#tutor!reader

✱ = smut

1. Pink Pen* 13. Blind Date 2. Driven Home* 14. Lunchtime 3. Come Over* 15. Aiden* 4. Sunbathing* 16. Control* 5. Bad Day* 17. A Plan 6. After Classes 18. The Talk 7. Party* 19. Long Overdue 8. Trip* 20. Dress Picking 9. Phone* 21. Unveil* 10. Lost Time* 22. Promise 11. Friends 23. Feel-good* 12. Thrill* 24. Graduation

Blurbs:

Jealousy*

Late night endeavors (Coming soon)

Fall

If August was the bones of summer, then September was the tomb. You missed the freedom of summer vacation, even if parts of it were spent in a classroom. The taste of cold seltzer on your tongue; the smell of sea salt from hours at the beach; the mountains of books you’d worked your way through whilst lounging on boats or decks of piers: all of it felt like a dream from years ago, rather than two weeks. School had started again and students dragged themselves to class with the forlorn look of mourning summer break. Whilst you longed for the free hours, you liked the routine. This was senior year, after all. The year that counted more than anything. And whilst a lot of endings loomed, something new had begun: your relationship with JJ. 

The kegger last week had prompted a milestone in your relationship. It felt surreal, hearing the words “I love you” falling from his kiss swollen lips, your cheeks still damp with tears from memories of the past. Despite Esme’s infuriating grudge against JJ, you had wasted little time after fooling around in the kitchen with him to spam her phone with messages, freaking out in capslock.

It felt strange having a boyfriend at school. Not in a bad way. Things were just...different. Walks to and from school had been replaced by car rides in JJ’s truck. Lunchtimes spent studying in the library were now hangouts on the benches with Pogues. It was harder to concentrate in class, especially if JJ was in the same room. He sat behind you in history and poked your back with his pencil until you’d turn around, biting back your smile and feigning annoyance. Then he’d flash you a grin and you’d roll your eyes and turn back to the front. JJ wasn’t exactly chivalrous but he did like to wait for you after class, or meet you during break. You wondered how long the tremor of excitement would last when you’d step out into the hall to find him leaning against the lockers, donned in his shorts and tee and staple combat boots. Secretly, you hoped it lasted forever. 

That wasn’t to say JJ was fully changed. He still skipped class - usually when you weren’t in the same one - often after telling you how he preferred your tutoring anyway. Even in classes you shared, he’d be unable to keep from disrupting as if he had Tourette’s. He’d murmur small jokes or scroll on his phone (which had already been confiscated twice this week). The worst development? JJ had started passing notes. To you. You had always been a rule follower. The thought of cheating on an exam nauseated you, and breaking a rule was as sinful as gangbanging in a church (in your eyes). Hell, the idea of handing in homework a day late nearly made you break out in hives. You weren’t sure that JJ passed notes to you because he enjoyed seeing you sweat, or if he genuinely couldn’t keep himself from talking to you, even for an hour. A combination of both, most likely. 

“Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware, America did not enter the war until what attack occurred?” Mr Sunn asks, turning away from the chalkboard to face the class. Your hand shoots up with the others. He calls upon Tammy, who answers, “pearl harbour?”, and then praises her before turning back to the board to write. As your pen moves in your notebook, following along to what Mr Sunn says, a small cube of paper is strategically slid onto your desk. You eye it for a moment and recognise JJ’s scrawl on the top: your name. Pursing your lips, you ignore it, look back at the board, and continue taking notes. That is until his pencil taps against your back. You hear the quiet creak of his chair as JJ leans forward to whisper in his enticing southern drawl, “read the note.”

You let out a small sigh and try your best to ignore him, but he prods his pencil a few more times and you can just picture the grin trying to creep onto his face, and saying no to JJ has become harder and harder. One final poke and you huff under breath and ditch your pen, quickly grabbing that paper and unfolding it. You spare a glance up at Mr Sunn - still teaching, his back to the class - and look down to read JJ’s note. ‘I can’t focus’. Rolling your eyes, you steal another glance to check the coast is clear before scribbling your reply - ‘how’s that my problem’ - folding up the note, and reaching your arm backwards to plant it on his desk. There’s the quiet unfurling of paper as JJ reads. Not even a minute later and the paper slots back beside you. You turn enough to shoot JJ a glare. He’s smiling. Makes a pointed look down to the paper as if to say, go on, read it. Gritting your teeth, you swipe it up and unfold it. ‘You’re fault for keeping me up all night.’ Cheeks burning hot, you gnaw on your lower lip and write your reply: correcting his grammar on ‘you’re’. JJ sniggers when he reads it and Mr Sunn abruptly looks over his shoulder. Despite sitting innocently in your seat, no paper in hand, you feel like there’s a huge neon arrow pointing down at your head. Mr Sunn clears his throat, mumbles something about concentrating, and continues on the board. When the paper tumbles onto your desk for the third time, you quickly snatch it up and pass it straight back. A second later, it pings back onto your desk, nearly tumbling off the side. Annoyance growing, you pass it, hoping the way you place it on his desk translates to: stop. It doesn’t, clearly, because JJ tosses it back onto your desk. Only now he’s overshot it, and the small cube of paper pats onto the floor and skids down the aisles of seats. A few students quietly laugh and Mr Sunn turns, frowns, and spots it. A part of you dies as he picks it up and reads your name. Quirking a brow, he looks at you and - yes, this is how I die. 

“Something to share with the class, miss L/N?”

“No, Mr Sunn,” you blurt. He lifts his brows higher and his finger brushes the opening of the paper. You’re suddenly very concerned about what the hell JJ might have written in reply. Knowing him, it can be anything. He’s not above drawing childish pornographic cartoons (which did make you smile, but that’s beside the point). 

“It was me, Mr S,” JJ speaks up. “My bad. Sorry.”

“Passing notes?” Mr Sunn sighs, not expecting a response. He places the note - still folded - on his desk. “Both of you see me after class.”

You feel as though someone has just sent out a warrant for your arrest. You’ve never had to stay after class - not to be reprimanded, anyway. Your stomach churns and you feel the sting of embarrassment in your eyes. It’s a battle to try and stay focused for the rest of class, and when the bell rings and other students shoot up, gathering their belongings, you seriously worry that you might throw up. After tidying your stuff away into your backpack, you make your way up to Mr Sunn’s desk. JJ comes to stand by your side, his backpack slung over his shoulder, but you can’t look at anyone but the small cube of paper on the wooden desktop. Mr Sunn sinks into his desk chair and sighs, clasping his hands. 

“I really thought you two had figured things out after the whole tutoring ordeal,” Mr Sunn says. “I know that wasn’t the easiest of dynamics but things seemed to be on the up. But passing notes, Mr Maybank, to berate or tease another student is not appropriate.”

Oh? Oh. Mr Sunn thinks JJ is…bullying you? His fingers reach out for the paper and, as if sensing your heartrate doubling in pace, JJ quickly interjects. 

“Mr S, it really ain’t like that. I was just messin’. Won’t happen again, swear it,” JJ rambles. He does a small cross over his heart as if making a promise. Mr Sun eyes JJ suspiciously. His finger withdraws and you want to collapse with relief. 

“Poking fun?”

“It’s nothin’ serious,” JJ assures. Your lip might start bleeding from how you’re chewing on it. With wide eyes, your gaze remains glued to the cube of paper. Don’t open it, don’t open it, don’t–

“Is that how you see it, miss L/N?” Mr Sunn asks you. Your eyes dart up to his and you force a nod. 

“Mhm. It’s fine. Nothing serious, like JJ said,” you say, voice somehow more than a squeak. Mr Sunn considers this a moment, looking between you both, before nodding. 

“Very well. But passing notes of any nature in class is against the rules. Don’t let it happen again,” Mr Sunn warns, pointedly looking between you both. You feel some tension roll away from your shoulders and you nod, starting to smile. 

“Right. Course. You got it, Mr S,” JJ breathes. With a wave of Mr Sunn’s hand, you quickly set course for the door, JJ’s loud footsteps behind you. That is until a throat clears from the desk and you turn to see him holding up the cube of paper between two fingers. 

“Forgetting something?” 

You dart forward and swipe it, muttering a thanks, and then rush out the classroom. The moment you’re both in the safety of the hallway and the classroom door is shut, JJ cracks up. You glare at him and gently shove him in the stomach. He shifts, slightly off balance, but remains doubled over with laughter. 

“I cannot believe you, JJ Maybank,” you grit out. Your heart still feels like it might beat out of your chest. “I told you before! Don’t pass notes!”

“You should’ve seen your face!” JJ wheezes. “Oh man, I thought you were gonna pass out!”

“S’not funny!” you hiss. Frantically unfolding the paper, you mutter, “what’d you even write anyway?” Your eyes widen in horror as you read: ‘Love when you act all good. Makes me want to fuck it out of you.’ Your mouth drops open and some pained sound falls from your lips. “JJ! What the hell!”

“What!? It’s true,” he sniggers, grinning at you. You shove him on the shoulder again and he laughs. Gasping for air, he smacks his knee and shakes his head. And it simply isn’t fair how the sight of him so happy already has your anger cracking. The scrunch by his eyes when he laughs, cheeks all rosy, lips upturned. You bite back your smile, desperate to hold your ground and not encourage this behaviour, but when JJ’s eyes glance over to you, you know he can see right through. “Oh, come on. You gotta admit it, that was kinda funny.”

“Don’t do it again,” you eventually grumble, because yes - in hindsight - it was a little funny. Pocketing the note to add to your growing collection, you don’t wait for JJ to catch his breath before grabbing his hand. “Come on. We need to pick up Leo.”

“Yes, ma’am,” JJ says, trying and failing to swallow his lingering humour. He lets you drag him to the main entrance of the school, and out into the world. At his truck, JJ swings the keys around his fingers. The two of you clamber in and soon, you’re halfway to Leo’s school. As he drives and taps his fingers on the steering wheel along to the beat of the radio, you flick through your academic diary for the year. JJ glances over and whistles. “Never known someone so organised in my life.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” you snort. You turn the page to next week. “I have my guidance counsellor meeting next week. A bit surreal, huh? Like it feels like senior year has officially started after that."  

“Tell me about it. Mine’s tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? JayJ, why didn’t you say?”

“S’no biggie,” JJ sniffs. He keeps his eyes trained ahead on the road, one hand slung casually over the wheel, as he shrugs. “S’not like I’m going to college anyway.”

“Well, sure, but you can still apply for apprenticeships. Y’know, I heard of a pretty good one at Louis’s garage. Mechanics and that sorta stuff.”

You see JJ’s curious glance over to you. He tries to play it cool as he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

Since dating JJ Maybank, you've learnt five things. One: he was a dick when he was hungover. He pouted like a toddler throwing a tantrum and would complain like it was nobody’s business if asked to do something. Two: as much as you hate to admit it, JJ knew what he was doing in the bedroom. Whilst you didn’t enjoy thinking about where he’d gained his experience and expertise, you were grateful that you could reap the benefits. Three: he was loyal to a fault. JJ would do anything for the people he loved, be that his friends, you, or your family. He wouldn’t think twice about taking a bullet for Leo. Four: JJ wasn’t as confident as he pretended to be. There were times when you’d catch the boy under the bravado. It came out when you gave him a compliment so sincere, he’d lose his words; or when you held him in your bed, fingers stroking lovingly through his hair, safe in the cloak of the night. And Five: JJ didn’t believe he was allowed good things. It seemed to be a protection of sorts: he can’t be let down if he never gets his hopes up. Like when you marked one of his pop quizzes, you could practically see him talking himself down, preparing to get a bad result. Or when your mom would offer for JJ to stay for dinner, there was an itch there, visible to the eye, that told you JJ’s instinct was to run.

“How’s that big fancy college essay going, then?” JJ asks, turning the attention back to you. 

“Oh great. Really great. Definitely not at all stuck on what to write for possibly the most important essay of my whole life,” you sarcastically mutter. JJ chuckles. His hand reaches for yours instinctively across the dash and you gladly take it, intertwining your fingers. Sighing, you soften against the seat and look out the window. An empty beer can rattles against your foot as JJ drives over a dip in the road. Truth be told, writing your college essay hadn’t been all that easy because thinking about college hadn’t been a total picnic lately. Ever since you were little and it became apparent that you had an affinity for school and education, it was assumed that you would go to college. You’d study something impressive somewhere with a stellar reputation, and you’d have the keys to open any door in the world, and that would be that. Except…Your eyes drift over to the boy who had stolen your heart and it clenches. Except now things felt different. You felt different. Like, maybe being good at school wasn’t the only thing that mattered now. 

Before you can consider sharing any of these thoughts with JJ, he’s pulling down the road to Leo’s elementary school. You force yourself into the present. It was only an essay, for now. The rest can come later. JJ pulls into a parking space and shuts off the engine. You flash him a smile and he reaches over and corrects your glasses, drawing a small laugh. 

“Shall we go pick up the cargo?” he asks. You laugh again and nod, pushing open the truck door and following him over to the entryway of the school.

-

JJ nearly jumps out of his skin in the supermarket as one of the tacky Halloween animatronics is triggered. One of his hands flies up to his heart as he cusses under breath, eyeing the animatronic warily. You snigger at him from his side, earning a harmless shove to your shoulder. Your mom is a few paces ahead, pushing a shopping cart half-filled with groceries. Leo is dawdling by her side, one hand safely fisted in her oversized cardigan. You’re carrying a basket and filling it with supplies for the hangout with the Pogues tonight. The Pogues plus Esme - just another sign of JJ’s foul luck. JJ grabs another bag of Doritos and tosses them into the basket. 

“More?”

“Those are the best flavour, though,” he tells you. You roll your eyes. 

“Can’t believe you’re a Doritos guy. Pringles are top-tier,” you say. JJ scrunches his nose up in disapproval. 

“Babe. How the hell are you gonna have such great taste in guys, a'right, but terrible taste in chips?” he asks. You adjust the basket and JJ offers out a hand for what must be the tenth time, but you refuse. Stubborn, JJ thinks to himself, as you pretend like you’re not being weighed down by the six-pack of Cola. 

“Did you know that there’s a chemical in Doritos theorised to be linked with sleep walking.”

JJ frowns. “No way.”

“True story. Some scientists think the chemicals in high processed food like Doritos might increase chances for a sleep walker to, y’know, sleep walk,” you tell him. “The chemical is MSG. It’s a tentative link but qualitative studies and personal accounts suggest it could be legit.” 

JJ blinks down at you. You’re dressed in one of his hoodies, the sleeves rolled up at the cuffs as they’re too long. It makes you smell like him. Your hair is delicately styled off your face and your glasses are sat safely in their spot on your nose. JJ smiles to himself. He loves how your brain works. In fact, he was a little jealous of how easy it was for you to store information and regurgitate it like some walking encyclopaedia. One time when John B asked what it was that JJ liked so much about you, he heard himself saying it was because you were so much smarter than him. There were other things, too. A whole damn list of them. But something about you being a smarty pants about the most insignificant things had a lasso tied around his heart. And his dick.  

“Smartass,” he mutters, lips tugging into a smile. You glance up at him and stick your tongue out. 

“Blue eyes.”

“JJ and sissy, sitting in a tree!” 

The loud and off-key singing snaps you and JJ back to the present, and down to Leo. Your mom groans and taps his shoulder, trying to stop the song early, but it’s no use. JJ cringes. Yeah, teaching Leo that one wasn’t one of his finest ideas. Untangling his arm from you, he catches up with Leo. 

“Hey - want a piggy ride, little dude?”

“Yes! Piggy back!” Leo cheers. Your mom shushes him, dark bags already gathering under her eyes from her last shift. She’d come home only two hours ago and spotted you and JJ on the sofa, with Leo playing on the carpet below. JJ had been politely instructed to join the family food shop, so now here he was, feeling both welcome and out of place at the same time. It wasn’t normal for JJ to feel wanted in family spaces. Despite being quite comfortable with your mom and brother now, he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was as if a part of him was convinced the you’re one of us attitude was part of an act, and it was only a matter of time until your mom would share her true disdain for having JJ ruin her daughter’s life. 

JJ lowers down into a squat, back facing Leo, and waits until he feels the familiar weight of your brother’s small hands gripping onto his shoulders. Then, with a huff, JJ hooks Leo’s legs up and around his middle, and returns to a stand. Leo giggles happily from his elevated spot on JJ’s back. His hands clutch a little hard at JJ’s hair and neck sometimes, causing a wince, but JJ doesn’t mind. The list in your mom’s purse is slowly worked through. She asks JJ what he wants for dinner on Thursday; gathers his opinion on which cereal to stock for the week; takes your guidance on what Leo’s current obsession food was. In the basket for the Pogues, you add some marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers: it was smores season. Leo tugs on the hair by JJ’s neck causing him to groan. 

“Halloween! Halloween!” he repeats, pointing down the aisle donned in orange and black and green and purple. JJ glances at your mom and she gives a small laugh. 

“You guys go look at the decorations. I’ll meet you at the checkouts: I’m going to raid the freezer section.”

You walk by JJ’s side, passing huge bags of trick-or-treat candy. Leo slumps forward against JJ, his arms a small noose around his neck. The basket bumps against your thigh as you step. Leo points at a witch hat and JJ reaches out and promptly places it on your head, earning a giggle from the little boy. You pretend to cast a witchy spell on Leo which only makes him laugh harder. Smiling, you take it off and return it to the shelf, only to grab a pair of sunglasses shaped like pumpkins, sliding them onto JJ’s face. He smirks down at you, surprised that you still look beautiful all discoloured in orange, and you groan. 

“How are you still hot with those on?” you mutter with a smile, taking them off him. 

“A lifelong curse,” JJ teases, poking his tongue into his cheek. 

“Me! Do me!” Leo begs, his voice a pitch too loud for inside. You place a finger to your lips to try and encourage him to stay more quiet, but comply. There’s a headband with faux fur wolf ears protruding off. JJ leans down enough for you to carefully slot them onto Leo’s head. He giggles and kicks his legs against JJ’s middle. Then, very loudly, Leo begins to howl. You and JJ laugh, but the laughter soon turns to winces as Leo doesn’t seem to feel like letting up. 

“A’right, hun, that’s enough,” you ease gently, reaching for the headband. Leo bats your hand away. “Leo! We don’t hit people.”

“Mine,” he snaps. Your face falls in a way that JJ has grown to recognise. He lowers himself nearer to the ground and encourages Leo off his back; eventually, Leo complies. But stood on the floor, he stomps his foot as he repeats mine over and over, getting louder. You sink to your knees, jeans pressing on the dirty supermarket floor, and JJ offers to take the basket from you as you try to calm Leo down. They weren’t unfamiliar to JJ anymore but Leo responded better to you. Truthfully, JJ still felt a small bubble of panic when Leo’s mood would change. The moment his small fists would start to land hits on himself, JJ would crumble inside. You had a trick for staying calm - at least outwardly. Came from years of practice, JJ imagined. 

Once Leo has calmed down, the three of you find your mom at the check-out. She’s stocking the groceries onto the belt and JJ doesn’t falter to help. She smiles appreciatively at him. “Everything good? Find anything?”

“Leo tried on some wolf ears and there was…a thing. But it’s okay now,” you say with a weary smile. Your mom hums knowingly. Glancing down at your brother, you muster a serene expression as you remind him, “cause you’re going as a dinosaur this Halloween. And what don’t dinosaurs have?”

“Wolf ears,” Leo says brightly, eyes not quite meeting yours. Your hand ruffles his hair lovingly and you catch JJ’s gaze. He must look disquieted because you give a small nod. Your mom starts asking questions about the plans for the night: you and JJ help pack up the bags of groceries as you answer.

After finishing the errands, you and JJ wind up in John B's backyard. It isn’t the first time you’ve been to the Chateau, as the Pogues dubbed it. There’s a large spindly tree outside of the white wooden fishing hut. A rope swing hangs from one of the branches, a hammock from another. There’s a sheltered shack full of miscellaneous fishing supplies, surf gear and yard upkeep. With a stunning outlook to the marshland is a bonfire. There’s two wooden tree trunks laid out around it in a circle formation. You and JJ wander over, hands intertwined, a bag in each hand. Pope is working on building the flames of the fire up. John B is tossing and catching an old tennis ball above his head, and Kiara sits crossed legged, strumming her ukulele. It’s funny seeing everyone dressed for the fall weather rather than in swim shorts and tees. Kiara has a beanie atop of her curly hair. She smiles as the two of you approach. JJ parts from you to hop over one of the logs and practically tackle Pope from the back with a whoop. 

“Fire, JJ! There’s a fire!” Pope lectures loudly, shrugging him off. 

“Love when he gets all janky,” JJ grins, pushing joshingly at Pope’s head. He then takes the bag from you and ditches them by the beer cooler. “Me and mama brought smores.”

As you take a spot on the empty tree log, there’s a concerning clattering from inside the chateau. Everyone’s heads whip around to find JJ reappearing in the entryway a few moments later, hand raised over his head proudly, a grin splitting his cheeks. “Found my secret stash.”

“Oh brother,” John B mutters. JJ skips the steps as he hops down from the porch; as he drops onto the spot beside you, he opens up a small metal tin. Producing a joint, JJ slips it between his lips as he riffles about in his short pockets for his lighter. Once lit, JJ takes a few hits - the sweet, distinct smell floating up between you - before offering it to you. 

“M’lady?” he says in a strange British accent. You roll your eyes with a small smile but accept, taking a few hits. John B has it next, then Pope (whose fire is now roaring away), and Kiara. “A’right, a’right - give ‘er back to papa J.”

“Yo!” Esme calls out as she ventures into the garden. And just like that, JJ’s high is ruined. 

“Hey, look who made it,” he says, knowing how false he sounds. You lightly elbow him in his side and he sighs, taking another hit of his joint. 

“I brought beer.” Okay, maybe she isn’t all bad. 

“Thought that went against your ethos,” you tease as she sits beside Kiara. 

