Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Words~2411

—-

The night Hannah died, the house was too quiet.

It wasn’t the normal kind of quiet — the soft hush that sometimes wrapped the Baker house when everyone had gone to bed. This was the kind of silence that pressed on your ears, heavy and sharp, where every creak in the floorboards and every tick of the clock felt like thunder. The air in your room was still, the windows shut, blinds half-drawn, as if even the world outside had no business coming in anymore.

You lay in bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. They branched out like maps, twisting and splitting into lines that led nowhere. Nowhere to her. Nowhere to answers. Just empty space.

Your body hadn’t moved in hours. Not since the sirens. Not since the word “gone” had settled like poison in your stomach.

Hannah was gone.

And the last thing you ever said to her had been: “I wish you wouldn’t be my sister.”

The words echoed in your skull like a chant you couldn’t turn off.

You’d shouted them in anger, face flushed red, voice too loud as she stood in the hallway holding the hoodie she’d borrowed without asking. Something stupid. Petty. A sibling fight that should’ve blown over in an hour. But it hadn’t.

You could still see her face. How the words landed like a slap. Not on her cheek, but somewhere deeper, somewhere that didn’t heal. Her eyes had softened in shock, then dimmed. She hadn’t argued back. She just looked at you like you had broken something she couldn’t glue together.

And you’d slammed the door.

Now, the silence felt like punishment. Like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for you to say the words you never gave her.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered into the dark. Your throat burned from saying it so many times, from trying to claw it back. “I didn’t mean it…”

But Hannah wasn’t here to hear it.

She never would be.
You didn’t go to school the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.

Nobody made you. Your parents didn’t even try. The house had fallen into an unspoken rhythm — footsteps in the hall, doors opening and shutting, whispers behind walls — but no one came into your room.

The first morning, your mom knocked softly on the door. Once. Twice. “Sweetheart?” she’d called, voice already fraying. You’d kept still under the covers, eyes open, pretending to sleep. After a long silence, you heard the shuffle of her slippers fade down the hall.

When you finally pulled the door open hours later, there was a tray on the floor. A sandwich, an apple, a glass of water. By then the bread had gone stiff, the apple browning around the edges. The next day, it was soup. The day after that, pasta. Each time, the food sat until it went cold, forgotten on the tray, as if eating felt like betrayal.

You stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling until your eyes blurred, until the cracks looked like they were crawling across the plaster. Every noise felt too sharp — the hum of the fridge downstairs, the hiss of the pipes, the muffled sound of your parents arguing in low voices they thought you couldn’t hear.

Words slipped through the walls sometimes.

“…not talking to anyone…”

“…I don’t know what to do…”

“…we already lost her, we can’t lose him too…”

You pressed the pillow tighter against your ears, but it didn’t help. The guilt was too loud.

Why her and not you?

Why not both?

It looped in your head, a poison thought you couldn’t shut off.

By the third night, the walls of your room felt too close. The air too thick. You could barely breathe anymore.

And when your phone lit up again, screen buzzing against the nightstand with a name you’d been ignoring for days — Scott Reed — you stared at it longer than usual.

Unread messages stacked up.

“Hey, just checking on you.”
“Please answer, I don’t care what time it is.”
“I’m outside.”

Your hand hovered, torn between throwing the phone against the wall and pulling Scott inside the silence with you.

But you didn’t answer. Not yet.

Not until the fourth night.

The hallway was dark when you pulled the door open, the only light spilling faintly from the porch lamp outside. For a second you thought maybe it had been a mistake — maybe he wasn’t there, maybe you’d imagined the whole thing just to feel less alone.

But then you saw him.

Scott was sitting on the front steps, hood pulled up despite the warm evening air. His back was slouched against the brick, his legs stretched out like he’d been there a while. When the door clicked open, his head snapped up, eyes wide.

He looked startled, almost like he hadn’t expected you to actually appear. And then relief flooded his face so quickly it nearly undid you.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice careful, like one wrong note might send you back inside.

You didn’t answer. You just stepped aside.

Scott stood, brushing off his jeans, and walked past you into the house. He didn’t ask if it was okay. He didn’t apologize. He just moved with a kind of quiet caution, like someone stepping into a room full of glass.

You led him upstairs, neither of you saying a word. The creak of the staircase felt deafening.

When you reached your room, Scott hesitated at the doorway for half a beat, his eyes darting over the closed blinds, the unmade bed, the untouched tray of cold food by the dresser. His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t comment. He just came in and sat down on the edge of your bed — the same spot he always claimed on movie nights, back when Hannah would yell at you both for hogging the popcorn.

The memory stung, sharp and bitter.

There was no laughter this time. Just the hum of the ceiling fan and your uneven breathing.

Scott leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He didn’t push. He didn’t start with the usual “Are you okay?” or “Do you want to talk?” He just… waited. Like he’d already decided he’d sit there as long as it took.

And for the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel like punishment.

Scott didn’t speak first.

He just sat there, steady, like he knew that if he opened his mouth too soon, the fragile thread holding you together might snap. The only sound was the slow hum of the ceiling fan above and the faint thud of your own pulse in your ears.

You sat at the far end of the bed, knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around them. It felt like the only way to keep from falling apart. Your throat burned from holding words back for too long.

Finally, the silence cracked.

“I should’ve known something was wrong,” you said. Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but it felt like you were shouting into the stillness. “She was quieter. Distant. I should’ve said something. Anything.”

Scott’s head turned, his eyes steady on you. “You did,” he said gently. “You tried.”

You shook your head, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek. “Not enough.”

The words started spilling before you could stop them, fast and sharp like they’d been trapped too long.

“I yelled at her, Scott. I told her I wished she wasn’t my sister. And then she—” Your voice caught. You couldn’t force the word out. It burned your throat, seared your lungs. “And then she was gone.”

Scott didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away, didn’t try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He just leaned forward slightly, his hand reaching out to rest on your knee. Warm. Steady. The kind of touch that didn’t ask for permission, but didn’t demand anything either.

“We say dumb things when we’re hurting,” he said, his voice low and certain. “That doesn’t make them true. And it sure as hell doesn’t make you responsible.”

You stared at his hand on your knee, your chest heaving. “She looked so hurt when I said it. I didn’t even apologize. I just slammed the door. That was the last time I ever saw her alive.”

Scott’s voice wavered just slightly, but his words stayed firm. “She knew you loved her.”

“No.” Your head shook violently. “She thought I hated her.”

“She knew,” he repeated, stronger this time. “Hannah was a lot of things, but she wasn’t clueless. You two fought all the time, and you always made up. That night… maybe she didn’t know it would be the last either.”

The words hit something raw in your chest. You blinked hard, your vision blurring. “How do you know?”

Scott’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice softening. “Because I saw the way she talked about you when you weren’t around. Like you were the one person she could count on — even when she didn’t know how to say it. She used to show me your drawings, your playlists. The little stories you wrote and threw away because you thought they weren’t good enough.”

Your lip trembled, the weight of his words breaking down whatever walls you had left.

“She was proud of you,” Scott whispered. “Even when you weren’t proud of yourself.”

And just like that, the dam cracked.

Tears blurred your vision, spilling hot down your cheeks as you folded into yourself, your arms tightening around your knees until it hurt.

Scott didn’t move closer right away. He waited until you shifted, until your shoulder leaned toward him, until your head found its way against his chest like it had always belonged there.

When he wrapped his arms around you, it wasn’t careful. It was fierce. Certain. Like he meant every word he’d just said.

