow, you were still laughing too.

Julie lunged toward him like a cartoon villain, threatening to hug him with soaking arms. He dodged her, hose still in hand, but then his foot caught on the hose itself and he stumbled.

“You’re a menace,” Julie muttered, wiping water off her forehead.

“I’m keeping you cool,” he said innocently, flicking a drop at her. “You’ll thank me later when you don’t melt.”

“I will thank you,” you said, breathless. “With revenge.”

His eyes flicked to you then.

Really looked.

You felt it down to your stomach.

Julie rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I’m going inside to get towels before I strangle you both.”

She grabbed the sliding door and disappeared inside.

And suddenly… it was just you and him.

The garden hose fell to the deck with a lazy thud. You could still hear it dripping.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, not for modesty — the shirt clinging to your skin was already a lost cause — but to keep your hands from fidgeting.

“I really am sorry,” he said, nodding toward your shirt. “Didn’t mean to completely drench you.”

You gave a half-shrug, heart thudding. “I’ve had worse. Besides, it’s hot. Honestly, thank you.”

That made him smile — not the teasing, smug grin you usually saw, but something smaller. Warmer.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyebrows raised, curious. “Yeah?”

You nodded, pushing damp hair behind your ears. “I mean… you’re different than people say.”

A beat passed. His smile faded into something more unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that a lot.”

You looked at him — really looked. The chipped black polish on his fingers, the little scar under his jaw you’d never noticed, the band tee that had been washed so many times it clung to his frame like second skin. He was nothing like what people said.

He wasn’t scary. Or gross. Or some loser hiding in a basement.

He was just a guy. A guy who played guitar and told stupid jokes and sprayed his sister with a hose on a July afternoon.

“You’re a good brother,” you said.

He blinked. “That might be the first time anyone’s ever told me that.”

“She’s lucky,” you added. “Even if she doesn’t always act like it.”

Something flickered in his eyes then. You didn’t know what it was, but it made your stomach twist.

And then, just like that, the space between you shifted.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Your breath caught.

And maybe he leaned in. Or maybe you did. Either way, it was close. Too close. You could smell his skin — sweat and cheap cologne and the faint trace of engine oil.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re not what I expected either.”

The door creaked open.

Julie stepped out, arms full of towels.

You both jumped apart like you’d been caught stealing something.

She didn’t seem to notice. “You guys are useless. You better not get smoothie on the couch.”

Eddie muttered something about grabbing a drink and disappeared through the garage door without another glance.

Julie handed you a towel. “Okay, what was that?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Eddie,” she said, like the name itself was suspicious.

You wrapped the towel tighter. “Nothing. He was just being… Eddie.”

She squinted. “Weird Eddie. Hose-wielding Eddie.”

“Exactly.”

You didn’t meet her eyes.

And when she went back inside to change, you sat on the deck a little longer, still dripping, still flushed.