“Character development, girl. Get on it,” she pokes back, cracking open a can. JJ takes a drag of his joint and loops his arm around your waist. You soften into his hold and he smiles to himself. As the fire crackles, the sky dims, and the spirits lift, JJ soaks up the simple happiness of his life right now. And yet, a strange feeling lingers. It feels like there’s a countdown in the back of his head, one that started earlier that day when you’d mentioned ‘senior year’ and ‘college essays’. JJ always knew you planned to go to college. It was practically a prophecy that needed to be fulfilled. But he never really thought about it until now. College meant change, and change meant distance, and distance meant… 

“I did not!” you laugh loudly. JJ watches you reach for the joint between his fingers, not bothering to look away from Esme as she recounts the time you threw up on the winter fair carousel. You’re glowing in the lick of flames, eyes shining as you listen to your best friend whilst you smoke. A wave of longing passes over him despite having you right here, in his arms. Esme continues the tale loudly, talking over the laughter of the Pogues. As you pass it back to him, you catch his eye. Just for him to hear, you check, “you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” JJ nods, clearing his throat. He takes the joint and has a drag: lets it numb whatever strange ache just invaded his chest. “You look pretty, s’all.”

“Not too bad yourself,” you hum back with a playful smile. JJ prods your glasses further up your nose and you let out a small laugh, correcting them. John B shatters the moment with a loud whistle. 

“Dude,” JJ says dryly, looking over the bonfire flames to his best friend. “You’re the world’s biggest cockblock, y’know that?”

“Jay,” you groan. He sniggers out his inhale of cannabis, enjoying the pleasant buzz thrumming through his body, familiar like an old friend. He keeps his arm safely around your waist as he tunes into John B’s anecdote. In the periphery of his vision, he spots Esme’s lingering gaze. He glances over to her and quirks a brow. As if hell had frozen offer, her lips twitch ever so slightly and - holy shit. She was smiling. JJ isn’t sure if he smiles back: he’s stunned with shock as if he just locked eyes with Medusa. When John B’s story wraps up, Kiara brings up Halloween. 

“D’you hear Topper’s throwing some big kook Halloween party?”

“We should totally crash that,” JJ grins, pointing a finger at her whilst holding a beer can. 

“I’m game," Pope says. John B toasts his drink in agreement. 

“Hold on, you guys actually celebrate Halloween?” Esme asks, swallowing her mouthful of beer. 

“Course,” John B shrugs. 

“It’s like the national holiday of stealing without consequence,” JJ chimes in. You snort and share a look with Esme. 

“Actually, it’s an ancient Celtic festival that marked the end of harvest,” Esme pointedly corrects. 

“Yep,” you smile, “they believed this time of transition from fall to winter blurred the line between the living and dead.” You twinkle your fingers over JJ’s eyes as you add in an exaggerated, mystical tone, “and that it allowed spirits to return to earth to walk among us.”

Brushing your hands out of his face, JJ says, “well, all I know is you score free candy, smartass.” That earns a whoop of agreement from Kie. You pinch his beer and have a swig. Looking between you and Esme, JJ asks, “Y’all don’t celebrate?”

“I mean, we take our siblings trick or treating every year together,” you answer on behalf of you and Esme. She nods. “Leo loves Halloween.”

“My man,” JJ says proudly, taking his can back, then asks, “hey, can I join this year?”

Raising your brows, you look like you might laugh. “You willingly want to go trick or treating with two eight year olds hopped up on sugar?”

“Hell yeah,” JJ replies sincerely. He grins as he adds, “I gotta teach him my tricks. When I was little, me and John B would wear one mask and hit all the flashy neighbourhoods, and then we’d come back and change costumes and hit ‘em again. We got the biggest hauls in the Cut.”

“Yeah we did,” John B calls out. 

“Well, alright then,” you relent, smiling. “Might be kinda fun, actually.”

JJ whoops and downs the rest of his beer. Standing up and onto the log, he tosses his arms out and throws his head back, eyes closed. The flames warm his face. At the top of his lungs, he hollers, “I am the king of Halloween!”

John B tosses a can of beer at his stomach, knocking him off balance with a small oof. Pope and Kiara jest as he stumbles upright, whilst you and Esme laugh. Pointing a finger around the circle, JJ asks, “smores? Smore time?”

“Smores,” you nod in approval.

-

“Leo!" you call. JJ glances through the open doorway of the living room to spot a tiny dinosaur run past, followed by you - carrying its head. “Leo! You gotta put on your head!"

Your little brother lets out a giggle, footsteps pattering loudly on the wooden floors. JJ grins. Rising to his feet, he steps out to find you wrangling the dinosaur head onto Leo’s costume-clad body. With a sigh, you stand upright, hands on your hips. You’re donned in a pair of denim shorts and an old graphic tee of Hocus Pocus. Leo gives a lopsided smile up at you, reaching his hands out as you pass him his trick or treat bag. It’s made of orange felt, with black triangles added to form a classic Jack-O-Lantern face. Looking over to JJ, you quirk a brow and fix your glasses. 

“Ready to go?”

“Born ready,” JJ grins. With that, the three of you make for the door. Leo has an urgency to his steps as he starts down the overgrown garden path. You catch JJ up on the plan of where to meet Esme and her younger sister, Leigh. It’s not quite dark outside, but dusk is beginning to loom. Houses are decorated with purple and green bunting, with Jack-O-Lanterns glowing orange on doorsteps. It’s not as impressive as Kook neighbourhoods, with animatronics and scenes that could rival that in a haunted house, but some people have put in elbow grease. A creepy scarecrow dangles from a tree. Another has a large spider hanging over the window. Fake blood decals on windows and plastic hands protruding from the front lawns. Children race from house to house, walking in pairs or groups, with watchful eyes of parents and siblings alike following behind. Vampires and ghosts and witches. A few pre-teens are milking their last few years of getting away with bartering free candy from homeowners. Leo walks ahead of you and JJ in a plush dinosaur onesie. It’s green with felt spikes down the back, and a tail that drags on the sidewalk. You bite back a smile at the sight of him walking ahead: as ferocious and intimidating as a baby bunny. 

When you meet Esme and Leigh, Leo already has a haul big enough to keep him hyped on sugar for a month. Leigh is equally as adorable in her Spiderman onesie. She pretends to web-shoot JJ and he plays along, feigning a shot to the heart. It cracks a small, reluctant smile out of Esme. 

“I got candy!” Leo brags happily. Esme quirks a brow, amused, as Leigh awes at Leo’s treat bag. 

“Shared my tricks of the trade,” JJ winks. 

Instead of her usual retort about how he was a lifelong thief, Esme asks, “Y’all still heading to that Kook party tonight?”

“Hell yeah,” JJ grins. He tosses an arm over your shoulder as the three of you follow after Leigh and Leo. “Got costumes and all.”

“Do I want to ask?” Esme mutters. 

“Cop and–”

“--Delinquent derelict,” JJ finishes, pointing to himself. 

Rolling your eyes, you correct, “prisoner- and you’re not a delinquent derelict.”

The three of you loiter on the sidewalk as Leo and Leigh start up the pathway to a house. Esme turns to you as she says, “Leo’s having a good time, hm?”

“Yeah, he is,” you smile. 

“Y’know, JJ,” Esme says, catching the blonde’s attention. He lifts a brow, waiting for her usual passive aggressive tirade against him. To his surprise, she smiles. “It’s pretty cool you wanted to tag along. Bet it means a lot to Leo.”

JJ lips quirk. The praise feels unnatural from Esme, but not unwelcome. Fixing his cap, JJ shrugs. “S’all good. I freaking love Halloween, man. Always have, ever since I was a kid."

Before JJ can share an anecdote about the year he raided an entire bag of full-sized Hershey bars from a Kook house, a scream has the three of you startling. Heads darting over to the house in front, Leigh is already running back to Esme. The older girl catches her in a hug. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“There’s a monster,” Leigh says with a quivering lip. You and JJ share a worried look, and then you’re both starting up the path in search of Leo, calling his name. The small green dinosaur is nowhere in sight. 

“You go left, I go right,” you tell him as you approach the house. He gives a quick nod and the two of you split, tracking either side of the porch. You both call his name, eyes searching high and low in the darkness. JJ turns around, exasperated, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he comes face to face with a red faced creature. No, not a creature. A guy. 

“Jeez, dude, that is one freaky ass costume,” he mutters, rubbing his chest as if to check his heart was still working. 

“You looking for that kid?” the guy asks. He must be about fifty, maybe sixty. Clearly a Halloween fanatic, and the likely “monster” Leigh was referring to. Tugging his cap off, JJ runs a hand through his hair as he nods. 

“Yeah, yeah, we are. You seen where he went?”

“Think he ran round back. We got a shed round there - no lock. Might be your best bet,” the man says, pointing toward the back of the house. JJ nods his head and starts off toward the back, hollering a ‘thank you’. The backyard is less well lit than the front. Large trees loom ominously in the twilight. The echo of children’s laughter from the streets bounces off the walls of the house. JJ lays eyes on the shed and slowly walks over. 

“Leo? You out here, bud?”

Nothing. Sighing, JJ takes off his cap and wrings it in his hand. “Look, I know it’s scary, a’right? But it’s me…You don’t gotta be scared ‘round me, right?” There’s a small rustle from the bushes near the shed. JJ’s eyes narrow and he takes another step closer. “Your sister’s real worried, man. Jus’ come on out and we can talk - man to man.” Another rustle, and this time JJ can make out the dulled green of a dinosaur head poking through the leaves in the darkened light. Jackpot. He keeps his footsteps light and tone gentle as he talks. “S’that you little dude? You, uh…You wanna come out? The monster's all gone - I took care of it.”

Leo’s face is damp with tears when his head emerges. JJ ducks down to a squat, matching his height. Wiping at his cheeks, he doesn’t meet JJ’s eyes as he mumbles, “you did?”

“Yeah, man. Told that monster to shove i– Uh, to uh…To go back home,” JJ corrects, clearing his throat. Holding out his empty hand, he offers an encouraging smile. “Wanna come over?”

Hesitating for a moment, Leo slowly trudges closer. His claw-cloaked hand reaches out for JJ’s and slots safely into his hold, and a wave of relief at having him close and okay washes over JJ. Tugging him into a hug, JJ exhales against Leo’s dinosaur shaped forehead. “Hey, little dude. You a’right?”

“Got scared,” he murmurs into JJ’s shirt. Chuckling quietly, JJ nods. 

“Yeah, that monster was pretty scary. But, y’know what?” He eases Leo from his hold to try and meet his eyes. “You’re a brave little guy. Y’know why I know that?”

“Why?”

“Cause you’re my sidekick, right? I gotta have a brave sidekick to kick ass with,” JJ grins. Leo sniffs and nods. 

“M’brave.”

“Yeah, you are. Where’s your candy?”

Leo points into the bush and JJ squints to see the felt bag sat upright within the leaves. He retrieves it for him and glances inside. Producing a candy chew each, he offers one to Leo. “What’d you say we go get some more candy, huh? Raid a few more houses?” Leo nods. "A'right, gimme some skin," JJ says, offering out his hand. Leo gladly does his secret handshake before slipping his smaller hand into JJ's. Carrying his trick-or-treat bag for him, JJ guides Leo back around the house (keeping a watchful eye out for the monster) and down towards the sidewalk. You’re standing there, frantic and the picture of panic, talking to Esme, who’s trying to talk you down. In your peripheral, you spot JJ, and when you turn and see Leo hand-in-hand, you visibly relax with a huge breath out. Rushing over, you drop to your knees and tackle Leo into a hug. 

“Don’t do that to me again,” you sigh into his small body. Leo wraps his arms around your middle and nods gently against your shirt. JJ watches it unfold, a small smile on his lips as he chews his candy. Your hands brush over Leo’s face, scanning him for injuries whilst murmuring things like ‘are you okay?’ and ‘are you hurt?’. Feeling someone’s eyes on him, JJ glances over to spot Esme viewing the scene. She considers him a moment as if reviewing evidence, and JJ stands like he’s awaiting a verdict. Then, holding his eyes, Esme gives him a subtle but poignant nod of approval. He tries and fails to bite back his grin, looking down at his boots. Nailed it. 

-

“Why didn’t I try this on in the shop!?” you complain loudly from through the bathroom door. JJ is lounging on your bed on his back, tossing and catching one of your Jellycats up and over his head. 

“M’sure it looks fine,” he replies, only half paying attention. His phone buzzes again with more texts from the Pogues, asking when the two of you were planning to show up. JJ had thought the outfit change at your house would take about ten minutes. Here you were, approaching the thirty minute mark, twenty of which you had spent in the bathroom doing God knows what. At a picture of John B and Pope shot gunning, jealousy pangs in JJ’s chest. Throwing his phone to the side on the duvet, he sighs. “Babe, let’s just go already. I bet you look great.”

“Ugh, I just…” There’s a rattling of products and then the click of the bathroom door opening. Your footsteps approaching on the carpet are slow and reluctant. JJ rolls onto his side and cracks an eye open to see you standing before your full length mirror. The first thing he registers is ass. And then legs. And then, again, ass. “I feel ridiculous."

JJ’s eyes leisurely trail up your body to find yours in the mirror. You’re frowning and inspecting the costume, meddling with the top that is equally as skimpy as the bottoms. The tacky metal badge on the right of your chest is the only real suggestion that you’re dressed as a cop. The button-up cropped shirt is navy blue. The top button sits low on your sternum, revealing a tasteful amount of cleavage. The tight fitting shorts hug your ass in a way that might have been designed to torture JJ. His mind goes blank as the blood rushes down to his pants. With parted lips, JJ stares at you, mesmerised. 

“It looks stupid, right?” you huff, turning to face him. Your hands flop by your sides, exasperated. JJ dumbly shakes his head no. You quirk a brow. “You a’right there?”

“You look insanely fuckin’ hot right now,” JJ murmurs, stupefied. 

A surprised smile pulls at your lips. His words seem to give you a boost of confidence, shoulders rolling back as you ask, “really?”

“Really,” he rasps. His eyes do another quick lap over your body before meeting your gaze. It brings him back to the room. With a boyish grin, he suggestively quips, “did it come with handcuffs by any chance?”

“Hilarious,” you deadpan. “Thought you were wearing a costume?”

“It’s a jumpsuit. Takes, like, a minute to put on.”

“A’right, well, put it on whilst I put in my contacts and we can go.”

JJ sits up and grabs the bright orange jumpsuit from your chair. “You’re not wearing your glasses?”

“It’s Halloween,” you say, sliding your glasses off the bridge of your nose. “Thought I’d jumpscare people with what I look like glasses-less. It’s like seeing a cat without fur.”

JJ barks out a laugh as he shrugs on the jumpsuit. You meddle with your contact lenses and then turn to face him, smiling brightly. JJ brushes some hair behind your ears. “Well, I think you look cute with and without your glasses, furless cat.”

“You’re too kind, blue eyes,” you hum. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, you grab JJ’s hand and guide him out your bedroom. “Come on - let’s go get you drunk.”

“Hell yeah!”

-

The kooks had spared no expense. JJ leads the two of you through the open front door, weaving past other party goers. It’s dark and foggy as if someone has a mist machine, but it could easily be from vapour. There’s the stench of beer and liquor and cannabis and cigarettes clashing into one smell that can simply be labelled as house party. People are everywhere. Talking on the sofas, leaning against the walls in fiery debate, making out on the staircase, dancing on the makeshift dancefloor of the living room. Music thumps through the building. Paper bats dangle from the ceiling that has strings of cotton wool going from wall to wall, mimicking spiderwebs. There’s hazard tape over doors and fake blood splatters on windows. Skeletons smoking joints and cauldrons full of Buzz Balls and bottles of beer. JJ grins as he catches the Pogues hanging in the corner. They wave and JJ guides the two of you over. 

“Hey! You guys made it!” John B grins, giving you a side hug in greeting. 

“Took you long enough,” Kiara adds, vaguely disgruntled. “How was trick or treating?”

“It was good,” you smile. “Leo had a blast.”

“Best haul of the year, easily,” JJ brags, earning a woogedty from John B. 

“Where’s Pope?”

“Somewhere arguing with this kook about why his Mummy costume is 'historically inaccurate,'” Kiara says with a roll of her eyes. 

“I mean, unless the guy pulled out his intestines through his nose, it kinda has to be?” you frown. 

“Smartest girl in town,” JJ smugly announces. You eye him. 

“That’s, like, elementary-grade history.”

“Take the win, babe,” he mutters, kissing the side of your head. Pointing to you then his friends, he asks, “shots? Anybody? Shots?”

“Hell yeah,” Kiara whoops. The four of you manage your way to the kitchen, where dozens of bottles of half-drunk liquor sit. JJ pours four shots of tequila as John B retrieves the limes and Kiara finds a salt shaker. Toasting, he watches from the corner of his eye as you lick the stripe of salt off the back of your hand, chasing it with liquor, before sinking your teeth into a lime as you wince. 

“Ugh,” you groan, sucking the lime dry. The tequila burns his throat as he whoops. 

“Let’s freakin’ celebrate like the Celtics, yeah?”

Laughing, you let him lead you into the depths of the party. The hours pass with chugging games and stories told loudly over the ruckus of music. A joint’s shared and JJ feels his bones loosen and his worries fade. You start laughing louder; hanging onto his arm; challenging John B to drinking games, whooping when you win. JJ likes every version of you, but this version is one of his favourites. Carefree and reckless: just living without overthinking. At some point, JJ loses you to Kiara for a trip to the bathroom ("why do girls always go to the bathroom in numbers? Is there some riddle they have to answer at the door to get in?"). He talks with John B and Pope, leaning against the wall of some blinged out dining area that JJ would love to steal from. 

“You and Y/N seem to be doing alright?” John B asks, giving a knowing look to JJ. 

JJ shrugs, feigning nonchalance, and grins into his red solo cup. “Yeah, we’re doing a’right.”

“She know where she going to college yet?” Pope asks, ever the buzz kill. 

“All the smart ones,” JJ brags. Listing on his fingers, he recites, “Chapel Hill, Uni of Virginia, Duke, and - the big bucks - Yale.”

John B whistles lowly. Pope raises his brows. “Yale? That place is insanely competitive.”

“Yeah, no doy, Pope,” JJ mutters, having another swig of his very strong rum and coke. “No harm in applying though, right? 'Sides, she's smart enough to get in.”

“Yale, though. That’s…Connecticut, right?”

“Pretty long stretch,” Pope fills in the blanks for John B. JJ grits his teeth. 

“Look, we ain’t got all the kinks figured out yet, but…We’ll figure them out, so…” JJ says. His high is starting to fade with their mellow tone. Finishing his drink, his eyes catch sight of you and Kie making your way back. Your face lights up when your eyes catch his. 

“Hey!” you call loudly, throwing a hand up. You're definitely tipsy. JJ chuckles. 

“Uh oh,” Pope mutters, amused. 

“Here comes trouble,” John B sniggers. JJ ignores them, eyes glued on you as you weave your way through to him, hand still intertwined with Kie’s as she follows behind. Your touch is like warm oil as your hand lands on his upper chest. His hand safely rests on your waist, keeping you close. 

“Havin’ fun?”

“Tons,” you grin. “Me and Kie started talking to these girls in the other room about this insanely good show that you need to watch, and–” Just then, the song changes. Your eyes widen like a comicbook charactedr and JJ laughs as you let out an excited squeal. “Oh my God, we have to dance.”

The Pogues jeer at JJ as he gladly lets you drag him away from his friends, into the living room with the makeshift dancefloor. It’s slightly awkward at first, finding his footing with the rhythm of the song, but when your arms loop around his neck and his find home on your waist, JJ soon sinks into the melody of SZA. It’s dark and hazy in the room. Twinkling silver lights dangle against the wall. Your gaze is heady as you peer up at him. 

“Are you havin’ fun?” you ask, sweet voice floating over the heavy bass. 

JJ smirks. He tugs you an inch closer to him. “I am now, princess.”

“Good,” you smile. Pushing onto your toes, the kiss you press to his lips tastes like apple snaps and cannabis. JJ kisses you back, his tongue parting the seam of your mouth, deepening the kiss. You pull away with a small gasp. Smile at him, teasing, as you turn in his hold. Dancing up on him, JJ’s hands caress the figure of your body. Your fingernails tickle the skin of JJ’s throat as you trace your touch from his jaw, down along his neck. JJ groans against the skin of your shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent of your perfume, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His hands grip firmly on your hips. He keeps you close and guides your body’s movement to the heavy rhythm of the music. The bass possess the two of you. It pumps through his blood and heaves through your lungs. Your head tilts back against his upper chest, nose brushing the underside of your jaw, as you grind against him. The hand that isn’t toying with the tendrils of his hair at the nape of his neck plants atop of his, as if encouraging him to stay near. The brush of your ass against his groin forces him to sink his teeth gently into your shoulder. You gasp out at the sensation, not at all displeased. 

“Baby,” JJ croons into your ear, kissing at the tender skin just below. “Drivin’ me crazy here.”

“Good,” you repeat, voice breathy. JJ chuckles darkly against your warm throat. The party slips away: nothing matters to JJ except you. One of his hands slips from your waist and he shamelessly grabs a handful of your ass. You moan appreciatively: it fades into the chaos of the party. The two of you are buzzed from the weed and booze. JJ’s eyes open to gaze down at you: hooded and hooked. Your hand pulls his face down to yours and you catch him a messy kiss. It’s tongue and teeth. Desperate and dirty. JJ grunts against you, hands greedy as they pull you closer by your ass. 

"Yeah!" “Get it, Jay boy!” 

The whistle and holler has JJ pulling away. You both glance over to spot John B, Pope and Kiara watching, donning shit-eating grins. Flustered, you hide your face against his chest. As one of his arms wraps around you to hold you near, JJ flips off his friends. They gladly return the gesture, howling like wolves, and JJ groans before grabbing your hand. Giggling, you stumble after JJ as he drags you through the house. He's pretty sure he hears John B yelling, "have fun, kids". JJ splits up a couple dressed as vampires making out on the stairs. 