Scott didn’t let go when you cried. He just held you there, your cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his hoodie, your fists clutching at the fabric like you could anchor yourself to him and not drift into the dark. His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady, rhythmic — the only thing in the room that felt solid when everything else was cracking.

When the worst of the sobs had passed and your breathing came in ragged gulps, Scott spoke again, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“You know,” he said slowly, “Hannah… she talked about you more than you think.”

Your body tensed. You weren’t sure you wanted to hear it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But Scott kept going, his tone careful, like he was placing each word down in front of you so you could step across the wreckage without falling.

“She used to brag about you sometimes,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not in a big way. Not like, ‘My brother is the greatest.’ But she’d slip it in. She showed me some of your drawings once. Said you had talent. Said you just didn’t believe in yourself enough.”

A sharp ache spread in your chest, mixing with the tears still wet on your face. You whispered hoarsely, “She really said that?”

Scott nodded. “All the time. Your playlists too. She thought it was cool how you’d make them for moods, or for people. She even played one for me once — said, ‘This is what my brother sounds like when he can’t say things out loud.’”

The breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t even remembered her saying that to you.

“She loved you,” Scott continued firmly. “Even when she didn’t say it right. Even when you two were yelling at each other over stupid stuff. That was just… how you were. How siblings are. None of that erased the way she looked at you.”

You pulled back slightly, your eyes burning as you searched his face. “How did she look at me?”

Scott’s gaze softened. “Like you were her safe place. Like… no matter how bad things got, she could still come back to you.”

That shattered something in you. The tears returned, hot and heavy, your whole body shaking as you broke open against him again. Scott didn’t say anything this time. He just tightened his arms around you, holding on like he’d been waiting for you to let yourself fall.

And you did.

You buried your face in his chest, clinging to him as sobs ripped through you again. Every apology you hadn’t said to Hannah poured out in broken breaths, muffled against Scott’s shoulder. He didn’t tell you to stop. He didn’t tell you it wasn’t your fault again. He just stayed, his hand steady at the back of your head, his chin brushing your hair, grounding you in the only way you could be grounded right now.

For the first time since the night she died, you weren’t crying alone.

The tears slowed eventually, leaving you drained, your face hot and raw, your chest aching from the effort. You stayed there, pressed against Scott’s shoulder, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. For a long time, neither of you moved. The ceiling fan hummed overhead, filling the silence with something softer than before.

When your voice finally came, it was small, cracked. “Do you think it ever stops hurting?”

Scott didn’t answer right away. His hand kept tracing slow, steady lines across your back, up and down like waves. Then he spoke, quiet but honest. “No. Not really. But it changes. And you… you get better at carrying it.”

Your throat tightened again. “I don’t think I can carry this.”

His hand stilled, then pressed gently at your back, as if anchoring you. “Then let me carry some of it,” he said without hesitation.

The words hit you so deeply you almost broke again. Your chest shuddered, but instead of crying, you leaned into him harder, letting his presence hold you up. The sharp edges of the room softened, the suffocating silence thinning just enough for you to take a breath without choking on it.

You closed your eyes, whispering so low you weren’t sure he even heard: “Thank you.”

Scott’s chin brushed against your hair. “Always.”

And for the first time since Hannah died, the room didn’t feel empty. It felt like someone had stepped back inside with you, carrying a little of the weight you thought you’d be crushed under forever.

Chapter Text

Words~2949

—-

The morning air felt wrong.

You’d barely slept, your body heavy from another night of staring at the ceiling until the cracks blurred together. When you finally dragged yourself downstairs, the house was too quiet again, that suffocating silence that had settled since Hannah was gone.

You opened the front door more out of habit than anything else, the chill of early air brushing against your skin. The porch boards were damp with dew, the world still caught between night and day.

That’s when you saw it.

A plain shoebox.

It sat right in the middle of the top step, taped shut with dull strips of duct tape, corners frayed like it had been handled too many times. No note. No return address. No explanation.

Just a box.

Your chest tightened instantly. You didn’t know why, but every nerve in your body screamed that it wasn’t just a package. It wasn’t something normal, something safe. It felt like it had been left there for you.

You froze, gripping the doorframe until your knuckles ached. For a second, you thought about shutting the door and pretending you hadn’t seen it. Let the box sit out there forever until the rain ruined it or someone else claimed it.

But you didn’t move.

Eventually, your feet carried you forward, each step heavy, your socks soaking through against the damp wood. You crouched down and picked it up. The cardboard felt heavier than it should have, like it wasn’t just paper and plastic inside but something alive, something waiting.

Your hands shook as you pulled it to your chest and carried it inside.

Your parents were in the kitchen, their voices low, the faint sound of mugs clinking against the counter. You didn’t say anything as you slipped past the doorway. You didn’t want them to see. Didn’t want them to ask.

Upstairs, you set the box down on your desk like it might explode if you dropped it too fast. You stared at it for a long time.

You thought about throwing it away.
You thought about burying it in the backyard.
You thought about leaving it sealed and never, ever finding out what was inside.

But your hand reached for the tape anyway.

The rip of it peeling back was sharp, too loud in your quiet room. When the lid came off, your stomach dropped.

Seven cassette tapes.
One Walkman.
A pack of AA batteries.

Nothing else.

No note. No label with your name.

Just silence.

And you already knew, deep down, what it was.

The lid was still off when your door creaked open.

You flinched, snapping your eyes away from the box like you’d been caught with something forbidden. But it was only Scotty, standing in the doorway with his hoodie half-zipped, hair sticking up from sleep. He blinked at you once, then at the box on your desk.

The change in his face was immediate. His whole body stilled, his expression tightening with something you couldn’t quite name.

“You opened it,” he said softly.

Your throat was dry. “You knew?”

He stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind him. His eyes stayed locked on the box, like it was some kind of animal that might bite. “Yeah. Clay told me. Justin too. Even Jess. They’ve… all had them.” He swallowed. “One by one.”

You stared down at the tapes again. Seven of them, stacked neatly in a row, their plastic shells catching the thin light from the blinds. “And you?”

Scotty shook his head quickly. “I didn’t get any. I’m not on them.”

That admission hit strangely — relief mixed with guilt. Your stomach turned.

“So you know what’s on there,” you muttered.

“Not really.” He leaned against your dresser, arms crossed. “They never told me details. Just enough to know Hannah left… things. For people. Reasons.”

You exhaled, the sound shaky. “Thirteen of them.”

Scotty’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between you. The Walkman sat like a loaded weapon on the desk, the first tape just inches away. You wanted to throw it across the room and never touch it again. You wanted to press play until you heard every word.

Finally, Scotty pushed himself off the dresser and sat down on the bed beside you. Not close enough to touch. Not yet. But close enough to remind you he wasn’t leaving.

“Look,” he said, his voice low but steady. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not any of it. If you want to listen, I’ll sit with you. If you want to stop, I’ll take the damn box and lock it in the garage. Whatever you need.”

Your chest tightened again. You weren’t sure if you wanted to scream at him to leave or throw yourself into his arms and never let go.

But you didn’t move.

You just whispered, “Maybe she didn’t want me to listen. She didn’t put my name on it.”

Scotty’s eyes softened. “She knew you’d listen anyway plus nobody‘s name is on it.”

Your hand hovered over the Walkman for what felt like hours.