“Jay!” you laugh, following him up the stairs, hurrying out an apology to the disgruntled couple. You’re nearly tripping over with how fast he’s moving. Pushing a hand through his hair, JJ tries various doors upstairs, muttering apologies to people that you bump into in the process, and finally one opens. A bathroom. JJ pulls you in with a tell tale grin and you giggle. The door slams shut behind you as JJ pushes you against it. He scrambles blindly to turn the lock as his mouth slots back against yours and then it’s blind, hot passion. You moan against his mouth, fingers in his hair, his in yours. He pushes against you and you push back and it’s so fucking good. One of his hands slithers down from your neck to palm at your breast through the flimsy costume top. His thumb flecks over your nipple and when he feels it harden under his touch, he parts from your kiss, forehead pressed against yours, to ask in a breath: “you ain’t wearing a bra, are you?”

Your teeth sink into your lower lip. Slowly, menacingly, you shake your head no. There’s something beneath the innocent smile sitting pretty on your face. JJ chuckles darkly as he feels himself tighten in his shorts. Tutting, JJ pinches your nipple, earning a small moan. “Fuckin’ evil.”

“‘Tis the season,” you quip. JJ brushes his nose against yours. His lips tease yours as if to kiss you, but he doesn’t. The way you chase after him has him wanting to bite into his fist. “Jay,” you whine, just for him. Always for him. He obliges. Kisses you stupid. Kisses you until his mind is nothing but a white, fuzzy blur of want and need. It’s hot and heavy and feral. It’s like a she-wolf is trying to crawl out of you: your nails clawing at his tacky orange jumpsuit; teeth nipping at his lower lip; tongue lewdly brushing against his. 

“God, I wanna eat you out so fuckin’ bad right now,” JJ mutters between kisses. He roughly gropes at your chest and your nails dig into the skin of his neck. “Want you on your knees, choking on my dick…”

“I want never gets,” you recite tantalisingly. JJ sucks a hickey onto the edge of your jaw. 

“Your loss, sweetheart,” he breathes hotly against your skin. Your hands are venturing lower and lower, and you’re both getting more and more desperate as the kisses linger and the heat rises. But as your fingers ghost often his hardened length over his pants, the doorknob rattles. The two of you break apart, chests heaving. One of JJ’s hands is crowding you against the door, pressed palm-flat against the wood, and the other is a breadth away from slipping under your criminally short shorts. You both wait and…it rattles again. Then a loud banging on the door. 

“Yo! Someone in there?” You groan and drop your head against JJ’s chest. The door handle shakes again as whoever is on the other side tries to open it. “Come on, man! I gotta pee!”

JJ glances down at you. Your make-up is slightly smudged: using a thumb, JJ fixes your lipstick. You mess with his costume so it looks slightly less ruffled, and he straightens your faux police shirt. Another loud knock has JJ’s frustration rising. “Yo! Give us a minute!” JJ hollers loudly. 

“Dude! I’m gonna burst out here, hurry the fuck up!”

JJ cusses under breath as he intertwines his fingers with yours. He unlocks the door but before he can pull it open, the douchebag on the other side forces his way in. The door clocks you on the head. “Ow!” you yelp, stumbling backwards and lifting a hand to your brow. JJ shoves the brown haired culprit by the shoulders. 

“The hell's your problem, man!”

The guy catches himself and glares at JJ, as if he somehow was the villain. “Fuck off and go screw your girl somewhere else, man,” the guy slurs back, waving him off and trying to force his way into the bathroom. JJ sees red. His emotions switch like a firecracker. Grabbing the guy by the collar, JJ slams him into the wall. The guy's head rattles back against the tiles. Getting in his face, JJ grits his teeth. 

“Wanna say that again, huh? We gonna have a problem?”

“Jay, just leave it,” you say, a hand brushing at his bicep. He reluctantly spares a glance to you. There’s no blood from where the door hit, which is good. “He’s drunk. It’s not worth it.” JJ hesitates, eyeing up the asshole before looking back to you. With one final push, JJ lets go. You take his hand and he follows you into the hall, trying his best to swallow his anger. That’s until the guy taunts: “Yeah, listen to your bitch, huh?” Before JJ can even react, you’re spinning around and smacking the guy square across the face. The sound resonates in the bathroom. JJ stares at you wide eyed as the douchebag loses his footing from the force. “Fuck you, jackass,” you spit. You grab JJ’s hand and pull the two of you through the hall and down the stairs. The cold October evening air is like a glass of water after a sleepless night when the two of you stumble out onto the decking of the house. “Ugh, what a dick.”

JJ can’t seem to form words. He stares at you like you just fell from heaven. Easing your hand from his, you brush your fingers through your hair and wander over to the railing to lean over it. He watches as you take in a long deep breath of the night air. Near your foot is a pumpkin, glowering white through its triangle eyes and wicked smile. Along the wooden rail is sparkly black bat bunting: they flap in the breeze. JJ’s eyes run along your body. The curve of your back as you lean your weight on your forearms; the cuffs of your shorts perfectly accentuating your ass; wind brushing tendrils of hair off your face, contacts substituting your glasses for the night. On the grass out front is a couple arguing. A trio of friends are sharing a joint on the curb of the road, laughing as they chatter. JJ joins your side, his shoulder brushing yours. “You a'right? Your head okay?”

“It’s fine,” you say. Smiling up at him, your voice takes on an edge as you add, “shame we got interrupted, huh?”

“Damn shame,” JJ agrees with a grin, licking his teeth. “Nearly had you breaking one of your rules. Would have been a day for the calendars.” 

You chuckle, flustered, and look down at your nails. Picking paint off them, you say, “thanks for being so great with Leo tonight. I mean, you’re always great with Leo, but especially tonight.”

“Course. Glad he had a good time,” JJ replies. A small fleck of nail varnish breaks free and falls into the shrubs below.

The smile on your lips fades like day into night. “JJ…Are you scared?”

“Sure. Scared shitless of snakes: those puppies are no jo–”

“--No, no,” you say with a small laugh. There’s a brief hesitation as you look up at him. “I mean, are you scared about this year?”

“Should I be?”

“I don’t know, I just–” You cut yourself off with a sigh and rub your forehead. “I’m just thinking about all the things that are coming, and it feels like they’re coming fast. I almost wish I could just hit a big red button that says ‘STOP’ and freeze time, y’know? Have everything pause, just for a while.”

JJ sighs. He chews on his lower lip and nods slowly. “Yeah. I know what you mean. I’ve been thinking ‘bout it too. Y’know, you and college and…It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” you huff out a humourless laugh. “It is a lot.”

“But hey,” JJ says, reaching his hand out to intertwine his fingers with yours. He holds your smaller hand tight and safe in his. Looking into your eyes, he tells you, “let’s just live in the now, yeah? Tomorrow can wait for when-the-fuck ever, so let’s stick in the now. We’ll figure it out when we gots to.”

“Okay,” you quietly say, smiling. You plant a simmering kiss onto JJ’s lips. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, rings cold against your warm skin, and you happily lean into him. Pliant and willing, you let JJ deepen the kiss, and soon he’s remembering why the hell he was in such a hurry earlier. 

“Wanna get outta here?” he murmurs against your mouth. 

“Maybe,” you giggle, pecking his lips again. “But not in a bathroom this time, please.”

“Yes ma’am,” JJ grins. His thumb lovingly traces over your cheekbone. “Only the best for my girl. We could head back to yours?”

You pull a face. “My mom and little brother are home. Bit of a mood killer.”

“Good point."

“What about your place?”

JJ’s heart stutters. He feels his smile falter as he echoes, “my place?”

“Yeah. S’nearer to us, anyway.”

“My dad might be home,” he says. “Why don’t we just head to the chateau?”

“Jay, y’know you don’t have to be embarrassed around me, yeah?” you worry, eyes gazing up at him. The starlight sparkles in your irises. JJ sighs. 

“It ain’t that, I just…My dad’s a piece of work, a’right? You catch him in the wrong mood and…He has this way of gettin’ under people’s skin. Jus’ don’t want him ruining this f’me.”

“JJ,” you say, voice firm but not cruel. You cradle his jaw in your hand and JJ lets himself lean into your hold. He’s never been soft with anyone but you. You get that side of him. The quiet parts that he tries to keep hidden. “How ‘bout this: if he’s home, we go to the chateau. If he ain’t, then we stay?”

JJ glances between your eyes as if searching for some catch. After chewing the inside of his cheek in deliberation, JJ sighs. “A’right. But if he’s home, we jet, a’right? Trust me, he is not a hoot to be around.”

“Sort’a like you with a hangover?” you lightly joke, following JJ down the house’s front steps. JJ cringes. His voice lacks that same humour as he simply replies: “worse."

When the two of you finally start up the path to JJ’s house, he hesitates. You sense it. Pause a step ahead of him, hand tightly held in his, and frown. “Jay?”

“Lemme just…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he lets go of your hand and starts ahead. He hears your footsteps following him as they crunch over dirt and grass. JJ holds a hand up as the porch comes into sight. The lights are off but it’s late: that doesn’t mean anything in the Maybank house. “Lemme just see if he’s home. You wait here, a’right?”

“JJ,” you say, fingers catching his wrist. He takes a small breath and turns to face you. You offer a small smile. “We don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. We can go to the Chateau, or my house, or anywhere but here, if you don’t wanna be. I just…I know what it’s like to feel like you need to hide some things and I guess I just wanted you to know that you don’t gotta hide with me.”

It’s the sincerity in your voice that breaks down JJ’s wall. There’s no deceit there. No judgement. Just plain honest truth. You knew what it was like to have parts of your life that were difficult. Parts that you wanted to shield from the world, should people see you for who you really were. JJ takes a step forward in the darkness of the night. There aren’t many houses out here: all the trick or treaters are long asleep. He stands before you, fingers toying with yours as your hands dangling between the two of you. Nodding, there’s the shadow of a smile on his lips. “I know. I don’t wanna hide things from you, it's just…My dad ain’t all good. He’s got problems, and…I just don’t want him to hurt you. Hurt us.”

“I get it,” you quietly reply. Your fingers squeeze his reassuringly. “Do what you need’t do.”

 The house is empty. JJ guides you through the entryway. He kicks empty beer cans out the way in the sitting room, swallowing down the sting of embarrassment, and weaves through the narrow corridor into his bedroom. It smells of teenage boy - he knows it does. His cologne and deodorant sticks to the wall and furniture. The bed is unmade, bedside table a littered mess of empty beer cans, used vapes and half-smoked joints and cigarettes. There’s an impressive stack of laundry in the corner, crammed near the door. His desk is far from organised: it’s the stark opposite to yours. But there's now a small stack of textbooks and your many printouts and notes that JJ had gathered through tutoring sessions. Pinned to the wood of the window were some of the notes you'd responded to in class. Ones you'd left on the fridge of your house for JJ to read: be back in five; leftovers in the oven; have a good day, blue eyes. He spots you linger on them a moment. On the opposite wall are posters. Supermodels with tanned, sweat sleek skin in bikinis. JJ watches you bite back your smile. 

“A’right, a’right, I know how it looks but, uh, y'know, these are very famous models. I just have an appreciation for the, uh...art,” JJ fumbles, flicking the bedside lamp on. 

“Mhm, oh no, yeah, I bet,” you hum, stifling your laugh. “So uh-” your finger points at one of the posters - “who’s this again?”

“Y’know that’s…” JJ’s mind blanks on any supermodel’s name ever. Wincing, he stammers out, “Pamela Anderson?”

“Nice try, slick,” you snigger.

"Hey, if you wanna give me some pictures of you to hang up to replace them then..." His grin is shit-eating and you toss a pair of old balled up socks at him. Sniggering, he catches them and throws them onto the pile of laundry. As if unbothered by the clutter and mess, you toe off your shoes and plop yourself down on JJ’s bed. The mattress springs squeak. He leans back against the bedroom door until it clicks shut. He’s strangely nervous - acting as though this is the first time he’s ever had a girl in his bedroom. Something about you being here is different. JJ’s house was an unfiltered snapshot into how he lives, and seeing you embrace it so naturally, sinking into his bed as if you visit every other day…It’s disorientating. Taking out your earrings, you casually ask JJ, “can I borrow a shirt?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Course,” he mumbles. He tugs open a dresser drawer and digs about until his hands grab an old, well-worn graphic tee. It’s faded navy blue with a half-decayed decal on the back: Sex Wax - The Best for Your Stick. JJ gives it a quick, indiscernible whiff before tossing it to you. You catch it and change out of your costume, dressed in your panties and his shirt. It hangs like a small dress, ending at your upper thigh. As you change, JJ switches from his orange jumpsuit into his boxer and the shirt he was wearing yesterday. With a sigh, JJ flops onto the bed beside you. His back is supported by the mess of pillows scrunched up against the wall and headboard. You sink your head against his upper chest, leaning against him, and his fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on the bare skin of your thighs. 

“So…Where’s your dad?”

“Who knows,” JJ mutters. “Just glad he ain’t here.”

“Y’know,” you say, shifting slightly so you can meet his gaze. With a small smile, gentle and coaxing, you admit, “I really don’t know all that much ‘bout you, backstory wise.”

“What’s there to know?” JJ says, feigning indifference.

“I don't know. Tell me about your family.”

“Tell me about yours,” he counters. You roll your eyes. 

“There’s nothing to tell. You already know my mom and Leo.”

“What ‘bout your dad?” 

“Like I told you,” you shrug. “He’s deployed. He's a colonel. He’s coming home for Christmas though. Said he wants to meet you.”

“You tellin’ daddy ‘bout me, now?” JJ teases, brushing some hair behind your ears. 

“Almost like you’re my boyfriend,” you counter. Then, catching his hand to play with his rings, you knowingly tell him, “I know what you’re doing, by the way.”

JJ sighs. His eyes flit up to the ceiling and trace the pattern of a dried mold stain. Licking his lips, he focuses on the delicate sensation of your fingertips spinning his metal rings around his digits. The warm brush of your bare thigh against his. The smell of your perfume and shampoo infiltrating his bedroom. “S’just me and my dad. My ma split when I was three. Never knew her, never wanted to. Dad didn’t keep much of her stuff - not like there was much to keep anyway - but I gotta picture somewhere in one of those drawers, there. That’s that.”

“And I’m guessing you and your dad ain’t all that close?” you softly wonder. JJ clears his throat. His eyes fixate on the methodical work of your fingers. 

“Nah, we, uh…We’ve had our differences for a while now,” JJ says, wincing slightly at the memories. “I think part’a the problem is we’re so similar sometimes, and we just clash and it’s like fire on fire, y’know? Never gonna end well.” 

“Y’all argue?” JJ’s smile is shaky as he meets your gaze. His barely-there shrug seems to say what his words can't because he watches your face crumble like sand under water. “Oh,” you breathe. 

“S’alright,” JJ mumbles. He clears his throat again, feeling a lump starting to form in his throat, and he can’t - he won’t - start crying. Not over that jackass. Not now. “Hasn’t happened for a minute now, so…”

“Jay,” you whisper. His eyes clench shut at your tone. Shuffling onto your knees, your hands are warm and safe as they cradle his face. “Look at me, please.” Sighing, feeling tears stinging his waterline, he sniffs, steals his nerves, and forces himself to look you in the eye. The look on your face is so tender and loving, it could thaw the most senile, bitter pessimist’s heart. “If you ever need somewhere to go, y’know you can always come to my house, right? Always.”

JJ lets out a breath so heavy, it feels like he’s been holding it for years. His forehead bumps against yours. A small nod of his head has your fingers soothingly stroking at the stubble on his jaw. The two of you sit in the moment. Your hands on his face. His hands on your thigh and waist. JJ isn’t sure who moves first - he never is with you. Maybe it’s both of you. But your mouth is on his, and his tongue is tasting the remnants of beer and weed in your mouth, finding that underlying, distinct flavour of you. His fingers knead the plush flesh of your thigh as he grabs and pulls you onto his lap with a low, satisfied hum. You kiss along the shadow of his jaw. Suckle at the skin on his neck. His head rolls back, bumping softly against the wall, eyes slipping shut with a shaky sigh. Fingers crawl beneath his shirt cloaking your body, hands caressing your figure before gripping at your hips. You roll against him, the brush of your panties catching against the bulge in his boxers, and then your teeth nip at the thin veil of skin on his throat. 

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, gazing at your through hooded eyes. You capture his lips with yours again: it’s hot and sizzling. It consumes him. Burns him from the inside out. His hands tug at the shirt and you let him pull it up and over your head. Goosebumps prickle over your skin and he traces kisses up from your elbows, along your arms, onto your shoulders and collarbones. Perfume sticks to your skin and like pheromones, JJ feels stirred. He’s insatiable. Starving. Nips at your skin. Licks and sucks and kisses and bites. Your fingers are tangled in his hair. His shirt joins yours on the floor. Your hips rock helplessly against his lap, legs straddling him, knees sinking into the mattress either side of his hips. His blunt fingers nails sink into the round of your ass, guiding your movements. When he takes his nipple in his mouth and sucks, your head tilts back with a sweet, haunting gasp. Smirking, JJ palms at your other breast, the cold silver ring on his thumb brushing over the neglected nipple. As you hang your head forward, your hair brushes at JJ’s cheek. He glances up, lips still slick with spit, to meet your eyes. They’re dark with lust. Your fingers dotingly brush some of his hair back and a smile pulls at your lips. He smiles back. JJ’s never needed many words with you. When he slips his fingers into your panties, your gummy wetness coats his digits as he brushes through your folds. You sigh, forehead falling against his, and he smirks. 

“So needy, huh? All worked up f’me?” JJ rasps. He's obsessed with the sound, the feel, the entirety of you.

“Yes,” you whine, mouth chasing his for a kiss. You melt against him as he works you with his fingers, edging you, driving you closer. And when JJ finally sinks inside of you, and feels the hot and wet press of your walls stretching around his length, the two of you groan.

"Atta girl," he croons, eyes fixated on where your body's connect. JJ’s had you so many times but something about this felt different. The press of your skin to his; arms slung around his neck, holding him close; his lips brushing the curve of your ear; JJ’s hands grabbing your ass and guiding your hips. The sounds you made just for him. The small pleas that you’d stammer out, voice broken with a moan. This wasn’t fucking. This was making love. 

As JJ’s finger brushes against your clit, rubbing small circles, you melt against him. “Fuck, JJ. God, don’t stop…Don’t stop…”

“Feels good, baby?” he grunts, driving himself impossibly deeper. Brushing some hair off your face, his touch is somewhat mean as he pulls your face up to look him in the eyes. You can barely keep yours open. “Who’s making you feel this good, huh? Who?”

“You - fuck, Jay - you are,” you gasp. You’re climbing closer and closer. Fingers clawing at him, hands grasping for purchase, voice growing louder and louder, all sense of self preservation erased by blind, hot desperation to come. JJ groans as he feels you squeezing around him. His eyes press shut, head falling back, as he feels that white pleasure build in his lower stomach.

"That's it baby," he groans, revelling in the lewd sound of skin on skin and the squelch of your juices around him. "Taking me so good, fuck."

Moments later, you fall apart with a broken cry, head sagging against his shoulder as if every bone in your body had turned to water. Breath hot against his skin as you mumble out pleas and cusses, brain nothing but mush. "God, JJ, fuck...Holy fuck..." JJ climaxes hard, buried deep inside of you. His lips press kisses against the crown of your head, on your cheeks, before he lets his head rest against your shoulder. 

“I love you,” you murmur against him. Your breath is still coming in shallow pants. He can practically feel the race of your heartbeat against him. JJ’s arms tighten around you, keeping you close. He never wants to be without this. Without you. As if closing out thoughts of the future, JJ closes his eyes.

“I love you, too,” he whispers back.

Winter

Your house has always been busy. Washer and dryer buzzing; oven and smoothie maker running; television and radio babbling; Leo’s noisy calls for attention. With time, you’ve acclimatized to the madness like a fisherman overcoming sea sickness. Christmas Day didn’t provide a reprieve from the chaos. It merely shaped it into something different. Dressed it up with red ribbon and twinkling fairy lights of green and gold. 

The Christmas tree is tucked into the corner of the living room. The lights have been on since the crack of down - when Leo loudly woke up the household - and cast the room in a warm glow of flickering gold. There’s presents gathered under it, the majority still wrapped. Leo struggled with impulse management so a compromise was letting him open three in the morning, and the rest after dinner. It wasn’t an overwhelming haul. Simply modest, with a few gifts dedicated to each family member. You’re kneeling before them and glancing over the tags, curious. When you see JJ’s name in your handwriting taped to a large, long box, you smile. 

“Again! Play it again, sissy!” Leo demands from the sofa. You look at him then the TV, and find the credits for Muppet’s Christmas Carol scrolling for the third time today. He was obsessed with it. When you offered to watch another Christmas flick like It’s a Wonderful Life or Elf, he started to show signs of upset. For the sake of Christmas, it was easier to let it slide. Reaching for the remote, you click around until the movie restarts. Leo cheers and you can’t help but smile. Worth it. Laughter rolls out of the kitchen. Your mom’s, pitchy and sweet, followed by a deeper, raspier chuckle. Your dad. Childlike joy blossoms in your chest at hearing his humour echo through the house. It had been months since you’d last seen him. The past week you’d spent nearly every day at home to soak up the hours in his company. 

Not even twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. That gleeful joy is back, stronger than ever, and you shoot up like Leo had that morning and race to the front door. There stands JJ. He’s in a jumper and shorts, combat boots laced on his feet, no cap on his head and a backpack on his back. His blonde hair is slightly unruly as if he’s been dragging his hands through it - one of your favourite nervous ticks of his. 

“Hey!” you smile brightly. 

“Hey,” he smiles back. You toss your arms around his neck, earning an oof and small laugh. His arms wrap around your middle and against your ear, JJ murmurs, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” you happily hum back. There’s the sound of footsteps behind you that has you pulling away, just in time to watch your mom emerge from the kitchen. She’s wearing her Christmas apron - Santa’s Helper - and drying her hands on a towel. There’s a sheen of sweat against her forehead from the labours of making dinner. 

“JJ!” She warmly greets. You step aside to let her pull him into an embrace. A brief stunned look comes and goes from JJ’s face. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

“Merry Christmas,” he returns. Slipping his hands into his short pockets, he nods at her as he says, “thanks for inviting me over.”

“Course,” your mom says. She ushers him inside and you close the door behind him. Wordlessly, the two of you follow your mom into the kitchen, listening to her ramble. “S’just as good you’re here too because Lord knows I’m not good at cooking for four. I make enough damn food on Christmas to feed the whole neighbourhood.”

“I’m always up for the challenge, though,” your dad grins. He’s wearing a plum coloured knitted sweater. JJ hesitates slightly in the doorway. Locking eyes with your boyfriend, your dad tilts his head in greeting. “You must be the famous JJ.”

“Uh, I guess I must be,” JJ replies. You roll your eyes as you saddle up beside your mom at the stove, stirring the gravy as she messes with the sprouts. 

“Dad, don’t do your whole intimidating-dad schtick,” you warn. He was a tall man, your father, with broad shoulders and a steady jaw. He was every bit the picture of an army colonel. Stood like he had a led rod down his spine. But when he was off duty and back home, he wasn’t a soldier - he was simply your dad. Chuckling, he relents. 

“A’right, missy - I wasn’t going to,” your dad says. He crosses the room to JJ and offers his hand for JJ to shake. “Glad you could join us, JJ.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes. The table’s all set and your dad’s got one of his God-awful Christmas vinyls on–”

“--hey!”

“--so all that’s left is wrangling up the elf.” At your mother’s knowing look, you laugh. 

“Me and JJ’ll get him,” you say, leading the way to the living room. JJ places his bag by the sofa as you encourage Leo to move to the dining table. There’s the coming and going of people as plates and bowls and dishes of food are brought out and laid centre. Nat King Cole’s voice sounds like whiskey as the five of you settle in your seats. At your dad’s prompting, your all connect hands and hang your heads. You flash JJ a small smile before the two of you close your eyes. Your dad leads the prayer: “Dear Lord, we thank you for this feast and for the company you’ve brought to us. May you watch over us and all others in this time of love and festivity. In Jesus’s name we pray: amen.”

You load up your plate with honey roast ham and parsnips and potatoes and carrots and sprouts and stuffing and gravy. Leaning over the table, you cut up Leo’s meat as he sits beside your dad. Your dad meant well but he wasn’t around a whole bunch at home. He didn’t understand Leo’s needs the way you and your mom did. Would sometimes take the age-old approach of acting like nothing’s different, with the best of intentions. Your mom reaches for the bottle of red. 

“Alright, who fancies a glass?” At her offer, your dad raises his empty wine glass. As eyes turn to JJ: his eyes widen slightly, and chews his mouthful before swallowing. 

“Uh, none for me, thanks…Don’t drink.”

You bite back your smile. He’s trying to impress your dad. Laughing, your dad watches your mom fill his glass as he says, “then you’re a better teenager than I was, kid.” When you present your own wine glass to your mom to fill, your dad smiles reassuringly at JJ. “You don’t gotta put on some act, here, boy. It’s Christmas. You can have a glass.”

JJ smiles nervously and nods. Your mom fills his glass and then the five of you toast - Leo’s cola fizzing in his dinosaur cup. As the plates of food slowly dwindle down, piece by piece, laughter passes around the table as your dad tells tales about when he was courting your mom. 

“Wait, so you were from the cut too?” JJ asks. He’s settled more, acting like his usual self with each minute. Your dad nods. 

“Grew up about five minutes from your old man, in fact,” he says to JJ. “S’why I joined the army. Seemed the quickest way out of there.”

“I hear that,” JJ says before eating another forkful of stuffing. Your dad then looks at you. 

“So, bookworm: how’s those college admissions going?” 

“Do we have to talk about that? It’s Christmas,” you grumble. Your dad laughs and sips his wine. 

“I’m just trying to get all caught up. Your mom tells me you’re top of the class in Spanish and history.”

“Her mathletes team are going into the semi-finals, too,” JJ chimes in. You glance at him and smile, bashful. 

“I’ve submitted all of them early, and got some interviews lined up. So…I guess we’ll see,” you say with a small smile. 

“Sissy,” Leo murmurs from across the table. You glance over. He’s getting restless. It’s a long time for him to sit, and it’s not as if the conversation is particularly engaging for him. You playful jab a fork over onto his plate, stabbing a potato. Leo stabs it back and there’s a small, controlled battle. His giggle draws a laugh from you. JJ asks your dad another question about his early years in the army and he’s happy to oblige. When your mom had asked JJ what his plans for Christmas were last week, you could practically hear her heart crack when he shrugged and said “probably get take out and watch the game.” You’d encouraged JJ to accept her invitation for dinner and now, seeing him enjoying himself, you were so glad he had. 

With full bellies and aching cheeks from smiling, you all migrate into the living room. Leo is running around playing with his new toys; your mom is cooing over the necklace your dad bought her (your dad looking very smug with himself); and JJ’s busy unscrewing the back of the toy he bought Leo to put batteries inside. You have no idea how much it must’ve cost him. It was shiny and new: a walking T-rex that roared with glowing red eyes. Pinching another chocolate from the box on the coffee table, you half-watch the Christmas movie on TV. 

“Here you go, dude,” JJ says, catching Leo’s attention. Leo gasps and ditches his plushie to take the dino from JJ. Your parents and JJ smile as they watch Leo’s eyes light up when the dinosaur roars through the crackly speaker in its chest. You’re not watching Leo though. You’re watching JJ. Wonderful, perfect, unexpected JJ. Shuffling closer, you sink into his side and rest your head on his shoulder. “You think he likes it?”

“Might be his new favourite,” you smile. 

“I got somethin’ for you too.” You pull away to watch JJ dig about in his backpack. A small brown paper parcel about the size and shape of a book comes to light. You take it from him as he mumbles, somewhat embarrassed, “it ain’t much but…”

As you peel away the paper - careful as if revealing an old relic - you uncover a photo frame. It’s beautiful. The wood is sleek and whittled to show a flawless wavy design. It’s painted dark brown with a wood stain. Turning it over carefully, you read the etched engraving on the back: Made by JJ Maybank. 

“Thought you could put this in it,” JJ says quietly. He holds a photograph under your gaze and you gently take it from him. You recognise it immediately. It isn’t the best picture of you both but it's the first one you have together. JJ had taken it when he was staying the night at your house. You’re sitting in bed reading, head turned from the mirror, as JJ lays with his head on your lap. One of your hands is safely nestled in his hair, fingertips likely massaging at his scalp. His face is blocked by his phone as he snaps a picture of the reflection in the mirror. You smile down at the moment frozen in colour. JJ clears his throat and you glance up. He’s visibly nervous as he prompts, “turn it over.”

You do as he asks and there, on the back, is his distinct handwriting. Lips parting, you read: thank you for always whooping my ass, cheering me on, and standing by me no matter what. Love, your JJ. The smile on your face grows. It’s giddy like a school girl receiving her first Valentine. 

“I know it ain’t much but–”

“--It’s perfect,” you interrupt. Your voice is warm with sincerity. Meeting his eyes, you nod. When you speak, it’s barely louder than a whisper in fear of crying. “I love it. Thank you.”

“Course,” he says. His timid smile is a rarity compared to his usual boyish grin. You press a kiss to his cheek, lingering. 

Then, reaching under the tree, you tell him, “I got you something too. In fact, we all did.”

JJ’s brows furrow as you pull a large box out from beneath the evergreen ferns. It’s wrapped in ruby red paper printed with boughs of holly. With a small grunt, you lift it onto his lap. JJ’s ring decorated fingers brush over it as if he’s worried he might be imagining it. His eyes are wide and shining as meet yours. “It’s from all of us,” you hear yourself repeat. JJ slowly glances over to your parents: they’re watching, cuddled up on the sofa, and as if reading his mind, they both give small nods. JJ’s fingers tuck under a flap of wrapping paper and he gently tears it open. A cardboard box reveals itself and he frowns. You help move the paper to the side as JJ digs in his backpack for his pocket knife. Slicing through the tape, you watch with bated breath as he opens the box. 

JJ lets out a breath, eyes widening, as he reveals a brand new penny board. You shift onto your knees and bite down on your lower lip, trying and failing to suppress your smile, as he lifts it up and out the box to get a better look. When he inspects the wheels, you quietly say, “those are the ones you showed me, right? The good ones?”

He nods first, struggling to find words, before clearing his throat and saying, “yeah. Yeah, they are.”

Your excitement fades into nerves as he doesn’t speak. He just looks. Regards the penny board like a stray recently homed, trying to assess what it thinks. “Do…Do you like it?”

JJ isn’t smiling when he looks up at you. His lips are parted, moving without words. Then, he purses them together, and a ball of dread rolls in your stomach. He hates it. You overstepped. Oh God, what the hell were you thinking? Just as you’re about to tell him to forget it, he abruptly puts the board down on the floor and leaves the room. You don’t bother looking at your parents as you chase after him. The stairs creak and follow the sound. The door to your bedroom is half shut and you ease it open to find JJ sat on your bed: elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands. 

“JJ,” you breathe. Closing the door, you drop to your knees in front of him. Your eyes search the floor, hands wringing together, as you ramble. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think that you’d– God, I’m sorry, I just…You always talked about that one board and…My parents wanted to get you something and I just thought…Why not, right? But you don’t have to accept it. I can talk to them, and they won’t be mad, we’ll figure out something–”

Your words are lost when JJ kisses you. It’s hard and desperate, like breaking to the surface of water for air, and your eyes fly open in surprise. His hands are on your face, holding you still, and you slowly lift your right hand to rest over his left, keeping him in place. Eyes slipping shut, you let JJ kiss away your fears. You’re breathless when he pulls away. His breath is hot as it fans against your lips. Your eyes flutter open to find his still closed. 

“I love it,” he breathes. Swallowing thickly, a tear rolls down his cheek. In a choked voice, he manages out, “thank you.”

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him against you into an embrace. JJ buries his head into your neck and his arms slot safely around your middle. You hold him as he cries. Don’t ask questions. Don’t talk. Just stay there, keeping him together. You hadn’t realised how much the present would mean. In some stupid blindspot, you hadn’t considered the fact that JJ had never known gifts on Christmas morning. He’d never known large family feasts and corny carols and movies. Hadn’t grown up sitting around the Christmas tree, taking it in turns to open presents. He wasn’t angry. He was overwhelmed. Kissing the stubble on his jaw, you’ve never meant the sentiment more as you whisper against his skin, “Merry Christmas, JJ.”

Spring

As trees started to sprout green again and birds migrated back from their brief vacation, senior year was picking up. Exams loomed ahead like a final boss in a video game, with seniors only a few levels away. JJ had started to lose you to the world of studying. His attempts to divert your attention were becoming increasingly futile. It was sweet, though. He told you it was sweet - your determination. You’d figured out ways to pull him into studying too. His favourite method? Strip quizcards. Every right question he answered, you’d sacrifice a piece of clothing. You’ve never known a more effective method for JJ to learn. Sadly, it often led to studying becoming derailed entirely… 

Valentine’s Day had come and gone. The two of you celebrated with small gestures: JJ had saved to buy you a new book from the rom-com series you’d been binging. He’d taken liberty to find all the pages with smut and scribbled in the margins how much better he believed he could do. You’d gifted him a new baseball cap that he’d eyed up in a surf shop the other week. Inside, you’d stitched your name along the rim. Just for him. 

When you and Esme wander into the kitchen of your house, you spot a freshly baked banana loaf, a pile of mail, and a note on the kitchen counter from your mom. Taken Leo to the park. Help yourself to food. Also, this came for you in the post. See you soon. Love mom. Esme gladly takes the offer of food and cuts herself a slice. She munches and scrolls on her phone as you flick through the mail. A bill for your mom. A spam coupon letter from the local supermarket. And then a sleek white envelope, with your name on it. The font it’s printed in is smart. Intrigued, you open it and withdraw the letter. The navy blue has your stomach dropping, and then rolling. Then your eyes focus on the three letter word: Yes! 

“Oh my God,” you whisper. Esme glances up from her phone. Louder, you repeat, “oh my freaking God.”

“What’s that?” she asks, swallowing her mouthful. You shake your head, unable to look away from the letter. Esme comes to stand by your side and reads over your shoulder. Then, as if performing on Broadway, she gasps. Loud and theatric. “Oh my God!”

Her hands on your shoulders, rattling you on the spot, as she screams those three words over and over. With trembling fingers, you produce the letter neatly tucked inside. …We’re pleased to offer you a place at Yale University on the condition that you achieve…

You did it. 

You got into Yale University. The Yale University. One of the top twenty schools in the world. Esme is freaking out behind you. She’s screaming, jumping up and down, nearly in floods of tears. But as the shock eases away like mist in the morning, something else creeps in. Something…heavy. Your body feels like it just tipped off the biggest dip on a rollercoaster but there’s no tracks in sight. Esme’s excitement makes yours feel like peanuts. This is what you wanted, right? This is what you’ve worked for. So…why did it feel so wrong? 

“Oh my God, you should call JJ!” At the sound of his name, you snap back to reality. Head darting over to her, you shake it vehemently. 

“No!” You snap. She freezes, quirking a brow. Clearing your throat, you muster a smile. “I mean, uh…Not yet. I need a minute to process.”

“Right, duh,” Esme laughs, pace-falming her forehead. Her arms throw themselves around you in a bear hug. You’re slow to react. “I’m so stinking proud of you, girl!”

“Thanks, Esme,” you say into her shoulder. The smile on your lips quivers and you press your eyes shut. Steeling yourself, you pull away and clear your throat. “I’m gonna put this upstairs.”

“Okay, girl! Ah, Yale University,” Esme mumbles happily to herself as you leave the kitchen. In your bedroom, you finally feel safe enough to let your expression fall. What the hell was wrong with you? Thousands of people would kill to be in your position right now and you’re acting as if you were just served a court order. Your eyes drift over to the collection of framed photos on your far wall. One of you and Leo, cheek to cheek, smiling into the camera. One of you and your parents at Thanksgiving dinner, battling over a game of Uno. One of you and Esme arm-in-arm at a Mathletes final. And finally, one of you and JJ. The one JJ gifted you for Christmas. The handwritten note that you know is etched onto the back of the photograph tugs at your chest like a cat’s claw stuck in a wire cord. You find yourself burying the acceptance letter in a drawer of your desk, hidden beneath an old textbook. 

Later, when you and Esme head out to meet with the Pogues, she’s still vibrating with excitement. You’d told her several times to keep it a secret. She’d nodded but with how buzzed she is, you’re not sure she’ll be able to. JJ spots you both approaching their designated spot on the beach and throws a hang up to wave. “Hey!”

“Evening,” Esme smiles. You’re not sure when exactly it happened, but Esme had finally put to bed her vendetta against JJ Maybank. You imagined the relief you felt was similar to that of soldiers being informed that the war had been called off. She accepts a can of coke from him as she sits beside Kiara. 

“What took you guys so long?” Kiara asks. 

“Oh, nothing,” Esme says, her tone implying the exact opposite. You shoot her a glare and she rolls her eyes. The Pogues look between you both. 

“Nothing?” Pope wonders. You shrug and take your designated spot beside JJ. 

“Nothing,” you confirm. JJ’s eyes are searching your face as if searching for the truth. You’ve never been good at lying, especially not to him. Swallowing your anxiety, you give him your best everything is fine smile. You can tell he isn’t sold. 

“Well, anyway,” Pope says, moving on, “JJ apparently got some pretty golden news today that he wants to share with the group.”

“Must be the day of news,” Esme murmurs, loud enough for everyone to hear. She eyes you knowingly from across the circle and you grit your teeth and fight the urge to rugby tackle her. So much for keeping it secret. Thankfully, the Pogues don’t dwell. 

“What was your news, JJ?” you ask, glancing up at him. He’s still looking between you and Esme, a furrow to his brows, and your stomach flip flops nervously. Stroking the back of his hand, JJ snaps back. 

“Huh? What?”

“Pope said you got some good news?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Rolling his shoulders back, JJ clears his throat as he announces to the group, “guess who got an internship with ‘Little Rock Motors’?”

Your mouth falls open. “What!?”

“No way, dude!” Pope cheers. John B rises to tackle JJ in a bro hug. Your boyfriend laughs, giddy, somewhat abashed by the praise. Kiara hollers and Esme even lets out a whoop of congratulations. When the comradery of his friends dies down, JJ looks over to you. Your hands plant on either side of his face and you kiss him hard on the lips. 

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” you smile against him. “So freaking proud.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmurs, only for you to hear. Another kiss has the Pogues tossing a small pebble at your legs. 

“A’right, enough of the PDA,” John B jokingly groans. You flip him off and continue to kiss your boyfriend, earning a proud laugh from Kie. Eventually, you turn back to the group. John B raises his brow and you already know what’s coming next. “We gotta celebrate, right?”

Cracking a grin, you join the Pogues hollers of enthusiastic agreement. Stealing a glance at JJ, your heart sings at the pride on his face. He did it. You wish you could bottle this moment up like sand in a jar: a keepsake for when the voices in his head beat him black and blue. He fucking did it. 

-

JJ’s backpack sits downstairs by the front door. On your desk is a scattering of his stuff: his vape and lighter (more of a fidget toy than anything else); phone; keys to his truck. There’s a neat pile of study tools for the evening stacked on the desktop’s right. Printouts that you’ve selected sit beneath a pack of flashcards, each question and answer neatly handwritten by you. You pick them up and flick through them, and JJ watches from the bed. 

“So…Chemistry revision today, and then Physics tomorrow?”

“Joy oh joy,” JJ sarcastically mutters. You shoot him a glare, mostly playful. 

“You’re the one that wanted to take final exams. You made your bed, blue eyes - time to lay in it.”

“Only if you get in with me,” he grins. Rolling your eyes, you lean against your desk. He’s fidgety today. His hands meddle with anything he can get his hands on: the small collection of stuffies on your bed; the pen atop of your dresser… “Y’know the best way to focus? It’s to unfocus for a minute. Give that big ol’ brain of yours a break, huh?”

“Nice try,” you quip. Just as you’re about to read the first card, your mom’s voice calling your name travels up the stairs. Groaning, you call back, “what?”

“Where’d you put my blue scrubs?” 

“They’re in the dryer!” 

“No, they’re not!”

“God dang it,” you mutter. Ditching the cards on the desk and heading for your bedroom door, you tell JJ, “I’ll be right back.” Hurrying down the stairs, you find your mom in the utility room. She’s digging through the laundry you did yesterday. You duck down and help her search. Eventually, you find them tucked inside of a duvet cover: the dryer must have thrown them all together into a tangled mess. 

“Thank you, honey,” she smiles, kissing your cheek. “I’ll change at work. Need’t head out. Leo’s at his friend’s house until eight, okay?”

“Got it, mom,” you say, already starting back towards the stairs. “Have a good shift.”

“Thanks!” she calls. The front door opens and closes as you climb the staircase. Brushing your hair off your face, you step back into your bedroom. You’re distracted. Don’t even realise he’s no longer sitting on your bed. Your back is turned to him as you close the door, apology ready on your lips, but JJ speaks before you can. 

“What’s this?”

Startled, you turn around and look over to him. He’s standing next to your desk. A strange expression is on his face: lips a straight line. When you see the familiar navy blue booklet pinched between his forefinger and thumb, held up in the air like some ransom note, your heart freezes. No. Mouth dry, you can’t seem to find words. JJ flicks it open and your stomach feels like mulch as his eyes scan over the content. You can picture what he’s seeing: the block white letters spelling out ‘YES!’ in white, above the emblem of Yale University.

“JJ,” you start, voice barely louder than a breath. 

“What is this?” he repeats, meeting your gaze. 

“I was going to tell you.” You know how it sounds, hearing it aloud in a feeble murmur, but it’s true. JJ raises a brow. 

“Really? When?” He’s upset but it’s guarded under anger. Not rage - just that quiet, simmering anger you recognise from when your tutoring sessions first began. But his question falls on deaf ears as your eyes zone in on the letter. You remember where you put it: stashed it in the second drawer down your desk, under an old textbook. You know you did. So, how did he find it?

Frowning, you ask, “wait - did you go through my things?”

“What?”

“My stuff. Did you go through it?” you ask again, firmer. 

JJ scoffs. “What’s that matter?”

“Answer the question, JJ,” you say. 

He scoffs again, louder. The room feels two degrees warmer as the tension rises in both of you. His eyes are shifty before he says, “It was on your desk.” 

Liar. You shake your head. “No, it wasn’t. I know I didn’t leave it on the desk.”

JJ frowns at you, brows narrowed. “Why? To make sure I wouldn’t find it, right?”

“I was going to tell you,” you repeat, annoyed. You understood that he was upset, but never before had JJ gone through your possessions so unapologetically. It felt like he’d ripped something out of your hands. “I only got the letter last week.”

“Last week?” he echoes, aghast. Laughing humourlessly, he tosses the letter onto the bed to brush his hands through his hair. “Oh, great, so just seven whole days then. I’ve only seen you for all of them.”

“I was waiting for the right time to bring it up and talk about it,” you begin, voice raising. JJ’s not looking at you. His hands land on his waist and he paces your bedroom, head downturned to the floor, shaking slowly. “JJ, I swear it.”

“Talk about what? There’s nothin’ to talk about, right?” he snaps. His eyes are cold when they meet yours. “You’re going to Yale, right?”

“I…I don’t know…” you stammer, shoulders raising in a half formed shrug. 

His brows arch. Incrediously, he parrots, “you don’t know?”

“I–”

“--You got into Yale University and you don’t know if you’re gonna go?” JJ punctuates every word, as if saying it in such a way would help you see how unbelievable what you were saying was. But it was true. And so you stare at him, mouth moving, no words coming. JJ scoffs again. Shaking his head, he pushes his hands through his hair roughly. He’s becoming antsy. Purses his lips, licks his teeth, pushes his tongue against the inside of his mouth. The tension in the room crackles between you. This wasn’t how you wanted this to go. You were going to think about it, and find the perfect moment to talk to him about it. But this wasn’t a conversation: this was JJ, spiralling. The sting of betrayal lingers like poison on your tongue as your eyes glance back down to the letter, slung carelessly onto your duvet. 

“Why’d you go through my things?”

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy, here?” 

“No, I just–”

“--I’m the one in the wrong, ‘cause I went through your stuff?” JJ interrupts, hands pressing onto his chest. Your glare is sharp as you head darts back up at him. 