The tapes glared back at you, lined up like teeth. Each one carried something you weren’t sure you could survive hearing. You wanted to shove the box under your bed and pretend it had never arrived. But the weight of it already filled the room. It would never leave you alone.

Scotty shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours. The warmth of that tiny touch jolted you out of the spiral for half a second.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured.

“I do,” you whispered back, though your voice cracked on the words.

You picked up the first tape. Your hands shook as you slid it into the Walkman. The plastic clicked, the sound too final, like a door locking behind you.

Scotty stayed completely still, his gaze steady on you. “I’m right here,” he said quietly, almost like a promise.

You pressed play.

A hiss of static filled the room. Then—

“Hey. It’s me, Hannah. Hannah Baker. Don’t adjust your whatever. It’s me, live and in stereo. No return engagements. No encore. And this time, absolutely no requests.”

The voice punched the air out of your lungs. It was her. It was Hannah. Alive in a way she wasn’t supposed to be.

Your whole body stiffened. The Walkman nearly slipped from your hand, but Scotty reached over, steadying it without a word.

Her voice kept going.

You barely registered the sentences at first, your mind caught on the sound of her laugh in between words, the inflection you hadn’t realized you’d memorized.

Tears blurred your vision, but you kept listening. You couldn’t stop now.

Scotty’s hand inched forward, brushing yours lightly on the Walkman. He didn’t take it away. He didn’t press stop. He just held on, his touch a reminder: you weren’t alone in the room with her voice.

Hours blurred. You drifted in and out of Hannah’s stories, her betrayals, her loneliness, the names of people you thought you knew. Every time you flinched or clenched your fists, Scotty squeezed your knee, grounding you back in the present.

By the time the sixth tape clicked off, your body felt hollowed out, your chest raw. You looked at the last cassette in the box. Tape 7.

Scotty followed your gaze. His voice was low, steady. “That’s the last one.”

You swallowed hard. “Tape 7, Side B.”

The air in your room seemed to hold its breath.

Your fingers hovered over the cassette for a long time before you dared to touch it.

The last one. Tape 7. Side B.

Even before sliding it into the Walkman, you knew. Somehow you felt it thrumming in your bones — that this side was different.

Your hands shook so badly the tape almost slipped, but Scotty steadied it for you without a word. His thumb pressed against your wrist, grounding you.

“Ready?” he asked, though his voice was barely more than a whisper.

You weren’t. But you pressed play anyway.

Static crackled, then faded into silence.

And then her voice.

“Tape 7, Side B. The last voice you’ll hear. My last words.”

Your breath caught.

Scotty’s hand found yours instantly, his grip firm.

“This tape isn’t for the list. Not really. If you’ve gotten this far, you’ve heard everything — the lies, the betrayals, the weight I carried. But this side isn’t about blame. It’s about love. It’s about pain. And it’s about my little brother.”

The air left your lungs in a single shudder.

“X… I didn’t put your name on the tapes. Because you don’t belong there. You weren’t one of the reasons. Not then. Not ever.”

Your chest tightened so hard you bent forward, elbows pressing into your knees. “She’s lying,” you whispered, broken. “I hurt her. I hurt her so bad—”

Scotty’s arm wrapped firmly around your back, pulling you upright. “Listen,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Just listen.”

The tape kept playing.

“That fight… I know you remember. The yelling. The slammed doors. You shouted that you wished I wasn’t your sister. And, God, it cut deep. It shattered me. But not because I believed you. I knew you didn’t mean it.”

You sobbed, shaking your head violently, tears dripping hot onto the Walkman in your lap. “But she looked so—so broken when I said it.”

Scotty pressed his forehead to your temple. “Keep listening,” he urged, his breath warm and trembling.

Hannah’s voice carried on, soft but steady.

“I knew you didn’t mean it because I heard you after. You thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t. I heard every single ‘I’m sorry’ you whispered into the dark. Every time you broke down when you thought no one was listening.”

Your hands flew to your face, covering it as a cry tore from your throat. The Walkman rattled against your knee.

“That night wasn’t the end because of you, X. You weren’t the reason. You were the reason I stayed as long as I did. You were the light in a house full of shadows. You made me laugh. You made me remember what it felt like to be seen. You reminded me that I mattered.”

Scotty’s hand rubbed firm circles into your back, keeping you tethered.

“So why this tape? Because I know you. I know you’d blame yourself forever if I didn’t tell you. I need you to let go of that guilt. Please. Remember me in the moments where I was happy. Dancing like an idiot in the kitchen. Singing off-key in the car. Screaming louder than you during horror movies. That was real. That was me.”

Her voice cracked, just faintly.

“I love you. I always did. And you don’t belong on these tapes. Goodbye, X. Thank you. Love, Hannah.”

Click.

The silence afterward was unbearable.

You doubled over, sobbing so hard your chest ached. “But I still hurt her. I did. I made her feel like nothing—”

Scotty cupped your face firmly, pulling your gaze up to his. His own eyes were shining, but his voice came fierce: “You don’t belong on them. She said it herself. She forgave you. She loved you. And I—” His voice faltered, then steadied. “I’m not letting you carry this alone.”

You collapsed into him, the tears soaking through his hoodie, your fists clinging desperately to the fabric.

You didn’t move for a long time. The tape had ended, the Walkman sitting idle in your lap, but her voice still echoed in your skull like a song you couldn’t shut off.

I love you. I always did. You don’t belong on these tapes.

You shook your head violently, tears burning down your face. “But I hurt her,” you gasped, words ripping out of you. “I said it. I told her I didn’t want her as my sister. And then she—she—”

The word wouldn’t leave your throat.

Scotty didn’t let you fall into silence. He grabbed you, pulling you fully into his chest, your forehead pressed hard against the damp fabric of his hoodie. His arms wrapped around you with unshakable force, like he was holding together the pieces of you that were crumbling.

“You’re not listening,” he said fiercely, his voice thick but steady. “She said it herself. You weren’t on the tapes. You weren’t a reason. You were the reason she stayed.”

You sobbed harder, your fists clutching at him until your knuckles went white. “But what if she was just saying that? What if she—”

“Stop.” His hand cradled the back of your head, his voice trembling but insistent. “Hannah never lied to you. Not once. She loved you, X. She loved you so damn much.”

You tried to breathe, but every inhale felt like drowning. “I don’t think I can live with this, Scotty. I can’t—”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his forehead nearly touching yours. His blue gaze burned with tears of his own, but his voice was firm. “Then let me live it with you. Let me carry some of it. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Your lip trembled, your chest shuddering with another wave of sobs. “You’ll get tired of me. Everyone will.”

“Never.” His response came without hesitation. His thumb brushed a tear off your cheek, his jaw set like stone. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.”

The certainty in his voice broke something inside you — not in the way Hannah’s absence did, but in a way that made you collapse deeper into his arms, crying until there was nothing left.

Scotty held you through all of it. His hoodie grew soaked, his arms ached from the grip, but he never loosened. Every time you gasped that you couldn’t breathe, he breathed slower, steadier, until you fell into his rhythm.

And eventually, when the tears ebbed into hiccups, he whispered, “She loved you. I love you. That’s the truth. That’s what’s left. And it’s enough to keep going.”

The room smelled faintly of salt and damp fabric, your face buried against Scotty’s shoulder until the last sobs had thinned into uneven breaths. His hoodie was soaked through, your eyes raw, your throat aching from the cries that had torn out of you.

Silence hung heavy, but it wasn’t the suffocating silence of the last few weeks. This one felt different — gentler.

You finally shifted, just enough to glance at the box still sitting open on the desk. The tapes stared back, lined up in a neat row like teeth. Tape 7 still inside the Walkman, its job finished.

Your chest tightened again, but softer this time. “I hate them,” you whispered.

Scotty rubbed your back in slow circles. “I know.”

“I hate that she had to make them. I hate that she—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard. “But I can’t let them go. Not yet.”

“You don’t have to.” Scotty leaned back enough to look at you, his expression soft but steady. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Not today. Not tomorrow. Just… breathe. That’s enough.”

You nodded weakly, though your gaze didn’t leave the tapes. “She said I don’t belong on them. But it still feels like I should.”

Scotty’s jaw tightened, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “No. She made it clear. You weren’t a reason, X. You were part of her heart.”

The words landed like an anchor in your chest. For a moment, the storm inside you stilled, leaving space for something else to exist alongside the grief — love. Painful, but real.

You leaned your head against Scott‘s chest again, closing your eyes. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, a rhythm that kept you tethered.

“Do you think it ever stops hurting?” you murmured.

Scott hesitated, then pressed a kiss into your hair. “No. But it changes. And you get better at carrying it.”

Scotty didn’t let go, not even when your breathing finally steadied. He shifted slightly, guiding you down so you were both stretched across the bed, your head on his chest. His arm stayed looped around you, protective and warm, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

The ceiling fan hummed overhead, a soft rhythm filling the silence. For the first time in weeks, it didn’t sound empty.

“You’re crushing me, you know,” Scotty murmured after a while, his voice lighter now.

You managed a weak laugh, muffled against his hoodie. “You’re built like a tank. You’ll survive.”

He chuckled, the vibration running through his chest and into your cheek. “Fair point. Still, I’m filing this under ‘hazards of being your emotional support boyfriend.’”

You rolled your eyes but smiled faintly. “You signed up for it.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, brushing a hand through your hair. “And I’m not backing out.”

The weight in your chest eased just a little more. You traced random patterns against the fabric of his hoodie, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“I think Hannah would’ve liked this,” you whispered.

“Liked what?”

“This. You and me. Cuddling like idiots. She’d probably make fun of us.”

Scott grinned. “Definitely. She’d say we’re sappy as hell.”

“She wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Also not the worst thing to be,” he countered.

You tilted your head to look at him. He was smiling at you, tired but genuine, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. For the first time since the box arrived, you felt warmth slip into the cracks.

“Thanks, Scotty,” you murmured.

He squeezed you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Always.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself close your eyes without the weight of guilt pressing them shut.

Chapter Text

Words~2253

—-

It had been three days since you pressed play on Hannah’s last tape.
Three days of her voice echoing in your mind — telling you she loved you, that you weren’t the reason she left. That the words you’d shouted in anger had hurt, but they hadn’t been the blade. Just a scratch on someone already aching.

And yet, the guilt still clung to you like a second skin.

You hadn’t been yourself since then. Quieter, hollow in places you didn’t know could feel so empty. Sometimes you caught yourself staring into nothing, wondering how a person could exist in two ways at once: alive on the outside, dead on the inside.

Scott didn’t push. He didn’t tell you to cheer up, didn’t try to fill the silence with pointless words. Instead, he just… stayed.

Now, you sat on the floor of his room, his old gray hoodie draped over your shoulders. It smelled faintly of detergent and the kind of cologne he never admitted to using. You leaned back against the edge of his bed, while above you, Scott lay sprawled on his stomach, flipping through a battered notebook.

He’d been trying to distract you — doodling, showing you dumb sketches, rambling about nothing. You appreciated it, even if you weren’t really there.

Your eyes stayed on the ceiling, following the jagged line of a crack that split across the plaster.

“You ever think about what she’d be doing right now?” you asked suddenly, your voice barely more than a murmur.

Scott set the notebook aside immediately. His head turned toward you. “All the time.”

You nodded faintly, lips pressed tight. “She’d probably be yelling at me for forgetting to take the trash out.”

That earned a soft laugh from him. “She definitely would. And don’t even get me started on how pissed she always looked when you left your dirty dishes in the sink.”

For the first time in days, your mouth twitched into something close to a smile.

After a pause, you glanced up at him. “She liked you, you know.”

Scott blinked, eyebrows lifting. “Really?”

A small chuckle left you. “At first, no. She threatened to beat your ass if you ever hurt me.”

“I remember,” he said with a laugh, the memory sparking in his eyes. “She said it right in front of your parents. I was terrified.”

This time, you actually laughed — a real sound, fragile but genuine. It startled you, sitting in your chest like something foreign. It felt strange… but good.

Your smile softened. “But she grew to like you. Said you made me… softer.”

The room went still at that, Scott’s laughter fading into silence. He didn’t say anything, but you saw his throat work as he swallowed.

The warmth from your laugh lingered, even as the air grew heavier around you.

The silence stretched, your laughter still echoing faintly in the corners of the room. You leaned your head back against the bedframe, staring at the crack in the ceiling again.

“She asked them not to give you the tape right away,” Scott said suddenly.

The words slipped out of him so casually you almost didn’t catch them. But once you did, they burned.

You blinked, slowly turning your head toward him. “What?”

Scott’s eyes widened, like he’d only just realized he’d spoken aloud. He sat up quickly, his notebook sliding off the bed and hitting the floor with a dull thud. “Shit. I—X, I didn’t mean—”

“What do you mean she asked them not to give it to me?” Your voice was sharp now, colder than you intended, but the panic had already begun flooding your chest.

Scott stood, running a hand through his hair, searching for words. “I thought you knew. Clay told me—he told me that they held onto it for a few days. That Hannah didn’t want you to hear it right away. They thought you weren’t ready.”

Your stomach twisted violently.

“They knew?” you demanded, rising to your feet. “Clay? Jess? Justin? They all knew and just—sat on it?”

Scott lifted his hands like he was afraid you might shatter. “They were scared, babe. They thought it would crush you. That it was what Hannah wanted.”

“No,” you snapped, shaking your head, your backpack already in your hands before you realized you’d grabbed it. “They don’t get to decide that. They don’t get to play gatekeeper with my sister’s voice.”

“X—”

But you were already slinging the strap over your shoulder, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“I have to talk to Jess,” you bit out, storming past him toward the door.

Scott moved to follow, hesitated, then let you go — his face pale, regret etched deep into his expression.

You spotted Jess almost immediately. She was in the quad, sitting on the edge of a picnic table with Sheri and Zach, laughter spilling from her mouth like nothing in the world was wrong.

But the second her eyes found yours, the laughter died. Her shoulders tensed, her face fell, and guilt slid across her features like a shadow.

“Can we talk?” you asked, your voice tight, clipped.

The weight in your tone left no room for argument. Jess exchanged a quick glance with Sheri before hopping down from the table. “Yeah,” she said, quieter now.

You didn’t wait for her to follow. You led the way to the bleachers, the noise of the quad fading until there was only the sound of your footsteps crunching against gravel. You stopped beneath the metal frame, where the shadows stretched long and cool.

Jess shifted uneasily, arms crossed. “What’s going on?”

You didn’t waste a second. “I found out. About the tapes. About how you all listened before I even knew they existed.”

Her eyes shut for a moment like you’d physically struck her. When they opened again, they shimmered with something raw. “It wasn’t like that—”

“No?” Your voice cut sharp through the air. “Then explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, it feels like everyone I trusted most decided to lie to me.”