“So you admit, then,” you snap. JJ looks at you like you’ve just spoken backwards. “This was my news to tell, JJ. I wanted to talk about this in a mature way, in a way that I wanted to.”

“There’s nothing to fuckin’ talk about, Y/N!” He yells, throwing his hands up. Your jaw grits. “You’re going to Yale!”

“Don’t fuckin’ yell at me!” you shout back. 

“Jesus Christ,” JJ cusses. His palms rub over his face. Your stomach feels as though it’s inside out; your heart bracing for impact as if falling from a twelve story building. Tears try to well in your eyes but you will them away, biting hard on your tongue. “You’re so fuckin’ selfish sometimes, y’know that?”

“I’m selfish?” you gape. Withdrawing his hands enough to meet your gaze, you scoff. “I’m the selfish one? You’ve just fucking cornered me about a conversation that I didn’t want to have yet.”

Whether willingly or not, JJ ignores you. He pulls his hands completely from his face and glares down at you. The sneer on his lips is revolting. He’s never looked at you like that. It makes you feel small, and cruel, and disgusting. His tone is icy as he asks in a measured tone, “s’this was all those mind games were ‘bout this year?” When you don’t answer, he continues, “all the fuckin’ talks about the future, and being scared, and worrying ‘bout senior year. It weren’t about that, was it?”

There’s a condescension tied to his words. Your heart scrambles for something, anything, to slow down the plummet to the bottom. Tears finally form but they don’t fall. Not yet. JJ takes a step forward and you force yourself to stay in place. Hold his eyes with yours. You hate this. Hate how he’s looking at you. This isn’t your JJ. This isn’t the JJ from the start of the tutoring sessions. This isn’t even the JJ who ridiculed you in class. This is a stranger. A monster, masquerading as your boyfriend. 

“You were just try’na find the right time to call it off, huh?”

“That’s not true,” you whisper. He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter what you say. Nothing will be louder than the voices in his head. 

“S’fine,” he mumbles. He sniffs abruptly. JJ’s eyes flit over your face, regarding you like a Wall Street worker might view a bum on the street. Shrugging, JJ is callous as he says, “s’fine. S’not like we would’ve lasted much longer anyway.”

Your brows furrow slightly. There’s no weight to your words as you breathe out, “what?”

“We never made much sense, did we? S’not like we had a long shelf life. I mean, things have felt off with us for a while, right? Guess it was just a matter of time.”

Your eyes search his. The building is falling down. Walls, crumbling. Floor, parting. And you don’t want to believe him. You can’t. This is JJ. The boy who fixed your brother’s toy truck and picked him up from school and took him trick or treating. The boy who met your father and spent Christmas dinner playing board games around your family’s dining table and handmade you a photo frame. The boy who had opened your world up to something bigger than just grade papers and chores, and in turn let you glimpse into his world, too. The boy you fell in love with, and who loved you back. But it’s so easy to let yourself feed that demon of insecurity that sits within you. His words bite like bullets; sting like a thousand paper cuts. There's a special pain that comes when someone you love says something cruel.

“Do you mean that?” you ask, sounding every bit defeated as you feel. 

JJ sniffs again. His eyes dance around your room, down to your hands, off to the side. He chews his teeth and there’s a flicker of something before his guard goes up. He doesn't answer. Doesn't deny it. Doesn't apologise. No answer is answer enough. 

“Okay,” you whisper, giving a small nod. The tears finally begin to fall. Your eyes fall down to the floor and you watch a droplet of water land on the rubber of his combat boots. “Well, if that’s how you feel, then maybe you should just leave.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Maybe I should.”

“Fine.”

"Fine."

When he steps away from you, your world collapses, and your heart finally hits the concrete. You have to shut your eyes for the pain. Clench your fingers into fists to save yourself from reaching for him. Bite into the inside of your lip to keep back the pleas and sobs, begging for him to stay and just listen. JJ grabs his stuff from the desk: you hear the rattling of items and rustle of clothes as he shoves them into his pocket. You feel him walk past you, his shoulder brushing yours, and your face begins to crumble. The bedroom door swings open and–

“JJ,” you gasp it out like it’s your last breath on earth. You hear him pause in the doorway. Finding whatever remains of your courage, you bravely turn your head to face him. He’s looking at you, winded. Your tears fall freely. You don’t know what you were going to say. Call me? Talk to me when you’re ready to? Stay? 

JJ holds your gaze until he doesn’t. He looks down and away from you, as if in resignation, and then you watch him walk out of your room, and maybe out of your life. The door slams shut behind him and you finally let your legs give way. And then, you fall apart.  

Summer

The duvet bunches around your middle as you sit crossed legged in the centre of your bed. The late hour of night has your eyes burning. Double it with the incessant staring at your laptop in the low light of a bedside lamp, and it’s borderline painful. Sighing, you rub tiredly at your face and shake your head as if to clear your mind. The flashcard should make sense, but the words are disjointed and you can’t make meaning from the question. For what must be the thousandth time tonight, your eyes drift to your phone. The screen is dark. Quiet. JJ hasn’t texted you once. Not one call, not even drunk. Nothing. You didn’t think the silence could be so loud. It stretched like bending bones, to the point where you’d hallucinate a vibration or notification. But he was silent, as were you. Not a word had been spoken since two weeks ago. He’d stormed out of the argument, out of the room, and possibly out of your life. 

You weren’t sure if you were grateful for the space. Perhaps having JJ spam you with dozens of texts and calls would be equally as painful. It’s not as if you’d answer them anyway. Still, though. It would provide some semblance of peace to know that he feels just as unmoored as you do. You’d reverted back to old habits. With the final exams tomorrow, you’d busied your mind the past two weeks with equations and pop quizzes and flashcards. Anytime you started to wonder about JJ, you’d force yourself to redirect. If you didn’t, then you’d dig yourself a grave with your thoughts: where is he? What’s he doing? Does he miss me? Is he thinking about me? Has he already started moving on? Did he mean what he said? It became nauseating. 

Another aggressive rub to your eyes snaps you back to the task at hand. “Come on,” you murmur under breath, narrowing your gaze on the question inked onto a blue piece of card. Sleep called to you but dreaming was a dangerous thing. JJ would find his way to you in the quiet of the night, one way or another. The exam took priority. This was your future, after all. 

In the hallway, you hear a floorboard creak. There’s little reason to pay it mind. Your mom had finished a thirteen-hour shift two hours ago. Her sleep was often disturbed. However, when the sound of shuffling feet pauses outside your door, you sit upright and glance over. Whoever is loitering reaches for the handle, and it slowly pushes open. Leo emerges from the darkness, clad in his dinosaur pyjamas. 

“Leo?” you murmur, throat dry from want of use. “What’re you doing up? It’s late.”

He edges into the room, slowly releasing his grip on the door handle. He won’t meet your gaze: it’s not abnormal for him, and yet something in your gut twists. He looks off. 

“Leo, hun? Did you have a bad dream?” you coax gently. Leo squints and shakes his head, but immediately seems to be dizzy from doing so. The twist in your gut knots itself. You slowly push the comforter off your lap. “Leo?”

“Sissy,” he mumbles. It sounds like he’s slurring his speech. Your eyes dart over his face. “Sissy, I don’t feel right.”

“What do you–” before you can finish your question, a small trickle of blood drips from Leo’s nose. Your eyes widen; stomach a boulder, dropping through the ceiling. He lifts a quivering hand to his face to wipe it away, seemingly confused by the red, and then he drops, abruptly and suddenly, onto the floor. “Leo!”

You’re out of bed like a shot, dropping to your knees by his side. He begins to convulse. Horrible, rigid movements: unnatural and unnerving. He spasms and shakes, drool gathering by his mouth, and the nose bleed only worsens. A seizure. Your hands protect near his head but you don’t hold him. It’s been years since one happened, but you quickly learnt what to do for a seizure when you were a little girl: it’s muscle memory. Tears rush to your eyes and you hardly recognise your own voice as it cries out. “Mom!”

—

There’s a strange silence in a classroom when nobody is talking. Thirty heads are tilted down in concentration. Anxious tapping of feet and pencils scratching against paper fill the quiet. Someone coughs, another sniffs. JJ sighs and does his best not to do another scan of the classroom. He doesn’t want to be accused of cheating. But something’s wrong. You’re not here. You’re not here, in school, on what is probably the most important day in the entire academic year. And that is fundamentally, physically, philosophically wrong. 

“Ten minutes remaining,” the teacher announces in a bored drawl from her desk. 

JJ sighs again, louder (earning a displeased glance from the girl on the table to his right). He rakes his fingers through his hair, gnaws on his lower lip, and shakes his head. If you’d have told JJ a year ago that he’d be sitting in a classroom taking his exams, he’d laugh in their face. It was a miracle JJ was even in school today, let alone actually attempting to complete the test with a passable mark. And yet, despite everything that was happening between you and JJ currently, he can see the smile on your face when he’d get a question right in one of your tutor sessions. He can hear your teasing as you guide him to the correct answer. In the test questions on the paper before him, there’s you, hidden between each letter, haunting each line. He feels your quiet support and praise wash over him, coaxing him to at least try. That was the plan, at least. To try to complete the exam. But when JJ walked into the classroom this morning, he immediately took notice that you weren’t there. It was an easy thing to notice. Your lack of presence was as obvious to JJ as being hit over the head with a jackhammer. It only worsened his already questionable concentration. 

He’s happy to be up and out of his seat the moment the teacher announces time has finished, though not for any reason others might assume. Whilst other students linger in their seats, weighing their chances of passing, JJ is striding to the desk, depositing his paper, and walking out the door. The corridors are slowly filtering in with other seniors finishing their respective exams. JJ scans the crowds for your face, on the off chance that you’d switched classes the day before the exam, but it’s a sea of blanks. That is until he recognises Esme. She’s talking to someone who JJ recognises from the Mathletes line-up (he’d started following the account when the two of you began dating). Shouldering through people, mumbling his apologies, he catches Esme’s eye. He hasn’t seen her since the argument between you and JJ. Whilst he’s certain Esme knows every minor detail about what was said, there’s something more pressing at hand than her all-to-familiar disdain for JJ Maybank. 

“No, JJ,” is the first thing out of her mouth when JJ stops in front of her. Her arms are folded over her chest; her face a sturdy shield. “Not happening. Turn your keester and walk the other way.”

“This is important, a’right?”

“Important? What, did your dealer go out of business? Just because I’m part Mexican doesn’t mean I deal drugs,” Esme bites back. JJ rolls his eyes. He was right: back to enemy-number-one Esme. 

“Look, I don’t care if you would rather see me dead right now, Esme - I know y’all got girl-code and all that, and I ain’t tryna break it,” JJ says, patience dwindling. Gesturing to the classroom, JJ continues, “but Y/N just missed one of the final exams, and both of us know that is as out of character for her as me going willingly to Church. And I know you know what’s up.”

There’s a crack in Esme’s resolve. She sighs and rolls her eyes, but she can’t seem to hold JJ’s gaze. Lowering his voice, JJ tries to calm his nerves as he gently asks, “I just…I just wanna know if she’s okay.”

Esme’s eyes press shut and her expression tells of some internal debate. With a heavy sigh and shake of her head, JJ waits to see which side won. “Lord, forgive me,” she mumbles. JJ frowns as Esme opens her eyes. There’s a disquietment in her gaze that makes JJ feel uneasy. “She’s at the hospital.”

“The hospital?” JJ echoes loudly. She gives a stiff nod. JJ lets out a startled breath as if someone punched him in the stomach. He pushes a hand through his hair. “What–Is she a’right? What the hell is she doing at the hospital?” 

“It’s not her. It’s Leo,” Esme clarifies after a beat. Another gutpunch. JJ’s heart doubles in pace and he feels sick to his stomach. Esme must notice and take pity because she adds, “Leo was taken to the emergency room last night.”

No, JJ thinks. His chest gapes open. Not Leo. Not little Leo. 

“She called the school this morning at, like, six a.m. and asked to take the test later. With her track record and circumstances, school was happy to accommodate. So you can save the white knighting - she’s sorted it out herself - and–” 

JJ turns and heads for the door of the school. 

“-hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Esme hollers after him. 

JJ dodges students and peers. He doesn’t bother answering her as he pushes out the main entrance and clambers into his truck. As JJ speeds to the hospital, his mind is a maelstrom. Why didn’t you call him? He knows that things haven’t exactly been ideal between the two of you recently, but surely you know that Leo is important to JJ too. Then again, maybe it just hadn’t crossed your mind? The words ‘emergency room’ rattle around JJ’s loud head. His thoughts spiral as to what happened. Did he trip and fall? Or was it worse. Was it something life threatening? JJ curses under his breath and presses down on the gas. 

The hospital stinks of disinfectant as JJ walks in. The sterile look of metal chairs with plastic cushions in the waiting room does little to bring comfort. It’s busy, as usual. Someone sits reading a paper, likely waiting for news, whilst others sit alone or in pairs, waiting for medical attention. The receptionist glances up at JJ as he approaches. 

“I’m here to see Leo L/N,” JJ tells her. Her eyes peruse his appearance. 

“It’s family visiting only,” she says dismissively. 

“I am family,” JJ lies easily. She quirks a brow, unconvinced. 

“Really? Then how come his mom and sister have been coming in and out all day, and I haven’t heard a peep about you?” 

JJ fights the urge to grit his teeth. His mind flicks through potential stories. Spinning yarns came as natural to JJ as a spider weaving webs. Leaning his arm down on the reception desk, he falls into character. His eyes shift out of her gaze as he clears his throat. “Well, frankly, ma’am, it’s a bit of a sore subject.” He blinks up at the bright ceiling lights several times, willing tears to gather in his water line. Pressing his fist to his closed lips, he winces and mumbles, “sorry, sorry. It’s just…uh…” 

JJ opens his eyes and glances at the receptionist. She’s intrigued. Perfect. 

“My dad, uh, cheated on Leo’s mom. He’s my half brother, you see, but I don’t get to see him all that much ‘cause of it. My dad’s a jackass but little Leo…he’s the best thing that ever happened to me, y’know? And when I got the call that he was in hospital from our cousin–” JJ cuts himself off with a dry cough. He apologies again, holding his hand up as if to ask for a moment. Sniffing, he murmurs, “sorry, it’s just…All a little overwhelming.”

“No, no, of course,” the receptionist coos. JJ meets her sympathetic gaze, holding his rehearsed wince on his face. She places a hand to her chest as she murmurs, “poor thing.” Idiot, JJ internally grins. Outwardly, he merely nods. She types quickly into the computer before telling JJ, “he’s in the pediatric ward - down the corridor, take two lefts - in room five.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” JJ smiles, eyes wet. “Y’all have a blessed day.”

His combat boots land heavy on the rubber floors as JJ walks down the corridor. He takes a left, and then another. The walls transform from duck-egg blue to white and green. Small woodland creatures are painted near the floor. Posters of cartoon characters with bandages on their heads or their paws in a pot watch as JJ counts the rooms. One, two, three, four…He slows outside of room five. The door’s open by a crack. It seems dark inside, as if someone’s drawn the blinds to keep out the daylight, and there’s a warm glow of a lamp rather than horrific hospital white fluorescents. JJ checks the corridor around him: it’s empty. Taking a small breath as if to prepare for what he might be met with, JJ gently pushes the door open. 

There lies Leo in a hospital bed. The white sheets are pulled up and snug under his armpits. He’s in his dinosaur pyjamas, his Stegosrus plushie tucked in bedside him. There’s a handful of toys on his bedside table alongside a plastic cup of water. There’s some wires attached to him too, beeping steady on a monitor beside him. No IV drip. The room is empty save for him. At the sound of the intrusion, Leo’s eyes blink open and he glances towards the door. 

“JJ?” he mumbles. 

“Hey little dude,” JJ smiles, voice soft and gentle. Leo’s lips tug in his small familiar smile. 

“Is sissy here?”

“S’just me, little guy,” JJ replies, making his way over and into the seat pulled up by bedside. Leo rolls his head to look at him. JJ’s heart tugs at the sight of him, so small and frail in his bed. The worry about what happened gnaws at him but he swallows it down and forces a reassuring smile. JJ thinks about how you always hold yourself so strong around him. He wonders how many hours straight you’ve been doing today. “Heard you weren’t feeling well so had to come and check on my surfer apprentice, y’know?”

“F’me?” Leo murmurs. 

“Yeah, bro,” JJ grins. He brushes a hand over Leo’s hair. “For you. How’re you feeling, champ?”

“S’okay,” Leo sniffs. His eyes are unfocused as he glances away from JJ, down to the bracelets decorating his wrist. “Mommy says they might need to do things to me again, if the medicine don’t work.”

JJ swallows the lump of bile in his throat. “You, uh, eat anything yet, little man?”

“Mhm,” Leo nods. His fingers reach out to play with one of the yarn bands on JJ’s wrist. “Sissy says I’m allowed milkshakes.”

“Milkshakes!” JJ grins. “That’s a pretty sweet deal, huh? What about jello, you had any of that?”

“Tons,” Leo nods again. JJ chuckles. 

“I bet you did, man. I bet you did.” 

There’s footsteps down the corridor and the sound of voices. They echo off the long stretching walls. JJ glances to the door and as the voices approach, he can easily make out yours. His smile falters. JJ tries to prepare himself to see you but you’ve always had a way of catching him off guard, even when announced. 

“We can always head back later and–” the words die on your tongue as you push open the hospital room door. Your eyes land on JJ and he feels as if someone’s sucked all the air out of the room. He isn’t sure whether he smiles or not: everything feels numb, for a while. You’re stunned. Lips moving, no words forming, as you take in the sight of him sitting beside Leo. He can’t place the emotion on your face. So many come and go that they blur into one. 

“You’re not one of my children,” your mom says, leaning against the doorframe. She has a bag slung over her shoulder which seems to be stuffed with clothes and soft toys. In the other hand is a book. 

“Mama! Sissy! JJ came to see me!” Leo announces to the room. You can’t help but smile. 

“I can see that, hun,” you reply, eyes glancing over JJ before returning to your brother. You make your way over to him, standing on the opposite side to JJ, and press the back of your head gently to Leo’s head. “How you feeling?”

“S’better,” Leo says. He yawns and attempts to talk through it, “I missed JJ.”

JJ’s eyes naturally dart to yours. Leo’s words seem to have stunned you. Swallowing thickly, you quietly confess, “I know, buddy. I missed him too.”

The words sooth JJ’s aching heart like an ointment. He feels the edges of his lips try to smile, but everything is so confusing, and messy, and it’s easier to simply hold your gaze. That is until your mom clears her throat. The three of you look over to her. 

“It’s very nice of you to come, JJ,” she tells him warmly. 

“Course,” JJ smiles. He nods towards Leo as he adds, “had to check on my mini-me-in-the-making.”

“Leo, honey, did you want another milkshake?”

“Yes!” is Leo’s hearty reply to his mother, making her laugh. 

“How’s about you two-” your mom says to you and JJ - “go to the cafeteria and grab us some. Lord knows I could do with a strong coffee, too.”

You visibly hesitate, hand reaching for Leo’s. “Maybe I should stay. Keep an eye on him.”

“I can do that,” your mom replies knowingly, waving a hand. She walks over and sinks into the chair by your side. “Brought my book and everything. Y’all go get the drinks.”

“But–”

“Go.” It’s final, the way she says it, and you know better than to argue. JJ waits until you start for the door (not after letting out a long, trying sigh) before slowly rising from his seat. Rubbing his hands down the front of his trousers, JJ gives a tight-lipped smile to your mom before following you out the door. You don’t pause in the corridor. There’s an urgency to your steps that JJ recognises from that day that everything changed between the two of you: when you were his tutor, and him your trying student. It’s something you do when you’re trying to hold it together. Like if you can function quick enough, you can escape how you’re feeling. 

“The cafeteria’s down the hall, to the right,” you say as you walk. JJ lingers behind by a few steps, hands in his short pockets, watching you. “I don’t mind getting the milkshakes and you can get mom’s coffee.”

He says your name and the shape of it sits like ecstasy on his tongue. You falter for a step but continue. 

“And then, after Leo’s fallen asleep again, you can go.”

This time, when JJ repeats your name, you stop. Freeze, really, in the centre of the corridor. A nurse scoots past, clipboard in hand, but JJ is only watching you. Your cardigan clad shoulders are tense: the Uggs on your feet warm and cosy. JJ slowly steps forward and reaches out for your hand, every move calculated, like approaching a rescued cat - careful not to spook. You allow JJ to slip his fingers into your hold. 

“What’re you doing here, JJ?” you whisper, still not facing him. 

“Esme told me Leo was in hospital,” JJ replies. “I had to come see.”

“He’s fine,” you say, tone clipped. You glance up at him over your shoulder, trying to force a mask to your face - one that tells him to screw off - but you can’t hold his gaze. “Doctors said he’ll be fine.”

“A’right,” JJ says. 

“Alright,” you repeat, firm. Fake. Shrugging, you look down at the floor. “So, you can go, then.”

“What ‘bout you?”

Scoffing, you look at him once more. “What about me?”

“Are you a'right?” JJ asks. His eyes are unrelenting as they stare down at you. Your glasses are perched on your nose but they do little to hide your tiredness. There’s an unkemptness about you: it’s as if you’ve fallen out of bed and not had a moment to think. Hair is pulled up from your face in a nondescript style; clothes mismatched as if you pulled on whatever’s nearest. Perhaps you can see the way he reads you, as you look down to the ground. 

“We’re not talking right now,” you say no louder than a breath.

JJ chuckles humourlessly. His hand tugs at yours, trying and failing to make you turn and face him. “So what? Don’t mean I stopped caring ‘bout you.”

“JJ–”

“--Look,” he sighs, reaching for your other hand. There’s more of a battle this time, but eventually you yield, and finally you stand facing him. His hands envelope yours, thumbs rubbing soothingly over the skin of your hands, ink stained from studying. Slowly, your eyes flit up to his. “You can be mad at me tomorrow, or next week, or next fucking month. Just let me be here right now, yeah? Please.”