Jess flinched. “We didn’t lie. We were protecting you.”

“Protecting me from what? From Hannah?” Your chest heaved as you stepped closer, anger lacing with grief. “From the sound of her saying she didn’t hate me? From the truth that she loved me, even after I said something awful?”

Jess’s lips trembled, her voice breaking as she answered. “We were scared, okay? You were falling apart, X. You barely left your room. You wouldn’t eat, you wouldn’t talk. Hannah told Tony she didn’t want you to hear her voice too soon. She was worried you’d… break.”

Your hands clenched at your sides, shaking. “But it wasn’t your choice to make. It was mine. Those were her words. My sister’s. And you kept them from me.”

Jess swallowed hard, tears pricking at her eyes now. “I know. And I hate that it hurt you. But I swear, I thought I was doing the right thing. We all did.”

Your voice cracked, hot tears sliding down your face before you could stop them. “You let me believe I was the reason she died. Every single day, I thought it was my fault. And you could’ve stopped that.”

Jess stepped closer, hesitantly reaching out. Her fingers brushed your sleeve. “You think I don’t know how much that hurts? I live with my own tape every single day. It haunts me. And I didn’t want you to feel that weight before you were ready.”

You jerked your arm away. “You’re not my sister. You don’t get to make that call.”

She stared at the ground, broken. “I know. I know we messed up.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

Jess’s voice was a whisper now, shaky. “I still am. And I’m sorry, X. Truly. But if it meant giving you even a few more days not drowning in that guilt, I’d do it again.”

The words cut deep.

You blinked rapidly, but the tears kept coming. “But I was drowning. Every goddamn day.”

Jess’s face crumpled. “Then I failed you.”

For a moment, you let her hand rest on your sleeve again, neither of you speaking. Her eyes begged for forgiveness you couldn’t give.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please… let us try to fix this.”

You pulled back, shaking your head. Because even with her apology, even with her touch, a part of you had never felt more alone.

By the time you made it back to Scott’s place, your body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. Every muscle ached, every thought replayed the fight under the bleachers until your head pounded.

Scott didn’t ask questions when you walked in. He didn’t push for details. He just closed the door behind you and followed you upstairs.

You sat curled on the edge of his bed, your backpack sliding to the floor with a heavy thump. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, your hands digging into the blanket beneath you.

He sat down beside you, close but not crowding, his presence steady. For a while, the only sound was the muffled hum of traffic outside.

Finally, he broke the silence. His voice was quiet, almost careful. “I shouldn’t have told you like that. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head slowly, still staring at your hands. “I’m not mad at you.” Your voice came out hoarse, worn. “Not really.”

“You’re allowed to be,” he said gently.

Your throat tightened. “I just… I didn’t want to be the last one to know.”

At that, Scott reached for you, his arm looping around your waist. He pulled you into him until your head rested against his shoulder. His chest rose and fell under your cheek, steady and grounding.

“You weren’t the last,” he murmured into your hair. “You were the one she trusted most.”

The words cracked something open in you. Your eyes burned, but you didn’t fight the tears this time. You let them come, quiet and shaky, while Scott’s thumb rubbed small circles into your arm.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, the warmth of it settling deep into you. “You’re not alone,” he whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”

For once, your tears weren’t only about pain. They were about being held. About someone staying.

And in Scott’s arms, the storm inside you finally slowed to a quiet rain.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there, pressed against Scott’s chest. Time felt strange these days — slippery, untrustworthy. Sometimes minutes stretched into hours; sometimes hours vanished before you could catch them.

Scott didn’t rush you. He just held you, solid and steady, like he was built for this. His arms around you weren’t heavy; they were grounding. Like if the world kept spinning out of control, he’d be the one thing that stayed.

Eventually, he shifted, tugging the blanket from the foot of the bed and pulling it up over both of you. He lay back against the headboard, drawing you with him until your body was sprawled across his chest, your ear resting on the steady thud of his heartbeat.

The sound anchored you. The rhythm reminded you that, somehow, life kept moving forward — even when you weren’t sure you wanted it to.

“You know,” Scott said softly after a while, his fingers tracing slow circles into your back, “you’re stronger than you think.”

A tired, humorless laugh left your throat. “Don’t feel like it.”

“That’s because you don’t see what I see.” His voice was firm but gentle, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to say this. “You keep getting up every day, even when you don’t want to. You faced Jess today. You didn’t hide. You didn’t run. That’s strength.”

You shook your head against him, muttering, “More like stupidity.”

Scott huffed out a laugh. “Then it’s the kind of stupidity I’m proud of.”

That pulled a small smile out of you despite the weight in your chest. “You sound like one of those motivational posters. You know, with the sunsets and bold letters.”

Scott grinned, his chest rumbling beneath your ear. “Then frame me on your wall.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes, but your smile grew. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you love me.”

There was no teasing in his tone, no question either. Just quiet certainty.

You lifted your head slightly, meeting his eyes. His face was soft in the dim light of his room, his blue eyes steady on you. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I do.”

Scott’s lips curved into the smallest smile before he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because I love you too.”

The words didn’t feel heavy or scary. They felt like air, like something your lungs had been aching for without knowing it.

You settled back down against him, your hand curling in the fabric of his shirt. The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t sharp. It was soft, warm, filled with unspoken things you didn’t need to put into words.

Your eyelids grew heavier with each slow stroke of Scott’s hand across your back. Exhaustion tugged at you, the kind that came after days of carrying grief like a boulder strapped to your chest.

Just before you slipped into sleep, you whispered, almost too quiet: “Don’t let go.”

Scott kissed the top of your head. “Never,” he promised. His voice was steady, certain.

And this time, when sleep finally pulled you under, there were no nightmares. Just warmth, and the sound of his heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Words~3620

—-

The morning of Hannah’s funeral broke with a sky the color of ash. Heavy clouds sagged low over Evergreen, swallowing the light, as if the whole town was bracing for the weight of the day.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d lain awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling in Scott’s room, listening to the hum of his ceiling fan. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Hannah’s face, heard her voice, replayed all the ways you could’ve stopped this if only you had been better. Kinder. Louder.

Scott hadn’t said much, but he’d been there. That was enough. At some point, when your chest was tight with everything you couldn’t name, he had squeezed your hand and whispered, “You don’t have to say anything. Just feel it. Whatever it is.”

Now you stood in front of the mirror in your room, wearing the black suit Hannah used to tease you about. “You’ll never wear that,” she’d said once, laughing as she tugged at the stiff collar. “You look like you’re auditioning for some bad detective movie.” You’d rolled your eyes then. Now the memory was a knife you couldn’t pull out.

Your tie wouldn’t sit right. Your hands trembled too much.

“Here.” Scott’s voice came from behind you, soft but steady. He stepped close, gently brushing your hands aside. His fingers worked the fabric into place, smoothing the knot, tugging your collar straight. His blue eyes met yours in the mirror, steady as ever.

“There,” he said. “Perfect.”

You swallowed hard. “Doesn’t feel perfect.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “Doesn’t have to. Just has to be you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His hand lingered at your collarbone, grounding you in a way words couldn’t.

You exhaled shakily, nodding once. “Thanks.”

Scott didn’t say anything, but when you finally picked up your coat, his hand brushed against yours, and he held on.

The two of you walked downstairs together, your parents already waiting by the door, your mother clutching a small black clutch in one hand and tissues in the other. Her eyes were rimmed red, her face pale. Your father stood tall, his jaw locked, the grief hidden behind a wall you couldn’t reach.

No one spoke on the drive to the church. The silence was thick, broken only by the hum of the car’s engine and the occasional sniffle from the passenger seat.

You pressed your shoulder into Scott’s the whole way there, as if maybe you could borrow some of his steadiness for what was coming.

When the car finally pulled into the church lot, your heart sank. Rows of black suits and dresses blurred together in the gray morning. Faces turned as you stepped out. Some whispered. Others just stared.

Scott’s hand slipped into yours. Warm. Firm. Solid.

You squeezed back, drawing in one deep breath. Then another.

And together, you climbed the steps.

The heavy wooden doors creaked as you stepped inside. The sanctuary smelled faintly of lilies and polished wood, the kind of scent that clung to every funeral you’d ever been to. The light filtering through the stained-glass windows painted the pews in muted colors, but nothing could disguise how gray the world felt.

You followed your parents down the aisle, Scott at your side. His hand brushed against yours, not grabbing this time, just a quiet reminder: I’m here.

The front row was waiting. You slid into your seat between your parents, the wood hard and unwelcoming beneath you. Your mom clutched her tissue so tightly you thought it might rip. Her shoulders shook every now and then. Your dad sat stiff, hands folded tightly in his lap, his gaze locked on the altar like he could keep himself from falling apart if he didn’t blink.

You felt like a ghost, sitting there in your too-tight suit, your stomach twisted into knots.

Behind you, the sound of familiar voices murmured low. When you glanced back, you saw them: Clay, shoulders slumped but eyes burning with grief; Jess, clutching Sheri’s hand; Justin and Tony, theirs heads bowed, jaws tight. They all looked up when you turned, their faces full of recognition and sorrow. No words were exchanged. They weren’t needed.

More faces blurred together as you scanned the room — classmates, teachers, neighbors, people who’d once just been background in your life but who now seemed to share the same hollow silence.

And then the whispers started. Not cruel, not sharp. Just hushed voices bouncing off the walls.

“Is that her brother?”
“Poor family…”
“He looks so young.”

Each word felt like a spotlight. Like the whole church was pressing in on you.

Scott leaned closer, his shoulder pressing into yours, and whispered, “Ignore it. Just breathe.”

You nodded faintly, forcing one shaky breath in, one out.

The minister cleared his throat from the podium, his voice solemn but gentle as it filled the room:

“We’re here today not to explain. Not to try and understand what we may never fully comprehend. We’re here to remember. To love. To say goodbye.”

The sanctuary fell silent again.

Scott’s hand brushed yours once more, this time lacing his fingers with yours as the first hymn began.

The minister’s words faded, replaced by a silence so heavy it pressed down on your chest. When he finally said, “Scott Reed will begin,” you felt Scott’s hand squeeze yours once before he let go.

You watched him stand, tall and steady in his black suit, though you knew his heart was racing. He walked up the aisle, every step echoing against the wooden floor until he reached the podium. For a moment, he didn’t speak—just stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to the stained glass above before settling on the crowd.

“Most of you knew Hannah from school,” he began, his voice low but clear. “You remember her smile, her sarcasm, the way she rolled her eyes in English class when she thought the teacher was being ridiculous.”

A ripple of quiet laughter broke the tension, but it was tinged with sadness.

Scott nodded faintly, his lips curving into a small smile. “I didn’t know her well at first. Not really. We weren’t friends right away.” He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck briefly before going on. “The first real conversation I had with her was… tense.”

More curious glances.

He looked down, smiling faintly at the memory. “I was at her house for the first time, meeting her parents. And she said, right in front of everyone—and I quote—‘If you hurt him, I will find a way to kick your ass. Cinema strength is a real thing.’”

The room broke into laughter this time, the kind that carried relief with it. Even your mom’s shoulders shook with a watery smile, her tissue pressed to her face.

Scott chuckled softly, then continued. “And honestly? I was terrified. Not because I thought she couldn’t do it, but because I could see how much she loved her brother. How much she was willing to do to protect him. That’s the kind of sister Hannah was.”

Your throat tightened as his eyes flicked to you.

“She didn’t trust me right away,” Scott went on, voice growing quieter. “But eventually… she saw. She saw how much he meant to me. She stopped threatening me, and that felt like progress.”

More soft laughter. Then silence again.

Scott swallowed hard, gripping the edges of the podium. “Hannah had fire. She could light up a room—sometimes with joy, sometimes with anger. But she was never invisible. She was never small. And I wish… I wish she could’ve seen how much space she took up in our lives. How much she mattered. How much she still matters.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. He paused, lowering his head for a moment, then straightened again, meeting the crowd with teary but steady eyes.

“I admired her honesty. She said what she felt. She protected what mattered. She made you feel seen.”

For a moment, the church was utterly still. Then Scott stepped back, his eyes finding yours one last time as he returned to his seat.

When he sat beside you, you immediately reached for his hand. It was warm, trembling slightly, but strong. He gave you a small smile, the kind that said, your turn is coming.

The minister’s nod landed on you like a weight. For a heartbeat, you couldn’t move. Your knees felt glued to the pew, your chest locked tight.

Then Scott’s hand pressed against yours again, warm, steady, a lifeline. You drew in one jagged breath, let it out, and forced yourself to stand.

The aisle stretched out like a tunnel as you walked. The hush of the sanctuary wrapped around you, heavy, suffocating. You caught flashes of faces — teachers, neighbors, classmates. Tony sat in the back row, his sharp suit neat, his eyes burning with quiet support when they met yours. Jess, Sheri, Justin, Clay — all sat together, watching you with varying shades of grief and guilt in their eyes.

When you reached the podium, your hands clutched the wood so tightly your knuckles whitened. The microphone felt too close, the silence too loud.

“Thank you,” you began, your voice cracking. You swallowed and tried again, stronger. “Thank you to everyone who came. And especially… to those who’ve stayed.”

Your gaze flicked briefly toward Jess and Sheri. Then Clay. Then Justin. Then Tony. Each of them carried something different in their faces: sorrow, guilt, solidarity.

Your throat burned as you forced the next words out. “I don’t really know how to do this. How to stand here and tell you who Hannah was. To me, she was… everything. My sister. My best friend. The person who could annoy me more than anyone and still be the only person I wanted around.”

The air felt thinner the longer you spoke, but you didn’t stop.

“We fought,” you admitted. “A lot. And the last fight we had…” Your chest tightened, words catching. “I told her I wished she wasn’t my sister. And that’s the last thing I said to her when she was alive.”

The silence was deafening. A tissue rustled somewhere in the crowd. Your mom’s shoulders shook quietly beside your dad.

“I carried that like a stone in my chest. I still do. But I know now… it wasn’t the thing that broke her. It wasn’t what defined us. Because Hannah forgave like she breathed. She loved harder than anyone I’ve ever known.”

You had to stop and brace your hands on the podium as your knees wobbled. Tears blurred your vision, but you fought to keep going.

“She left behind questions. And pain. And guilt. But she also left behind memories. Her laugh. Her ridiculous dancing in the kitchen. Her midnight advice sessions that she delivered like sermons even when she had no clue what she was talking about.”

A shaky laugh left your throat. “Those are the things I’m holding onto. The things I’ll carry forward. Always.”

You hesitated, then turned your gaze deliberately to Scott. His eyes caught yours instantly, blue and steady, his lips trembling in the faintest smile.