Your lower lip quivers. The internal battle is short and sweet as you surrender. It’s as if you’ve finally let yourself lower one of the walls in your mind. JJ sees the moment you begin to crack and quickly pulls you into him. You fall apart as he holds you together: safe and secure in his arms. His t-shirt dampens with your tears and you fist the fabric in your hands as you cry against him. JJ nestles his nose into your hair and closes his eyes; he feels you shiver and shake, and slowly melt into him. “S’okay. It’ll be okay.”

“I was so scared,” you sob into his chest. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. His fingers brush over the hair at the nape of your neck. His other hand stays wrapped around your body, holding you tight. JJ keeps his eyes shut, scared of crying too. Like a sponge, he absorbs your hurt. JJ doesn’t care if you’d rather have him dead - he’d never be able to turn his back on you or your family. Second to the Pogues, they’re the only people who’ve made him feel like he belongs. Like he matters. 

“He just collapsed, Jay, and I just…I thought…” You can’t find the words through your tears and JJ shushes you consolingly, murmuring s’okay, I’m here. He doesn’t care if people might be looking, or if the two of you are standing in the way. All that matters right now is you. Eventually, your cries start to lessen, and you sniffle as you untether yourself from his hold. Using the sleeves of your cardigan, you rub your face dry and wipe ungainly at your nose. JJ brushes some hair from your face and corrects your glasses. You smile up at him and him down at you, and JJ isn’t sure he’s gotten many things right in his life, but he knows he got you right. 

“We don’t gotta talk 'bout anything right now, m‘kay? I just wanna be here for you, and your mom, and Leo.”

“Thank you,” you croak. As you sigh, JJ watches as you sink back into action-mode. One final sniff and you try a smile. “Let’s go get those drinks, hm?”

“Right behind you,” JJ says. After retrieving three milkshakes and a coffee, the pair of you return to Leo’s room. He’s half-asleep, fighting to stay awake, and JJ entertains him with stories from when he went surfing. With a half-drunk milkshake, Leo falls asleep. Your mom doesn’t look far behind. JJ watches as you drape a blanket over her and press a kiss to her forehead. The smile on her face tells a thousand words, the loudest being thank you. She then glances back to JJ.  “Why don’t you two get some rest too, hm?”

“I can stay,” you tell your mom. She shakes her head. 

“Go home, have a shower, and get some sleep. I’ll call you if anything happens but he’s stable now, sweetie. Let me take care of my other baby too, hm?”

 You reluctantly agree, nodding. JJ clears his throat, catching you and your mom’s attention. “I can drive you. Y’know, if you want.”

Sighing, you rub tiredly at your eyes. “Fine - thank you. Lemme just use the restroom first.” You slip out of the room and down the corridor, the door swinging halfway shut behind you. Leo’s asleep in the bed now, one arm safely tucked around his plushie. JJ smiles smally at the sight. 

“JJ.” He looks over to your mom. There’s an expression on her face only parents can master. It’s loving and patient, but there’s a solemn undertone. Clasping her hands in her lap, she smiles as she gently says, “y’know I love you. And I’m deeply grateful for how wonderful you’ve been with Leo, and for the side of my daughter that you’ve brought out. I’ve told you before how much I like you for her. And you can always come to me or her dad for anything, I mean that.”

“Yes ma’am. Thank you,” he mumbles, nodding. Something tells him there’s a but. She levels him with a look and JJ swallows his nerves. 

“But you made my baby cry, JJ. Really cry. And that ain’t something a mother gets over easy, you hear?” He nods, stomach turning at her words. The look on your face before he left your room has haunted him every Goddamn day and night. Your mom glances to the doorway and with a small sigh, returns her gaze to JJ. “Make good choices, yeah - whatever happens between the two of you.”

Nodding feels too little so JJ clears his throat and rasps out another, “yes ma’am”, just before the door opens. You stand there and frown, looking between the two of them as if sensing some weird energy. Then, eyes on JJ, you ask, “you good to go?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s, uh…Let’s go.”

You don’t talk the car ride to the house. Instead, you sit slumped against the door in the passenger seat. JJ had missed your company in the car. The rides to and from school, and on trips to pick up Leo. He’d missed your company, period. He doesn’t force a conversation, not with the way your eyes are sagging. When he walks with you up to the house, you leave the door open after you enter as a silent invitation. JJ follows after you, up the stairs. You sigh as you retrieve a pair of pyjamas from your dresser drawers, mumbling something about getting a shower as you trudge into the bathroom. JJ sits on your bed. His eyes flit nervously around the room, unsure whether to stay or go. The argument haunts the four walls. It’s like he can see a phantom of himself towering over you, pretending like his heart wasn’t breaking, saying things just to push you away. On the bed is a mess of books and notes and stationary from your studying. JJ neatly gathers them away, placing them on your desk. He lingers on an acceptance letter and his fingers itch to take a peek, but the argument comes back like a screaming conjuring and he withdraws. The bathroom door cracks open and JJ startles, turning to see you emerge in a small cloud of steam. It smells like you and JJ wants to cry. He missed you. 

“Hey,” you say sleepily, offering a tentative smile. Clad in fresh pjs, you flop onto your bed. With a frown, you ask, “did you clean?”

“Just so you could find the bed,” JJ says. Holding his hands up in joking surrender, he adds, “don’t worry - I didn’t snoop.”

Thankfully, you see the humour. “Good.” Curling up onto the bed, your head sinks into the pillow. JJ glances at the door and prepares to leave. Again. But you speak before he can. “I’m sorry if what I said in Leo’s hospital room made you uncomfortable.”

JJ frowns. You risk a look at him and must sense his confusion, as you clarify, “when I said that I’d missed you too.”

“Oh. That,” JJ says. Twisting one of his rings around his thumb, JJ can’t help but wonder, “did you mean it?”

“Course I meant it,” you snort. His lips quirk. Sinking to sit on the end of the bed, JJ meets your gaze. “I’ve missed you like crazy.”

“I missed you too,” JJ admits. You swallow. 

“You never called. Or texted. Just…nothing,” you whisper the last word. Your eyes press shut, as if the memory of his silence was painful. JJ sighs. Looking away, he studies a small stain on the carpet. 

“Didn’t know if I should. If you’d even want me to. I wasn’t exactly…nice.”

“Not exactly,” you murmur. 

Sighing again, louder, JJ leans his head forward and clasps both hands on the back of his neck. “J’st got scared, I guess. The thought of you going to Yale just tweaked me out and…I can be a real dick, when I’m like that. Say anything just to make it stop.”

“I know,” you hum. JJ braves a look at you and catches your eyes. Smiling sadly, there’s a break in your voice as you whisper, “you should have called though.”

“I’m sorry,” JJ replies. Shaking his head, he repeats, “I’m sorry. Not just for not calling. For…For all of it. For all the bullshit I said and…I’m so freaking proud of you, Y/N. Seriously. I mean, Yale. That’s…That’s incredible, truly. I mean, you gotta feel amazing ‘bout getting in there. S’like one of the most competitive schools in the whole freaking world.”

Your smile is wobbly. It passes like writing on wet sand: gone in a matter of seconds. Picking at a stray string on your duvet cover, you tell him, “I mean, I am proud of myself. It’s just…I didn’t tell you because…Because I didn’t know if I was going to say yes. I thought that when I’d get my letter telling me I got into Yale I’d be excited, and giddy, and…and it would feel right. But when I read it, I just felt this overwhelming, awful sense of dread. Like I was about to take the wrong turn on a never-ending one-way road. Seeing the letter didn’t feel like a reward for everything. It just felt…empty.”

JJ frowns. You shuffle to sit upright in bed. Fixing your glasses, you slowly meet his gaze. “I was waiting to tell you because I don’t have to pretend with you. I don’t have to act like I do with my mom and Leo, and pretend everything’s fine and I can handle it, and I’ll do the right thing because I should and I must. With you, I can just say it how it is. No show, right? And I thought maybe you’d be able to help me work it all through, and figure out where I want to go. Not my mom, or dad, or the school, or the fucking world. Me. And then…Then you said that I was going, so definitively, and then you said…Well, you were there.”

JJ cringes at the memory. The sting of his words linger like one-day old mosquito bites. We never made much sense, did we? Guess it was just a matter of time. His voice is soft as he says, “I didn’t know you felt that way, ‘bout Yale.”

“I want to go to college,” you state definitively. “But I want to go where I want to go. I want to stay in North Carolina. I like it here. And I want to be close enough to come home quickly if Leo is sick, or if he just needs me. And where I can still travel back easily enough to help mom. And so that I’m not fucking hundreds of miles away from you.”

Swallowing, JJ shakes his head with a small smile. “I don’t want you to not do something just for me.”

“Well, it isn’t just for you, big shot,” you tease. “You’re just a part of the equation. Sure, long distance is a thing, but…why torture ourselves with state-to-state, when Duke University has already offered me a scholarship admission, in North Carolina.”

His lips part. Something he rarely lets himself feel sparks to life in his chest. Hope. “Duke?”

“Mhm,” you nod, biting back your smile. “Still about a two hour drive but–”

JJ practically lunges across the bed as he tackles you into a hug. You laugh against his shirt, coiling your arms around his middle. Burying his nose into the nook of your shoulder, JJ’s eyes press shut. He missed you. The feeling of you in his arms. Warm and safe. The smell of your shampoo and body wash, working like nicotine, calming him down whenever he felt lost at sea. The smartass school girl that had JJ hook, line and sinker. “M’so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” you giggle into his chest. Then, strained, you say, “okay, okay - you’re squishing me.”

“Sorry,” JJ chuckles, bashful. He eases off you and combs his fingers through his hair, sitting back on his haunches atop of your duvet. You smile at him and he smiles back. His voice is sincere when he repeats, “sorry.”

“I know you are.” Reaching a hand out, your fingers brush over his cheek. With a pained smile, you quietly confess, “I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you sooner, I just…I got scared too.”

“I get it,” he nods. Catching your fingers in his, he interlocks your hands. Squeezes. His heart clenches: it was still recovering from the torment JJ put it through, and the risk of doing more harm terrifies him. But he can’t lie any longer. “I love you. Like, more than I should. More than I even knew was possible, really. All that shit I said, it weren’t true. I need you. You make life…life.”

Your eyes well with tears. Smiling at him, you say with a giggle, “that’s a hell of a line, blue eyes.” The nickname is like being called home. JJ leans forward, pumping his forehead against yours. It’s an honour to devastate your personal space. An honour he took for granted. He wants to be buried in the colour of your eyes as you look into his. Voice as sweet as honey, as if speaking from God’s mouth, you quietly return, “I love you too, JJ Maybank. So much it scares me.”

When his lips find yours, the kiss is like crawling into bed after years on the road. It’s like warm cocoa after a day in the snow. It’s like family recipes and childhood laughter. It’s you, and it’s him, and it makes sense, for all of its fault lines and mishaps. Somehow, someway, you and JJ Maybank were each other’s missing piece. And what a shame it would be, to tear that puzzle apart. As he pulls away, a tear slips down your cheek. JJ wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. Voice barely louder than a whisper, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” you smile, looking at him like you always do. Like he’s something. “Just happy s’all.”

Water stings his own eyes as JJ takes you in. Beautiful, selfless, intelligent you. Shaking his head as if in disbelief that you’re real, JJ mirrors your smile. “M’happy too, brown nose.”

-

want more? read this spin-off!

It’s him. Barnes. Captain of the university team, the one who broke the program record for points last season and smiles like a dare in every photo the athletic department posts. He’s taller in person, broader, with a gray beanie shoved over hair that looks like he lost a fight with a helmet twenty minutes ago. He’s in a battered hoodie, not team issue, and there’s a faint pink line across his cheekbone where a visor must have kissed him the wrong way. He looks out of place amid the pastel highlighters and anxious undergrads—like a glacier in a candy store—yet he stands there patiently, hands in pockets, waiting for you to say yes or no.

“I am,” you say, and hope your voice doesn’t betray the jolt in your chest. “European history. Professor Martin.”

His mouth tips, almost a smile. “Right professor. Wrong century. Feels like we’re still in the Dark Ages in there.” He glances at the empty chair across from you. “Can I?”

You gesture with your pen. He sits, and the chair complains. Up close, he smells like cold air and detergent and a ghost of eucalyptus; your brain files it under clean and alive. He sets his backpack between his sneakers and produces a notebook and the red-brick textbook that has murdered many a GPA. On the inside cover, written in neat block letters, is BARNES, J. He notices you notice and huffs. “Coach makes us label everything like we’re at summer camp.”

“Do you also have to write your phone number inside your glove so the lost-and-found can call your mom?” you ask, and his eyes slip to yours, amused.

“Nah,” he says. “My mom would tell them to keep me.”

That does it. The corner of your mouth betrays you. “Okay, Barnes. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

He’s later in the syllabus than he should be, earlier in comprehension than he wants to be, and more earnest than you expect. He doesn’t pretend he’s nailed the reading. He doesn’t perform a shrugging, charming incompetence. He listens. He frowns at a passage, traces a line with his finger, asks you to say that last part again. When he takes notes, his handwriting is patient, a careful soldier’s march. You ask him who Montesquieu is, and he doesn’t make it a joke.

“Separation of powers guy,” he says, like he’s tasting it to be sure.

“Good,” you say. “Keep going.”

“Checks and balances. Also… he was French?”

You nod. “Good. What do you think he’s pushing back against?”

He thinks. You wait. The hum of the center is a soft wall around your table. Finally: “Kings being able to do whatever the hell they want.”

“Exactly,” you say, and your chest warms at the spark in his eyes. That look—getting it, seeing it—never gets old. He glances up like he heard the click too, and for a split second the air between you is thin as ice.

You push the textbook closer, break the spell. “Alright,” you say. “Let’s talk about Rousseau.”

By the end of the hour, he looks less like a wolf in a tea party and more like a very large human who might not hate the Enlightenment. He thanks you. Not the dismissive athlete thanks you’ve collected from others—this one lands.

“Do I—” he starts, pauses, rubs the back of his neck. “Do I book with you, or like, the front desk?”

“Me,” you say. “Same time next week?”

He nods, shoulders relaxing. “Yeah. Thanks, uh—” He waits, and you give him your name. He repeats it under his breath like he’s testing the weight of it. You pretend that does not do a thing to your stomach.

After he goes, the girl at the next table leans closer, eyes the size of saucers. “Was that—?”

“Yes,” you say, and then you bury your face in your notes because your cheeks decide to go volcanic, and because you have a shift in twenty minutes and a quiz at eight a.m. and you do not have time to think about the way his eyes found yours every time you asked a question.

He shows up the next week two minutes early, beanieless, hair damp like he’d showered in a hurry. He brings coffee and slides one across the table without looking up as if coffee is just air you share. “I didn’t know how you take it,” he says. “So I got milk and sugar. Options.”

“You bribing me?” you ask.

“Absolutely,” he says, smiling now, and you’re in more trouble than you thought.

You make him argue with you—Devil’s advocate, what would Voltaire do, defend a thesis you don’t believe in—and he rises to it, stubborn in a way that isn’t about ego so much as wanting the shape of an idea to be sturdy in his hands. When his phone buzzes, he flips it face down. When a teammate drops in to heckle him (the jersey gives it away; so do the skating calves), Bucky doesn’t turn. He’s there. With you. In the bubble of a wooden table and a bad fluorescent light, as if the rink and the rankings and the entire student section disappear.

It becomes a rhythm. Tuesdays and Thursdays at 8:10, the table by the window if you can get it. He asks how your shift went; you ask how his practice went. He tells you his line tried a breakout seam Coach swears will win games in March; you tell him which paragraph Professor Martin will try to bleed on with a red pen. Sometimes he looks tired, clean-boned and quiet, like he left his body out on the ice and came straight here on the way back to it. Those days he sits a little hunched, hands wrapped around his coffee like it’s a campfire, and you make him talk through key terms out loud, his voice warming as the words come. Other days he’s loose, cheerful, bright with the kind of energy that makes the tutoring center smile back at him without meaning to. Those days you have to remind him to slow down, to write the quote and the citation not just the gist, to answer the question asked not the one he’d prefer.

“Do you go to games?” he asks one morning in October, somewhere between Locke and your second yawn.

“Sometimes,” you say. “I mean, not like front row or face-painted or… you know.” You gesture vaguely toward the flags lining the tutoring center ceiling. “I work a lot.”

“We have a home game Friday,” he says, like you don’t know the entire campus schedule by osmosis. He peels a corner off his coffee cup and looks as if the table’s surface is suddenly fascinating. “If you, uh, wanted to go, I could leave you a ticket.”

“That your way of saying I should audit your performance in both arenas?” you ask, trying to be light while your pulse does its own skating drill.

His eyes lift, steady. “That my way of saying I’d like you there.”

You say yes because you’ve never been good at pretending the things you want aren’t the things you want. Your roommate squeals and threatens to draw a heart on your cheek in glitter gel pen; you confiscate the pen and put on a navy sweater instead.

The rink is a cathedral. Not the quiet stained-glass kind—the thunder kind, the organ’s-thrum-in-your-bones kind. The student section is a living animal, a breathing thing of scarves and noise. The first inhale of cold air hits your lungs and you think, oh. Oh, this is why people call it a religion.

He sees you during warm-ups, you think. You can’t prove it—it’s a whole team of men in motion—but he’s at the far circle, chin tipped to shake his hair out of his face, and then he pauses, scans the glass, finds you, and grins. It’s quick, private. You are one person in a crowd of thousands and it feels like the lights flicked brighter.

You learn the way he moves by watching him, the geometry of his game. You learn the sound the boards make when he finishes a check, a clean low thunder. You learn how he calls for the puck—doesn’t bark, just calls—and how the crowd’s roar changes shape when the puck hits his stick. You learn how your heart rises when he leans into a shot from the top of the circle like there is no possible outcome but the net giving way.

He scores in the second, a glide-cut-snap that makes the goalie’s water bottle bounce, and the place goes feral. You scream too, and you are not the screaming type, but your voice is suddenly this strange wild thing in your throat and you let it be wild because he’s doing a fist pump by the glass and then he points—just once, quick—toward the row where you are, and you have to physically hold onto the railing because your knees simply forget how to exist.

They win 4–1. You wait by the tunnel because he told you to wait by the tunnel, and then he is there, skate-walk in his socks, hair damp and jawline blooming pale with a shaving cut, and he looks… happy. Not his public grin—this one sits right in the center of him.

“You were there,” he says, like a fact that satisfies an equation.

“I was there,” you say.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, earnest, simple.

“You’re welcome,” you say, and then you are both quiet because the air between you is suddenly not student-tutor or hockey star-fan; it is just two people standing under a fluorescent light in a hallway that smells like rubber mats and cold, looking at each other as if seeing just got invented.

“Do you want,” he says, and gestures back toward the locker room. “I mean, I’m starving, and if you haven’t eaten—”

“Starving,” you blurt, as if you didn’t eat two bites of a concession stand pretzel three hours ago and nothing since. “But isn’t there… press, or…?”

“I did it,” he says, making a face. “They always ask what we did right tonight as if it’s not literally on the scoreboard.” His eyes flicker. “Let me feed you. Please.”

He takes you to a diner where the waitress calls him honey and slides you an extra cup of coffee “for the road.” He orders a burger large enough to require structural supports; you order fries and then steal his pickles. He tells you about his best friend back home who taught him to skate on a pond with terrible ice and how they fell so many times they came home with bruises shaped like states. You tell him about your little sister, about how she thinks your campus is a movie set, about the time you tried to make pancakes in your dorm and set off the fire alarm and two RA’s nearly cried. He laughs, head tipping back, and you realize you want to be within reach of that sound again.

He walks you home in the kind of cold that pulls the color up out of your skin. You’re shivering by your stoop, and he takes off his jacket without a word and settles it around your shoulders like he’s done it for you every winter. It smells like him—winter and laundry and something clean—and your hands are suddenly very aware of their own emptiness.

“Thanks for the ticket,” you say, too soft.

“Thanks for the Rousseau,” he says, just as soft, and then you both look ridiculous because you are smiling at each other over the collar of a jacket like you’re the only two dumb people who ever discovered the existence of crushes.

He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t ask. He only squeezes your shoulder gently through the jacket and says, “See you Tuesday?”

“Tuesday,” you say, and carry his jacket up your stairs like it’s both heavier and lighter than a normal jacket should be.

You try to be professional, and you mostly are. You keep your tutor’s face on, your serious pencil, your document with Roman numerals and quotes. You make him read parts out loud. You ask him what the author’s bias is, what the intended audience is, what the limits of this argument might be. He meets you exactly where you ask him to, and he meets you somewhere else too—a just-below-the-surface place where his knee touches yours under the table and stays there, warm and steady, until you reach for your coffee and your hand brushes his and the tiny spark travels all the way up your arm.

He texts you things like: is this what Smith means by division of labor? and we doing library or tutoring center tomorrow? But also: the rink looks like a lake tonight and coach made us skate lines until my soul left my body and I found it under the bleachers. You send him a photo of the highlighter rainbow in your notes and tell him your professor called Locke “a decent roommate, philosophically speaking,” and you said “define decent” out loud. He replies with fourteen crying-laugh emojis and a heart you pretend you don’t see.

Midterms hit like a snowplow. Your schedule narrows to four points on a compass—work, class, the tutoring center, your bed—and you live on coffee and the inside jokes he leaves at the end of his messages like breadcrumbs. He shows up on the morning of his exam with a nervous energy you recognize from the game you watched: that buzzing coil that means he will either explode or fly. You talk him through the big ideas one last time. You write three names in your neatest block letters across the top of his notes—Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu—and underline them like sigils. His hand closes over yours as you slide the paper across the table, briefly, a press of warmth and strength. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

He texts you later: think I got it. Not just passed. Got it. If I did, it’s your fault. You tell him you accept full responsibility.

The campus cools into November. The trees go bare; the wind learns how to find your bones. He starts wearing a beanie to sessions and peels it off as he sits, leaving his hair an obedient disaster. You want to touch it. You do not touch it. You imagine touching it and then give yourself a stern lecture about boundaries while he uses the word teleology with a straight face and you black out for a second from pride.

The first almost-kiss happens the night his team gets back from an away series you half-watched on your phone while shelving books during your shift. They split the series; he’s annoyed—not at you, at the math of it—and you’re walking back toward your apartment because it’s late and you said, “You can debrief if you buy me a very late slice.” He bought you two.