“And to you…” Your voice cracked. You swallowed, forcing it steady again. “You saved me. You’ve been my anchor. My calm when everything around me was drowning. I love you. And I don’t know how I would’ve survived this without you.”

A ripple went through the room — murmurs, hushed gasps. Not of disapproval. Just surprise, soft and unspoken, like people realizing something they had never thought about before.

In the back, Tony straightened. His lips parted, but his expression was nothing but supportive. He didn’t look shocked. If anything, he looked proud.

You let out a long, unsteady breath, leaned into the microphone, and whispered, “Goodbye, Hannah.”

When you turned away from the podium, the room blurred into shapes and shadows. Every step back to your seat felt heavy, unsteady, but Scott’s hand was already reaching for yours when you sat down. He threaded his fingers through yours, squeezed hard, and leaned just close enough to whisper, “You did her proud.”

Your chest caved then. Tears fell freely. But for the first time since she’d died, you didn’t feel completely crushed by them.

You were still wiping your face when the minister called Jess forward. She hesitated for a moment, her hand tightening around Sheri’s before she stood. Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she walked up the aisle, chin high but eyes glassy.

When she reached the podium, she let out a shaky laugh. “I didn’t prepare anything,” she said, her voice carrying through the sanctuary. “Hannah wouldn’t have wanted us to, anyway. She would’ve hated this dress.”

A small ripple of bittersweet laughter moved through the pews. Even Sheri cracked a smile, dabbing at her eyes.

Jess tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and continued. “I miss her every day. Not just the big stuff—the birthdays, the holidays—but the small stuff. The way she made me feel braver than I was. Smarter than I thought I could be. More… real.”

She paused, swallowing hard.

Jess’s gaze swept across the crowd before landing on you. Her voice softened. “She loved you so much. She talked about you all the time. She used to say your bond was different. Something even she didn’t fully understand. But she respected it. She respected you.”

Your heart twisted, fresh tears blurring your vision.

Jess gripped the podium tighter. “Losing her didn’t just hurt—it changed me. It made me realize how much silence costs. How much damage pretending everything’s fine can do. I think the way we honor her is by not being silent anymore. By being better. Kinder. Louder when it matters.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she held herself steady. After a moment, she gave a small nod, wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, and stepped down.

As she walked back to her seat, Sheri reached out to squeeze her arm, pulling her close the moment she sat. Justin leaned forward from behind them, his hand brushing Jess’s shoulder briefly in quiet solidarity.

The church was silent again, but the air felt fuller, like her words had carved out space for the grief everyone had been holding too tightly.

Beside you, Scott leaned in close and whispered, “She’s right, you know. Hannah would’ve laughed at the dress.”

Despite everything, you almost smiled.

The minister gave a nod, and Clay rose from his seat. His movements were stiff, hesitant, like the floor beneath him might give way at any second. He kept his eyes low as he walked, his suit hanging awkwardly on his frame, his shoulders hunched under the weight of stares.

When he reached the podium, his hands latched onto the sides like they were the only things keeping him upright. For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence dragged, uncomfortable, but honest.

Then he lifted his head, eyes glassy. His voice was soft, cracked at the edges.

“The last time I danced with Hannah was to ‘The Night We Met.’” His throat caught around the words. “I didn’t know it would be the last dance. I didn’t know how little time we all had with her.”

You inhaled sharply, your chest tightening.

Clay’s voice wavered as he looked across the sanctuary. “I think the best way to remember her is to try to be more like her. To notice people. To listen when they’re hurting. To be bold. And maybe to forgive ourselves a little faster than we want to.”

He gripped the podium tighter, the muscles in his arms straining. “Because I haven’t forgiven myself. Not yet. Maybe I never fully will. But I’m going to try.”

Your eyes stayed fixed on him, more than on anyone else who had spoken so far. His words weren’t polished like Scott’s, or steady like Jess’s. They were raw, jagged, ripped out of someone who had loved your sister so much it hollowed him out to admit it.

And for the first time, it struck you fully: Clay hadn’t just liked Hannah. He hadn’t just been her friend. He loved her. You could see it in the way his voice cracked when he said her name, in the way his hands trembled against the podium, in the way his entire body seemed to sag under the grief of losing her.

It hit you like a slow, painful realization. He was in love with her. He probably had been for longer than he ever admitted to anyone — maybe even to himself.

Clay cleared his throat, his jaw tightening. He forced himself to keep going.

“She deserved so much better than what she got. We all failed her in some way. I failed her. And if I could do anything to change that…” He broke off, shaking his head. “But I can’t. None of us can. All we can do is carry her with us. Try to live in a way that would’ve made her feel seen.”

When he stepped back from the podium, his shoulders slumped. As he passed your row, his eyes flicked to you. For a heartbeat, you saw everything laid bare — sorrow, guilt, regret, and above all else, love. Love that had nowhere left to go.

And you realized, almost bitterly, that Hannah never knew just how much space she took up in his heart. Or maybe she did, and she never got the chance to tell him she felt it too.

You gave him the smallest nod, a silent acknowledgment: I see it. I know.

He returned to his seat, folding into himself, and Tony leaned forward from the back, his gaze fixed on you. He gave the tiniest nod, like he wanted to remind you that Clay wasn’t the only one who loved her fiercely.

Beside you, Scott’s thumb brushed steady circles against your hand, but your thoughts stayed on Clay — on the way love could linger long after the person was gone.

The service wasn’t over yet. After Clay’s words, the minister gave a soft nod toward your parents in the front row. Your mom squeezed your dad’s hand before standing, her tissue clutched tight, her steps slow but steady as she made her way up.

She didn’t need a microphone — her voice carried in that way only a mother’s could, even when it was trembling.

“Hannah was my daughter,” she began, her throat thick. “But she was also my friend. She had this way of turning the most ordinary moment into something you remembered forever. Making a mess in the kitchen just to bake cookies at midnight. Singing off-key in the car until we all laughed so hard we had to pull over. She lit up our home. And now…” Her voice broke, but she steadied herself. “Now the house is too quiet.”

You bit your lip until it hurt, watching your mom fold herself around the grief.

Your dad stood beside her, his presence grounding her as he took the podium. His voice was steadier, but his eyes shone. “Hannah was strong. Fierce. Smarter than she ever gave herself credit for. She asked hard questions, the ones adults often avoid, and she never let anyone off the hook. We didn’t always know how to answer her, but she made us better for trying.”

He stopped, cleared his throat, and then glanced at you before continuing. “And she loved her brother. More than she said out loud. She protected him in her own way. And I hope he remembers that love more than the fights, more than the words they wish they could take back. Because I know she does.”

The tears that spilled then weren’t just yours — they were Scott’s, Jess’s, Sheri’s, even Tony’s in the back row. The whole room seemed to lean into the pain together.

When your parents returned to their seats, the minister offered a prayer, and then the sanctuary dimmed. A projector hummed to life, casting the first image onto the white wall at the front.

Hannah, grinning with cake smeared on her face at her fifth birthday party. Hannah dressed as a witch for Halloween, your tiny hand clutching her candy bucket. Hannah at a school dance, throwing a peace sign at the camera, her smile just slightly crooked.

The photos rolled on — Christmas mornings, family vacations, goofy selfies she’d forced you into. Then there were ones that made your chest ache: Hannah in the kitchen with flour dusted across her cheeks. Hannah leaning against the counter with a notebook open, pretending she wasn’t writing poems she’d never show anyone. Hannah asleep on the couch, her head tipped against your shoulder.