Your breath fogs in the air. His gloved hand swings close to yours and misses by millimeters. At your stoop, he stops where he always stops. You turn with the jacket he always drapes around your shoulders (it’s sheer stubbornness; you own several coats; somehow his is warmer). He’s standing one step below you, which puts you nearly eye to eye. The night is very quiet. He looks at your mouth. You look at his. The world tilts toward the obvious.

Then a kid on a skateboard blasts past, a comet of noise and flannel, and the spell breaks like a bubble. You both laugh, ridiculous, relieved and wildly disappointed. He touches the side of your face through the knit of your hat, thumb a warm brand on your cheekbone.

“Night,” he says.

“Night,” you echo, and carry the tension up the stairs, where you press it under a pillow and pretend you can sleep with it humming like a neon sign.

Rumor happens like weather. One day the campus group chat you never admit you read is quiet; the next, it spits out a grainy photo of Bucky at a party you didn’t go to, a girl’s arm looped around his neck. There’s no context, just pixels. The caption is the smirking kind. Your stomach lurches in that stupid way stomachs do when they forget you are a rational adult. You tell yourself you do not care, that you are his tutor, that he is allowed to be photographed with anyone he wants. You tell yourself a lot of things as you walk into the tutoring center and sit at your table and stack your books and wait.

He’s late. He’s never late.

Ten minutes stretch. Then fifteen. Then he bursts through the door, hair damp, cheeks wind-flushed, breathing like he jogged here. He stops when he sees your face, steps softening.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Coach kept me. I should’ve texted.”

“It’s okay,” you say, which is almost true.

He sits, slower than usual. You open your notes; he opens his. Your voice does a crisp professional thing and you hold onto it like a leash.

Halfway through Locke, he says, very quietly, “There was a photo.”

You keep your eyes on the page. “So I heard.”

“It looks like something that it wasn’t.”

“A photo usually does.”

“She asked for a picture.” His voice roughens, like skate blades on imperfect ice. “I said sure. She put her arm around me. I should’ve stepped back.” He swallows. “I didn’t because it felt rude. And I thought… I thought you’d know better.”

“Know what?” you ask, finally meeting his eyes.

“That if something was real, I wouldn’t let it be a rumor,” he says, like he’s walking out to the center line and dropping his gloves. “That if something was real, I’d want to say it. To you.”

Your heartbeat is in your mouth. “Is it?”

“Yes,” he says, and the word is bone-deep. “But I’m not asking you for more until you say it back. And I won’t push. You’re my tutor. You have rules. I’m not gonna be the guy who messes with the only stable scaffolding you’ve got right now.”

It’s not the sentence you expected. Not the words, not the tenderness. The scaffolding of your life—jobs, classes, notes, a tight grid you maintain so nothing slips—sways visibly around you.

“Okay,” you say, and your throat is thick. “Here’s my rule. We finish this paper. We get you through finals. And then—” You inhale. You step. “—we find out if the thing we’re not talking about is real.”

He lets out a breath you didn’t know he was holding. He nods, slow. His knee finds yours under the table with a steadiness that feels like a vow.

You get him through the paper. He gets himself through the exams. You hand him a marked-up draft on a Monday and he returns on Thursday with a tighter thesis and transitions you want to frame. He sits for three hours in the library on the last day before the final and emerges blinking into the light like a man who survived something. You sit across from him and say, “You did it,” and he looks at you like you’re the scoreboard and the clock hitting zero and the dogpile on the ice.

He leaves his last exam and texts you a single word: done. He adds a second: free?

You’re free in three hours, after a closing shift that leaves your hands smelling like paper and ink. He says, meet me at the rink.

The doors are propped and the inside is warm in the way ice rinks are warm—a paradox, a pocket of effort and sound in an air that wants to freeze. The overhead lights are down; a few corner lamps glow. The ice is a clean slate. He’s on it in sweats and a T-shirt and skates, hair pushed back, a boy in his church after hours. He looks up as you come down the bleachers. You sit alone in the middle row and he skates toward you, slow, easy glides. He doesn’t try to show off. He doesn’t need to. He stops by the boards and leans his forearms on the top, face tilted up toward you.

“How’d it go?” you ask, even though you’ve read the answer in the way he moves.

“I knew it,” he says. “I actually knew it.” He grins helplessly, beautifully. “Because you made me. Because you didn’t let me off easy.”

You don’t remember climbing down. You must, because you’re suddenly at the edge of the boards and his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, gentle, and he says your name like it explains everything he’s done as a person up to this moment. “Remember the rule?” he asks, very quiet.

“That we finish the paper,” you say, “and the exams, and then—”

“And then we find out,” he says, a whisper.

“Find out,” you echo.

You lean across the boards and kiss him first, because you decide you will not be someone who learns carefulness so thoroughly that she forgets to learn courage. His mouth is warm and sure and surprised, as if he thought he’d imagined this part, and his hand comes up to cradle your jaw with the kind of care that makes your chest ache. He kisses you back like you’re a puzzle he solved and a cliff he jumped and the surface of a lake under moonlight. When you break for air, his laugh is quiet and disbelieving. “Okay,” he says, throat tight. “Okay, yeah. Real.”

“Real,” you agree, dizzy.

He skates to the door, steps out clumsily onto the mat in a way that would be ungainly on anyone else but on him is just endearing, and he takes your face in both hands and kisses you again, deeper now, the kiss widening into something that feels like stepping through a doorway you’ve both been standing outside for months. He tastes like winter and sugar and something you don’t have a word for yet. Your fingers curl into his T-shirt and you feel his heartbeat under your palms, strong and fast.

He breaks away to lean his forehead against yours. “Come home with me?” he asks, so gentle. “We can do nothing but breathe on the same couch if you want. I just—” His mouth twists. “I want to be with you now that I can be.”

You go to his apartment, the small off-campus one you’ve seen in flash frames of memory—this couch, that shelf—but never like this. The night is stitched with quiet, the kind of winter dark that makes rooms feel like ships. He drops his skates in the corner and his keys in a bowl and then stops, turns to you, his hands hovering over your hips like he’s waiting for permission to exist in this new grammar.

“Hey,” he says softly, like you spooked. “We go as slow as you want, okay? We can put on a movie and I’ll probably pass out on your shoulder because Coach skated us like dogs today and you can make fun of me in the morning.”

“I like your shoulder,” you say, trying for light, missing and hitting honesty instead. You step into him. “And I want to go slow. But I also want—” You look up at him so he can see you mean it. “—you.”

Something in him loosens, not lust so much as relief braided with want. He touches your cheek, your hairline. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you say, because you are. “I’m over eighteen, you’re over eighteen, and I am sure.”

He kisses you with that yes between you like a steady light. You shed layers slowly, careful hands and laughter when you both get trapped in his hoodie, a rush of air when your skin finds the heat of his. He is broad and strong and unbelievably gentle, like he’s been practicing gentleness his whole life for this. Every time his hand maps a new piece of you, he looks into your face as if he’s reading a book he doesn’t want to finish too fast. You do the same, tracing the lines of muscle earned in a world you’ve watched from the stands, feeling the way he shivers when you kiss the hollow at his throat.

“Wait,” he murmurs, breathless, and disappears for a second to retrieve a foil packet. He sets it on the nightstand like a declaration. He grins down at you, nervous and adoring, and you make a sound you’ve never made before when he slides his palm slowly up the inside of your thigh. “Tell me if anything isn’t good,” he says, so serious. “Tell me what is.”

You do. You tell him with your voice and your hands and the arch of your back when he learns the rhythm of you, the way you come apart sweeter when he murmurs your name against your mouth. He listens like he listens in the tutoring center, attentive and tuned to you, and when he finally presses into you with a low “oh, God,” he pauses, jaw tight, letting you adjust, letting you pull him closer. You curl your ankles around his hips and pull. The world narrows to the place where you meet, to the look on his face when you whisper please like a prayer. He buries his face in your neck when he comes and you breathe him in—ice and eucalyptus and the shape of winter—and afterward, he holds you like he has been trying not to hold you for months.

You fall asleep with his hand curved over your rib cage and wake with your forehead tucked into his throat. Morning finds the edges of the blinds and your bodies find a new way to fit; you kiss lazily, whispering nothing words, and he laughs when your stomach growls so loudly it startles you both. “I can make eggs,” he says.

“You can?” you ask, suspicious. “Like, edible?”

“Hey,” he protests, rolling out of bed and finding sweats, hair a happy disaster. “I am a man of many talents. And one of them is scrambling.”

He is. The eggs are good, and the coffee is better because he makes it the way you take it without asking. You perch on the counter while he moves around his tiny kitchen, and you think: this, this is the thing—simple and quiet and after.

“Grades come out next week,” you say, picking at a crumb with your thumbnail.

“You’re going to pass,” he says, dead certain. “More than pass.”

“You, Captain, are going to pass,” you say.

He smiles a little. “Thanks to my terrifying tutor.”

“Terrifying?”

“You have a face you make when I’m skating around an argument,” he says, stirring his eggs. “It makes me fix it.”

You can’t help your laugh. “Show me.”

He attempts the face. It’s mostly eyebrows. It’s terrible. You wipe tears from your eyes and he stands there with a spatula, mock-affronted, looking like something you could get used to seeing with a spatula forever.

Later you both sit on the floor with your backs against the couch and the plates on the coffee table and talk about everything you didn’t talk about when you were pretending the scaffolding mattered more than the thing the scaffolding held. He tells you about the noise in his head sometimes when he lies down—the schedule, the game tape, the next thing, the next thing—and you tell him about the weight you carry from always being the responsible one, the kid who turned in forms and paid bills on time and left very little room for chaos. He nods when you talk, like the shape of your pressure clicks into a place next to his. He nudges his knee against yours. “We can be each other’s quiet,” he says simply, and the word settles somewhere deep.

They do pass, the grades and the days. His paper comes back with a B+ and a “sustained argument, good use of sources” scrawled in Professor Martin’s unmistakable hand. His exam grade is higher than he hoped, and he stands in your doorway with the printout and the stunned grin of a man who believed he wasn’t built for this kind of win and now has proof he is. You cover his grin with your mouth and he lifts you, laughing, and you forget to worry about your neighbors.

Winter break creeps up, carrying the smell of snow and the ache of travel. He’s got a week home in Brooklyn and then a holiday tournament in Minneapolis; you’ve got extra shifts and a trip home to see your family. You lie on his bed the night before he leaves, both of you on your sides facing each other, a lamp on, the room a pool of amber.

“I don’t want to go a week without this,” he admits, thumb skimming your cheekbone.

“You’ll be fine,” you say, pretending you aren’t already counting how many hours are in seven days. “Text me the weird stat your coach swears by. Send me a photo of the pond you used to skate on. Send me a photo of your terrible handwriting so I can roast you.”

“You love my terrible handwriting,” he says.

“I do,” you say, and the words are out before you can catch them, and you mean them in a thousand ways that are not the three you are not ready to say yet. He hears the thrum in them. His eyes go soft.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promises.

He calls you from his mother’s kitchen with a clatter of dishes in the background and tells you he lost three straight games of Scrabble to a seventy-year-old aunt. You send him a photo of your sister wearing your sweater, a text that reads: thief. He replies with a picture of his pond at dusk, bluish and wide, the kind of photo that makes you understand a person’s center. He adds: wish you were here. You type and erase wish I was too three times and then send it, because carefulness got you through exams but courage kissed him across the boards.

Back on campus in January, the world resets to clean cold. Your schedules turn. You don’t have him as a tutee anymore; he doesn’t need you in that way. You find each other in new ways—late lunches between his lift and your seminar, library corners where you actually read while his ankle bounces under the table and his hand finds your thigh, quiet nights at his apartment where the game plays low and the couch is an excuse to be a single breathing creature.

Sometimes he skates to the glass after practice and taps his stick and you look up from your book and feel the arrow of it. Sometimes you sit in the stands while they run drills and you learn the code of the whistles. Sometimes he shows up at your shift right before closing with a paper bag of soup and says, “Eat. Then I’ll mop,” and he mops while you eat on a stool and argue about whether the Enlightenment or the Industrial Revolution did more damage disguised as progress, and he pretends to be offended when you demolish his point.

There is a night he loses a game on a bad bounce and barely looks at you in the tunnel, jaw set. You give him space because you understand that sometimes what you’re mad at is physics and destiny and your own footwork, not the person you love. (You haven’t said love out loud. Not yet. But the feeling sits in your chest like a sleeping animal you don’t want to wake too soon.) When he turns up at your door two hours later, hair still wet from the shower, shoulders tight, you hand him a glass of water and pull him to the couch. He rests his head in your lap and stares at the ceiling. “It was right there,” he says, and you stroke his hair until his breath slows and the sharp edges of the loss soften into something he can set down.

There is a morning you wake to snow and the kind of light that makes the world hush. He pulls you into his chest and mumbles something about five more minutes, and you stay because you can, because the scaffolding is strong and the thing it holds is stronger.

Later, when the campus is a white map, you lace your boots and he takes your hand like it’s the last step in a complicated play. You walk to the pond on the edge of campus and watch him step onto the ice. He’s in sweats and a hoodie and a hat pulled down over his ears, and he moves like he was built before gravity was invented. He skates backward, tips his chin, beckons. “C’mon.”

“I don’t have skates,” you protest, pointing at your boots.

“So?” he says, gliding to the edge. He steps off and takes both your hands. “We can just… go slow.”

You know he means the ice, but you hear everything else in it and nod. He leads you onto the glassy surface, careful, steady. Your feet wobble and he laughs quietly, delighted and not at you, with you. “I got you,” he says, and he does. Your hands are inside his, warm. Your boots slide, the sound a soft whisper. You move, together, a little and then a little more. You look up and he’s already looking down, and the whole campus could vanish and you would not notice.

“We never made it to the Enlightenment’s influence on modern democracies,” you say, just to make him grin in this light.

“We’ll do it later,” he says. “I’m busy rewriting history.”

You snort. “Bold of you.”

He sobers slightly, a gentle gravity. “Bold of you to help me rewrite mine.”

You swallow, breath visible between you, heart widening against your ribs. You lean in on instinct and kiss him cold-mouthed and happy; his hands tighten around yours without letting you wobble.

On the way back, he tells you his coach wants him to talk to a scout after the tournament, that it’s just a conversation, that he doesn’t know what he’ll want in a year or two, that right now everything he wants is on this campus and wearing a blue hat and telling him about Voltaire.

“Voltaire would think you’re hilarious,” you say.

“Voltaire would chirp me until I cried,” he counters, and his grin undoes the last knot in your chest.

When your birthday sneaks up on a Wednesday and you pretend you don’t care, he shows up at the library with a cupcake in a coffee cup and sings quietly and off-key until the girl two tables over slaps her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. When he leans across the table with the candle glow on his face to kiss you silly, it occurs to you that this is what home feels like—ridiculous, tender, sure.

You get accepted for a departmental scholarship and stand in his hallway with the email open on your phone and cry, ugly grateful tears. He kisses the tears off your cheeks and says, “You did it,” and you say, “We did it,” and he says, “Nope. You.” Later he tells his mother about you on the phone and pretends he didn’t when you tease him and he blushes, which you didn’t know he could do.

When the holiday tournament arrives, you watch the games you can’t travel to on your laptop, perched cross-legged on his bed, wearing the beanie he left in your room when you accidentally stole his jacket one too many times. He calls you from the bus and you talk until his teammate throws a rolled-up towel at his head and tells him to get off the phone with his wife. You don’t correct the boy. You let the word drop into your body and ring there like a note you might someday hit.

Spring edges onto campus. The snow recedes into dirty piles; the bare trees test their first buds. His team clinches a spot in the postseason. Your semester stacks toward its last crescendo. There’s a night where you’re both at his place with your laptops obviously open and your hands obviously under each other’s shirts and you knock your knee on the coffee table trying to reach the remote and he kisses the spot like an apology and you forget what you were apologizing for.

You still go to the rink when you can. He still taps the glass and you still look up and you still both grin like you invented it. You still use words like teleology to make him roll his eyes and he still tells you about a seam he saw in a neutral zone trap that makes you say “English” and he explains it to you in a way that makes sense, because that’s what you do for each other. When he has a bad day, you sit with him in the quiet until it isn’t as sharp. When you have a bad day, he shows up with juice and a bag of those gummy candies you pretend you don’t like and a look that says I am here, I am not leaving.

One night in April, the team hosts a senior appreciation thing and parents come and cameras click. You stand with his mom by the boards, both of you embarrassed by the publicness of it and both of you unwilling to miss a second. His mom is small and fierce and tells you he was a menace in kindergarten and a saint when his best friend broke his wrist. She looks at you with a gaze you recognize—weighing, but kind—and says, “He looks… safe around you.”

You swallow. “I feel safe around him,” you say, and her mouth softens into the kind of smile that makes you understand where his came from.

When the photos are done and the speeches are over and the players trickle back to the ice to mess around, he skates over to where you and his mother stand, and he kisses his mother’s cheek and then—eyes on yours, a question you answer with a nod—leans down and kisses you quick in front of everybody. It isn’t a claim. It’s an agreement. The world does not end. It opens.

After, back at his place, his hands on your waist, your forehead against his collarbone, you realize the thing you’ve been circling is not waiting to be ready to say the three words. It’s realizing you’ve been living them for months, in coffee cups and late nights and the way he passes you the pen when you need it without you asking. You think, it’s already true. You think, so say it.

“I love you,” you say into his shirt, voice small and enormous.

He freezes, breath stuttering, and then he holds you harder, like your words went through him and pulled everything tight in the best possible way. He fumbles for your face, for your eyes. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you say, steady.

He smiles with all his teeth, the grin you saw after the overtime goal on a screen last year, only now it’s six inches away and for you. “I love you,” he says back, fierce and simple. “I’ve been trying not to scare you with it.”

“You won’t,” you say. “You don’t.”

He kisses you, and it tastes like the rest of your life.

The season ends the way seasons end: a last game and a locker room that smells like endings and tape and a bus ride that is half silence, half stories. He holds your hand over the console of his car the whole way back from the rink and says, “Next season,” like a promise and not a delay. You squeeze his fingers. “Next season,” you echo.

Finals come again, a softer kind. You study side by side, bumping ankles, sharing the circle of a desk lamp. When he falls asleep with his head on your lap and his mouth slightly open, you press a kiss into his hair and think, this is my life, this ridiculous tender thing.

On the first warm day of May, campus erupts onto lawns. You and he throw a blanket under a tree and you bring a book you do not read. He lies on his back with his arm flung over his eyes and listens to you ramble about a paper topic that isn’t due for weeks. When you pause for breath, he peeks at you from under his arm and says, “You’re beautiful when you argue with imaginary people,” and you, very mature, throw a blade of grass at his nose. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it with a ridiculous smacking sound and you yelp and then you are both laughing until your stomachs hurt.

Later that night, when the windows are open and the world smells like cut grass and possibility, you are both quiet with a kind of happiness that doesn’t need loud. He says, “I start summer conditioning in two weeks. Stay?” You say, “I’m applying for the campus archives job. Stay.” You look at each other and understand that staying is the point.

He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and tucks you in against his chest and says, “We started with Rousseau,” like it’s a punchline.

“And Voltaire,” you add, voice sleep-blurry.

“And a beanie,” he says.

“And your terrible handwriting,” you say, affectionate.

“And you,” he says, reverent, final.

You fall asleep before you can answer. In the morning, you do, with your mouth and your body and the coffee he makes exactly the way you like it, and the day outside is bright enough to make promises you believe.

There will be other games. Other exams. There will be injuries and interviews and papers you hate and kids on skateboards ruining your dramatic moments. There will be winters and springs and summers that feel like long afternoons on a rink that belongs only to the two of you at sunrise. There will be empty coffee cups and heavy textbooks and laughter in the middle of aisles you’re supposed to keep quiet. There will be your hand in his as you cross campus and his palm on the small of your back when you step onto ice you do not quite trust and the words I love you tossed between you like a puck you both know how to handle.

For now, there is this: a bed that smells like him and a sky that says yes and the sound of skates you can still hear in your bones when you close your eyes. There is the thought that you started as a list of Enlightenment thinkers and ended as the thing they were all trying to write toward—a way of living that makes sense, that feels right, that lets a person be better with another person standing next to them, holding their hand, calling them by their name and meaning it.

"Alright everyone, go enjoy the rest of your day and do the assignment before class tomorrow. Y/N, Cassian, come here for a moment," Professor Dawn said, waving his hand to urge the two of you to the front of the room. You met him and the burly football player at the podium, a frown already on your face. This was who he wanted you to tutor? The man that could barely sit still long enough to make it through each lecture?

"Now Cassian, I know that you try your best in my class, but I would like for you to see a tutor until midterms. Thankfully, Y/N has agreed to work with you until you have a passing grade if you accept her help." For extra credit and a great reference were the words your teacher left out to make it sound like you wanted to help Cassian himself.

You narrowed your eyes at him slightly before turning to Cassian, forcing a smile on your face. Or what you hoped was a smile. "I have a few free hours in the afternoon during the week, we could meet then if that works for you." Please don't.

"So long as it’s after five, it’s fine by me," Cassian said with a wide grin, not a smidge of seriousness in his eyes.

“We’ll meet for an hour at the library right after five. Don't be late." You turned around immediately, walking away before you could impulsively rescind your offer of help. Cassian rarely paid attention or answered any questions in class, and you didn’t particularly feel like dealing with him in a one-on-one tutoring session if he didn’t care enough to learn.

But a reference from Thesan Dawn, a highly regarded professor who only gave out one reference per graduating class, was worth whatever trials the energetic man would put you through.

You were seated at a table visible from the entrance to the library, the homework for your other classes swapped out for your calculus textbook and notebook. It was when you stood to stretch your limbs after sitting for two and a half hours that Cassian walked through the doors, no bag or books in sight.

“Evening, princess,” Cassian said when he dropped into the chair to the right of yours. “Let’s get studying.”

“With what books?” Cassian tapped your textbook and grinned when you huffed. “Bring your own damn supplies next time,” you grumbled as you slid back into your chair, opening the book to the first chapter that would be on the midterm in three weeks. You carefully tore out a page from your notebook and set it and a pencil in front of him.

It took all of five minutes for Cassian to groan. Loudly. The librarian at the front desk glared at the two of you, and you gave her an apologetic smile.

“Shut up and pay attention.”

“I could pay attention if we go get food,” Cassian suggested as he tapped the pencil’s eraser on the table. “I am starving after practice, and you wanted to meet before I had time to grab a snack.”

“We’ll be done in an hour, you can wait to eat until then. Now pay attention,” you said snappily before revisiting the subject he’d so kindly interrupted.

“Fine, but if I die, it’s on you.”

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

The first week of tutoring Cassian was coming to a close, though it had gone by at a snail’s pace with how distracted the man got at the slightest things. You'd spent a total of four hours tutoring him and were nearly ready to throw in the towel. He hardly listened and got the most basic concepts wrong until you explained them five times. But you persisted, the promise of a stellar grade and recommendation keeping you motivated enough to not quit outright. And at least he’s bringing his own textbook and notepad now.

Though tonight- tonight, Cassian was testing your patience. It was five-fifteen, and he had yet to show his face at the library. You mentally smacked yourself for not exchanging numbers for a situation just like this, so you didn’t need to wait around like a damn fool.

You gave him another five minutes before packing up your things and storming out of the library, heading directly for the frat that you knew Cassian lived in, not bothering to ask for permission before entering. Your eyes scanned the crowd of people on the first floor for the slacker that you were going to smack on the back of his head once you found him, but had no luck.

“Are you Y/N?” a woman asked when you passed by the kitchen, her golden-brown hair shining in the light and a dark haired man with nearly violet eyes behind her, a curious look on his face.

“Yes, I- do I know you?” you asked, confused as to how she knew your name.

“No, no,” she laughed, taking a sip of her beer before speaking again. “My name is Feyre, I’m one of Cassian’s friends. He mentioned that you’re tutoring him.”

“Yes, I am,” you said with a nervous smile. “Do you know where he is? He missed our study session and didn’t say anything.”

Feyre groaned before grabbing your hand, pulling you back into the crowd and up the flight of stairs. “That is so Cassian, he’s bad at committing to anything but sports. That’s his door right there, good luck.” She pointed to a door and winked at you before heading back the way she’d brought you.

You almost turned around to leave the house altogether, but you were already here, and he had been an ass in not showing up. One knock on the solid wood and you heard a faint acknowledgment before you swung the door wide open.

Cassian was spinning around in a swivel chair, and a man who almost looked like his twin was lounging on the bed, his back against the wall. Four empty beer bottles were on his desk, a sight that you narrowed your eyes at.

“Dickhead, we were supposed to study a half an hour ago, and you blew it off to drink?!” you barked as you entered the room, whacking Cassian on the top of his head.

“Hey!” he yelped, planting his feet on the ground, head wobbling. “I’m not a dickhead.”

The male on the bed looked between the two of you for a moment before popping to his feet and walking around you. “Good luck, man,” he chuckled before shutting the door behind him, leaving you alone with Cassian. In his room. You fought the blush that was threatening to creep over your face, ignoring just how handsome he looked in the low lighting.

“You are a dickhead for not telling me you wanted to skip the session this morning in class, Cassian. If you miss another session I’m going to tell Professor Dawn that you’re unteachable and a lost cause. Same thing if you’re late by five minutes.”

“Fine, but if I…” he paused, thinking for a moment. “If I ace the midterm, you have to come to one of my games. In my jersey,” Cassian said with a smirk. “And then to the afterparty.”

You glowered at him, at the implications. “What do you think I am, a tutor that rewards good grades with sex?”

“Relax, princess. All I meant was you coming here for a party. Though I wouldn’t turn down sex,” he grinned.

“That’s it, we’re done here,” you huffed, spinning on your heel and reaching for the door handle. Cassian caught your wrist before you could make contact.

Rage filled you, your eyes narrowing at him “Y/N, wait.” His voice was serious for once, and when you looked at him there was no humor in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I forgot about studying when Azriel dragged me back here after practice. I promise I won’t forget again if you keep helping me. And I won’t be inappropriate, either. Please?”

He looked sincere enough, and he certainly sounded like he was sorry. “Fine, but if you slip up one more-”

“I know, you’ll ruin my chances at graduating. Now, I think we should meet at the coffee shop by the field from now on, and in exchange I’ll buy you whatever you want every time.” He dropped your wrist, and your arm fell to your side.

“Will that make you actually pay attention?”

“Yes, I keep saying I’m hungry, and I’d bring in something to eat but the librarians don’t let me have food in there anymore,” Cassian sighed. “And I can only focus if my stomach is full.”

You raised an eyebrow, doubting his words. “Alright. We’ll meet there on Monday.” After he nodded in agreement, you opened his door and went down the stairs, pushing through the crowd that had grown while you’d spoken with Cassian. Once you were outside you meandered towards your dorm, enjoying the last rays of sunshine while you still could, before winter set in.

For the recommendation, you could do it.

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

By the time Monday rolled around you were feeling refreshed, and hoping the small packet of notes you’d made over the weekend would help Cassian study without you as well. And hoping that he bothered to study when he wasn’t being forced to.

The café he’d chosen was cozy, with cushions on the wooden chairs and plush couches lining the walls. You arrived a little before five and pulled out your things after ordering a drink, jotting down the problems that had been assigned today. You sipped on your drink as you solved each problem, steps carefully written out and double checked for accuracy.

Cassian burst into the café with two men, the one you’d seen in his room on Friday and the one you’d seen behind Feyre. He waved them off before approaching you, frowning at the cup on the table. “I said I would be buying, princess.”

You shot an annoyed look at him before shrugging your shoulders. “I was thirsty and got here before you. Sue me. Now go order so we can start studying.”

He did as you said, returning after stopping briefly at his friends’ table and sat down in the chair next to you. His focus was only half there when you had him work on the first problem, though he did manage to get it right on the first time. A blushing waitress brought over the food and drinks he’d ordered, opening her mouth for a moment before turning quickly and rushing back behind the counter.

Cassian placed one of the mugs in front of you, a second of the one you’d ordered. “Feel free to have a something,” he said before taking a large bite out of a sandwich.

You didn’t bother, even if the chocolate filled croissant was calling your name. Instead you brought his attention back to the textbook.

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

Thursday was the next day Cassian had you irritated again, so much so that you were ready to walk out of the café before the hour was up.

“I didn’t agree to it, Cassian,” you said flatly, hands itching to shove your things away and go back to your dorm. You balled them into fists in your lap instead.

“It was pretty obvious to me that we’re still studying together because of the conditions I set out. You in my jersey at the next game after I ace the midterm, plus coming to the party for a couple hours after.”

“The game, sure. But why the party and your jersey?” you asked with a wrinkled nose.

“You’d look cute in it, that’s why. And the party will be way more fun with you there.” Your heart thumped hard in your chest at the words, a blush nearly creeping onto your cheeks. So… ugh. “Now, since it wasn’t clear before, do you agree to the terms?” He stuck his hand out like a fake microphone, giving you a hopeful smile.

“Fine, if you get everything right on the midterm I’ll go to your game.” Only because you knew he had no chance, not when he was still so far behind.

He flashed you a bright smile, one so dazzling you couldn’t help but smile back. “Then let’s get studying, teach.”

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

“Why are you banned from bringing food into the library?”

Cassian looked surprised when he met your eyes, his own crinkling around the edges when he grinned. “I had a paper due when I was still a freshman, and I went to the library to finish it. But before I did I bought a bowl of soup at the bistro next door, and… Well, I ended up spilling it all over the computer and destroying it.”

Your nose crinkled as you fought a laugh. “And how did you think that was a good idea, Cassian?”

“I was hungry. You know how useless I am when I haven’t eaten anything.” It was true. He’d been hopeless at the library, but now that he ate a feast while you were studying he was actually retaining most the information. “Why do you want to know? Are you finally starting to like me?”

The corners of your lips threatened to curve upwards. Cassian had turned out to be very similar to a puppy, full of energy and eager, even if that was occasionally to his detriment. Spending time with him had changed your opinion of him. No longer did you think he was an arrogant ass, but instead a confident goofball that had you looking forward to your weekday afternoons.

“I’ve just never heard of someone being banned from eating in the library, but killing a computer with soup seems to be a good reason. I’m surprised you weren’t banned entirely,” you laughed quietly.

“Me too. But I’ve gotta say, that soup was worth it,” Cassian said as he closed his eyes, likely imagining the taste.

You smiled at him but turned back to the textbook in front of you, rather than being caught staring at him once he opened his eyes. Studying. You’re studying.

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

There were two days left before the calculus midterm, meaning there were only two more days, including today, that you would see Cassian outside of class. A small part of you wished he would only have a slightly improved grade, not one good enough to dismiss you as his tutor.

But you were proud of how far Cassian had come in the last two and a half weeks. He rarely needed your help to finish a problem, and most of his answers were correct on the first try.

It was for the best, that this situation was coming to a close. That meant your fledgling feelings wouldn’t need to be addressed, and Cassian would return to simply being a classmate.

You walked from the library to the other side of campus, where the football field and nearby café were. A wind swept past you and you pulled your sweater tighter around your body, looking forward to being in a warm building again. Autumn was well under way now, cooler temperatures and gusts of wind that spun leaves off of trees and into the air. How Cassian practiced in the chill ever day, you didn’t understand. All it made you want to do was curl up under a blanket and watch TV.

Maybe with the man himself, you thought to yourself, then abruptly shut the door on that line of thinking. A handsome, charming man like Cassian would never fall for you, not when he had women falling over him at every turn.

A sigh left your lips as you pushed open the door of the café, stopping just inside when you saw Cassian already seated at the table that had quickly become the two of yours.

“Hey there, Princess. Looks like you’re the late one today,” Cassian beamed, patting the chair next to him. “Tell me what you want and I’ll go order it for you.”

You rolled your eyes. “I am perfectly fine with ordering on my own, Cassian.”

“I know, I just want to thank you for all the hard work you’ve put in for me. So sit down and tell me what you want,” Cassian said, patting the cushion again.

“Fine,” you sighed as you fought a smile, plopping into your seat. “I’ll have my usual and a chocolate croissant, please.”

Cassian zipped off to the counter to order, the same server as the first time you’d came in blushing at him. Again. You forced your attention to pulling out your textbook and notebook, then unzipping your pencil case and pulling out two pencils.

“She’ll bring everything over in a few minutes,” Cassian said softly as he slipped back into his chair, elbow nudging yours. “Should we get started?”

Your heart thumped at the sweet look on his face, and it took you a second to nod.

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

“I thought we could study for an extra hour tonight, Y/N,” Cassian said when you slid into your seat where he was already waiting. A blush dusted your cheeks at the sound of him saying your name, something you’d only heard once before, when you’d been pissed as hell at him. But now… You wished you could hear him say it every day.

“Oh, uhm-” you paused for a second, debating how smart it would be to spend extra time with him on the last night you’d be his tutor. “I suppose we could, if you can sit still long enough.”

“Don’t worry, princess. Studying with you is a lot more fun than lectures,” he chuckled before standing to order. “Same as yesterday?”

“Yes, please,” you said with a smile, heart fluttering when he smiled back.

Two hours flew by, and you even let Cassian talk you into having a second drink and half of one of the sandwiches he’d gotten. The last ten minutes were spent discussing your various midterms, all of which besides calculus were next week.

“Are you excited to go to the next game?” Cassian asked, a victorious grin on his face as the clock struck seven.

“Being cocky, huh? The test is tomorrow, you still have to get everything right,” you said with a shake of your head.

“You don’t think I can do it, huh? Don’t you trust your teaching skills?” That arched brow and confidence burning in his hazel eyes made you want to do- something that you wouldn’t think about. Not when tomorrow meant the end of this… relationship.

“I do, I just don’t know if you’ll get everything right when under pressure.”

“Princess, I’m amazing under pressure. Just wait until you see me at the game. Which is next Friday, by the way,” Cassian said smugly, not at all deterred by your lack of confidence in him.

“We’ll see about that, Cassian.”

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

One bad night’s sleep later and you were sitting in Professor Dawn’s class, shaking your leg as you waited for him to finish grading your test. You’d finished first after quickly double checking your answers, and the waiting… It was awful. Test anxiety was your least favorite part of school, though today you were worried for another reason.

Cassian was two rows behind you, and you’d seen him thinking carefully through a problem when you’d turned away from the professor’s desk to return to your chair. He’d felt your stare, or just happened to look up to give you a wide grin and a thumbs up.

A few other students turned in their tests before Cassian, who patted you on the shoulder as he walked to the front of the room, and winked at you on his way back to his seat.

You scored perfect marks, and usually you would leave right after getting your score, but… You wanted to know how Cassian had done. Needed to know, because you weren’t sure you would survive being in Cassian’s jersey, or dragged to a frat party where you’d have to watch other women fawn over him.

Fifteen minutes later and his name was called, the giant practically skipping as he reached Professor Dawn’s desk, turning back to you with a giant grin after he looked at the front of his test. He pointed a hand to the door before leaving the room, and you followed without a thought.

“I guess you’re going to the game, princess,” Cassian boasted as he waved his test proudly in front of you. You spotted the red ‘A’ first, then the 100% that Professor Dawn had written on the top. “Remember, it’s on Friday. I’ll pick you up at your dorm at three. And…” He stuck a hand into the bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out a dark blue jersey with white lettering and long sleeves.

“It’s massive, Cassian, I think it’ll fall off of me,” you joked as you grabbed it, your hand brushing against his as you did so.

“Are you calling me massive?” Cassian asked with feigned hurt, holding a hand to his chest. “You can call me whatever you want, sweetheart, as long as you’re in the stands cheering for me.” He winked at you before breezing off, leaving you in the hallway, stunned.

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

There was a knock at your door just as you had pulled on your boots. You grabbed Cassian’s jersey, which smelled like fresh air and the faintest hint of campfire smoke- the scent you’d been surrounded by for an hour a day, five days a week for three weeks. You hadn’t put it on yet, merely staring at it every few minutes when you were in your room.

It was… He was distracting.

You’d nearly forgotten to fill out an answer on your history midterm, and had completely missed a question for your humanities course. Thankfully your last test had been yesterday, and it was easy enough to take notes in your classes today as you zoned out a bit, wondering about why exactly Cassian wanted you to watch him play and go to the party so badly. He’d said it was because you’d be fun to have there, but… a silly, childish part of you wished that it was for another reason. That he had feelings for you.

It was ridiculous of you to have a crush on him when he was so handsome and popular while you were… You. Intelligent but shy, and nowhere near as attractive as he is.

You shook yourself free of your thoughts and answered the door, surprised to see Cassian standing outside. “I thought you would meet me outside,” you said, a shy smile on your lips.

“I could have, but it’s much more gentlemanly to meet a beautiful woman at her door,” Cassian said. The smile he was wearing fell slightly when he noticed his jersey in your arms. “You’re not wearing it.”

“Oh, I thought I could put it on at the game,” you explained.

“Take off your purse,” Cassian demanded as he grabbed the jersey and fixed you with a pointed stare until you did as he said. “Arms up.” The softness in his voice made you blush, and you lifted your arms, barely breathing as Cassian slid the jersey onto your arms and over your head, then tugged it down. He beamed as he took you in and your cheeks reddened further, your hands fussing with the sleeves that reached three inches past your hands. “I was right. You look very cute in it. Let’s go, we don’t want to keep them waiting.

“Them?” you asked after picking up your purse. You locked your door and followed Cassian out of the building and towards the field.

“My friends wanted to sit with you, so you’re not lonely. The games can run pretty long sometimes. Feyre was excited to hear that you were coming tonight.”

You nodded, glad that at least one of the people you’d be sitting with was nice. “I’m sure I can pry an embarrassing story or two about you from them,” you grinned, laughing when Cassian’s cheeks turned pink.

“There’s no stories like that, and if one of them tells you something it’s a lie. And I’ll tackle them.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s the truth,” you snickered, certain that his friends would tell you Cassian’s secrets without any persuasion with how nervous he looked now. Not that you would ask, you’d prefer to hear them from Cassian himself.

You were nearly at the field when Cassian turned you to the right and pushed you through the door of the café you’d studied at together. He walked you to a lively group made up of three faces you recognized and three faces you didn’t.

“Everyone, this is Y/N,” Cassian said before nudging you to sit next to Feyre on the couch. He sat down next to you, then introduced his friends. “That’s Mor, Azriel, Nesta, Elain, Rhys, and you already know Feyre.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you said, more quiet than when you were just with Cassian.

They were a nice group, but you couldn’t focus much with Cassian’s arm brushing yours, the scent of him surrounding you. An hour passed at the café before the three men groaned when Feyre announced that it was four, and time for them to get to the locker rooms.

Cassian walked next to you as the group headed to the field, his hand brushing yours once, then twice. You willed the flush in your cheeks to fade, feeling silly about how easily you reacted to him.

“I’ll see you after the game, princess. Make Feyre share the huge blanket that she brought if you get cold, and make sure you get some food,” Cassian fussed when he had to part from you.

“I will, you worry-wart. Don’t get hurt.” You gave him a smile as he joined his friends, watching as they entered the locker room behind the stand.

“Y/N, let’s go get our seats! We can watch the team warm up,” Feyre said, waving you over to join the four of them. “I brought an extra blanket just for you today, once Cassian told me you were coming along.”

“Oh, thank you.” You shot her a smile and made to catch up with them, the group climbing the stands and claiming spots on the home side, and soon you were all covered with blankets as you watched the teams jog onto the field and begin their warm-ups.

Light conversation flowed between you and Feyre, though your thoughts were occupied with just how good Cassian looked in his uniform.

“He likes you, you know,” Feyre whispered after the game had started. “More than he’s liked anyone, I think. And I think you like him too.”

A bright red blush flooded your cheeks at her words. “No, I- I don’t think you’re right. I’m just his tutor,” you giggled nervously.

Feyre rolled her eyes before grinning at you. “I just want you to know that he has never given his jersey to another girl. Or studied so hard for one test. And he was the one who suggested you come here.” She gazed down at the field, her eyes finding Cassian’s number. “He’s a good guy. But I’m sure you know that already, with how doe-eyed you look around him.”

Your gaze snapped from Cassian to her. “I am not doe-eyed!” you whisper-shouted at her.

Feyre just grinned wider and looked back to the field.

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

“Are you hurt?!” you asked when Cassian finally emerged from the locker rooms, arms folded across your chest. He’d taken a bad hit right before the end of the game, and with three minutes left the coach had benched him. Which Cassian had bellowed about for a minute before limping to the bench.

“I’m fine, princess. More than fine actually, since you were waiting for me.” He smiled wide, but you could see the slight wince in his face when he stepped towards you. “Now let’s get to that party, I have something I wanted to show you.”

You narrowed your eyes at him but let him guide you to the frat house, where the party was just getting started. Feyre and Mor were setting out drinks in the kitchen while Rhys and Azriel set up beer pong. Elain and Nesta were off in a corner, drinks already in hand as they chatted. Cassian pulled you upstairs and into his room, which had been meticulously cleaned since the last time you were in here.

“I know I might be mistaken,” Cassian started as he shut the door, hazel eyes serious when he turned to meet your gaze. “But I think that you like me. And if so, that’s a really good thing. Unbelievably good. Because I like you, Y/N. And I like seeing you in my jersey. And in the stands. And outside the locker room.” Your heart raced as Cassian closed the distance between you, only a few inches away now. “I don’t want that to end, Y/N. I made the bet because I wanted to see you more, see you all the time.” His mouth was an inch from yours, eyes staring into your soul. “So?”

You raised up on your toes and your mouth crashed into his, arms snaking around his neck. He gripped your waist, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss. When you parted you wore matching smiles and rosy cheeks. “Yes, I like you too, Cassian.”

“I’m glad, sweetheart. Now, we can either join the party downstairs, or,” he opened one of his dresser drawers, pulling out some of your favorite snacks and a few slightly-cold beers. “We can stay in here, and avoid the harassment that my friends are likely to inflict on us.”

“Mm…” you paused, pretending to think it over. “Let’s stay in, at least for a bit. I’ll have more fun if it’s just the two of us,” you said with heated cheeks, and the look in your eyes made Cassian grin wide, anticipation gleaming in his.

You're parents did NOT like Ellie.

They told you she was a 'bad influence', and you couldn't argue because well, she was.

You met via a classic cliché. Ellie was failing English and due to you being the top English student in your year/ class.

And well ta-da, now you tutor Ellie.

Ellie was a stubborn little shit when it came to studying. At the beginning, she never turned up on time and didn't pay attention to what you were saying, distracted by your 'pretty face', as she put it.

You'd been going over the same basic principle with Ellie over and over again. It was getting tiring.

"Ellie, I swear to God, I'm going to slap you if you don't start focusing"

"oh~ don't hit me princess. Wouldn't want you to mess up your pretty little manicure." She smirked.

"Don't try me Williams"

Ellie loves walking you to your lessons. Her class could be on the other side of the school she'd still walk you there. (Not that she goes to her classes)

Loves walking around hand In hand with you.

You bite her. Idk you just definitely seem like the type of person to just nibble on delinquent!Ellie out of love ❤️.

"Ow!" Ellie yelled pulling her arm away from you quickly. "The fuck was that! Did you just fucking bite me!"

"Yes."

"And why did you do that?!"

"Cause I love you"

"You bit me because you love me?"

"Yes."

"Jesus Christ."

Comes over to your house just to distract you from your homework.

Sits you on her lap all the time. You always have a seat when she's around <33

Imagine her picking you up for a date in her rust bucket car lmao.

Gentlewoman of the year award goes to delinquent!Ellie. This woman knows how to give respect.

So so so protective.

Is a dude bothering you? He's out cold on the floor before you can even blink.

Movie nights in with her 😍

Cute pet names include "Princess, sweetheart, pretty, doll face"

Annoying pet names include: "Ankle biter (bcuz she says your short), ass hole"

You call her with her last name when you're annoyed at her.

You are her prized possession, everyone knows that your hers and she's yours.

Having matching jewelry with her, a bracelet, necklace, rings. Especially one with eachother's names engraved in them 💕

--------------

Delinquent Ellie my beloved❤️