Soft piano music filled the room, broken only by quiet sobs scattered through the pews.

By the time the slideshow ended, you could barely breathe. The minister closed the service with words about memory and healing, but they felt like background noise.

You found yourself outside, standing with Scott’s arm looped around your waist, the cold air shocking against your tear-warmed cheeks. Your parents stood close, shoulders bowed but together. Jess and Sheri lingered off to the side, holding each other up. Clay was quiet, his eyes fixed on the ground, while Tony hovered nearby, steady as ever.

The sky had begun to break, the thick ash-colored clouds parting just enough for pale sunlight to touch the church steps. It was faint, but it was there.

You exhaled, a shaky whisper barely leaving your lips. “Goodbye, Hannah.”

Scott’s hand tightened at your side. “She heard you.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe he might be right.

Chapter Text

Chapter~3515
—-

The silence after the funeral was unbearable.

It followed you everywhere, like a second shadow. At home, the house didn’t sound like a home anymore. No music from Hannah’s room. No sarcastic remarks tossed across the hallway. Just the dull hum of the refrigerator and the creak of the stairs under your own feet.

Even the walls felt heavy, as if they’d absorbed the grief that filled every corner.

You hadn’t spoken much since that day. Not to your parents, not even to Scott. The car ride home from the funeral had been nearly wordless—just your pinky brushing against his on the center console, a small anchor in an ocean of silence. You didn’t know how to talk when every word seemed to splinter in your chest before it even reached your lips.

At school, people whispered. Teachers gave you softer glances, classmates stared a little too long. You hated it, the way they looked at you like you were made of glass, like you’d shatter if they said the wrong thing. But maybe they weren’t wrong. You did feel fragile. Breakable. Like a single wrong word might be the one that undid you completely.

Then, in the middle of that silence, came the announcement.

The Autumn Ball.

You saw the flyer tacked onto the bulletin board outside the library. Bright orange leaves. Gold lettering. “Friday, October 19th.” A tradition. Hannah used to roll her eyes at it every year, calling it a “corny excuse for bad punch and worse music.” But you remembered the way she always went anyway. How she’d spend hours agonizing over which dress made her look “cool enough” but “not like she cared.” She pretended to hate it, but you knew she secretly loved the magic of the lights, the decorations, the chance to belong.

Now the thought of going made your stomach twist. But it also pulled at something deep inside you—a need to show up. To remember her not just in grief, but in the places she left her laughter too.

That night, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the flyer folded in your hand. Scott leaned against your doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching you.

“You thinking about going?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, not looking up. “I don’t know if I can.”

He was quiet for a moment, then walked in and sat beside you. His shoulder brushed yours, warm and steady. “Then we’ll go together. If it’s too much, we leave. No questions asked. No judgment. Just us.”

You finally looked at him. His eyes were steady, patient in that way only he could be.

The day of the ball crept up faster than you thought it would. All week you kept telling yourself you might back out, that maybe you’d skip it altogether. But Friday arrived, and there you were, pulling the black suit from the back of your closet, the one Hannah used to tease you for keeping “just in case you got fancy.”

The fabric smelled faintly of cedar from the hanger, stiff from not being worn enough. You smoothed your hands over the jacket, checking the mirror. Your tie hung loosely in your grip—dark green, simple, something Hannah had once said matched your eyes better than anything else.

Your hands shook as you tried to knot it.

A knock came at the door. Then Scott’s voice. “Sam? You ready?”

You opened it and froze.

Scott stood there in a charcoal-gray suit, the silver tie perfectly knotted at his throat. His hair was neat, the kind of neat that you knew had taken him way too long in the mirror, but it worked. He looked older, sharper, but still so completely Scott.

“Wow,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

He grinned, tugging at his tie like it was choking him. “You look… breathtaking.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You clean up well, Scotty.”

“Trying to keep up with you, Baker,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his.

He noticed your tie still hanging loose in your hands. “Need help?”

You hesitated, then handed it over. He stepped closer, looping the fabric with practiced ease, his fingers brushing your collarbone as he worked. You tried not to shiver at the touch, but your heart beat faster anyway.

“There,” he said, straightening the knot. “Perfect.”

You met his eyes, and for a second, the weight of grief lifted, replaced by something lighter, something steadier.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” you admitted. “But let’s go anyway.”

Scott smiled gently and reached for your hand, giving it a squeeze before leading you toward the door.

The night had begun.

The gym didn’t look like the gym.

Usually it smelled faintly of sweat and floor polish, the bleachers shoved back, the air echoing with sneakers squeaking against the court. But tonight, it had been transformed. White string lights crisscrossed the ceiling like stars. Paper leaves in orange, gold, and red dangled overhead, swaying whenever the doors opened and a draft slipped inside. The floor had been polished until it gleamed, and the punch table sparkled with too much glitter.

It was beautiful. Corny, like Hannah always said. But beautiful.

Scott squeezed your hand as you both walked in. “Not bad, huh?”

You gave a small, crooked smile. “She would’ve hated it. And then secretly loved it.”

He chuckled. “That sounds about right.”

Justin spotted you first. He broke away from a group of basketball players and pulled you into a bear hug that nearly knocked the air from your lungs. “Glad you came, man,” he said, his voice rough in a way he didn’t let many people hear.

Jess was next. She grabbed your hand and held it tight, her eyes glassy with unspoken things. She didn’t say them—not here, not in the middle of the gym—but the way her thumb rubbed over your knuckles said enough.

Sheri gave you a soft smile from beside her, her presence like sunlight even in the dim gym. And Clay… Clay just nodded. Quiet, but firm. It was the kind of nod that said I see you. I’m glad you’re here.

The DJ cycled through songs, some fast, some slow. Laughter floated from the dance floor, the edges of joy and grief blurring together. You tried to let yourself sink into it—the decorations, the small talk, the warmth of Scott’s hand in yours—but beneath it all, a heaviness lingered.

Because you knew it was only a matter of time before something broke through.

And then the first few chords hit.

That song. The Night We Met.

You froze.

Scott felt it instantly. His thumb stopped moving against your palm. Across the room, you saw Clay’s head snap up, his shoulders tightening. Jess reached for his arm, her face folding with pain. The ripple spread—anyone who knew, who remembered, felt the air shift.

Your throat closed. The lights blurred. The music that once belonged to you and Hannah now felt like it was tearing you in two.

You dropped Scott’s hand. And you ran.

Out through the double doors, across the courtyard, into the October night.

The cold air cut against your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache. Nothing was.

The October night was sharp with cold, the kind that stung your cheeks and made your breath puff white into the darkness. The courtyard stretched out in silence, the faint orange glow of streetlamps painting the snow-dusted ground in uneven circles of light.

You stopped beneath one, leaning hard against the lamppost, your hands gripping the cold metal like it could anchor you. But it couldn’t. The music still carried through the doors behind you—muted now, but unmistakable. The Night We Met.

Your chest felt like it was collapsing. That song wasn’t just a melody. It was Hannah. It was the nights you both lay on her bedroom floor, inventing stories about faceless lovers in the lyrics. It was the promise that even in heartbreak, beauty existed. You once told her it sounded like grief written as music. And now it was your grief.

Your fists clenched until your knuckles ached. Tears blurred your vision, freezing almost instantly against your cheeks.

“Sam?”

Scott’s voice. Soft. Careful.

You didn’t turn. “I can’t—” Your words cracked. “I can’t stay in there. Not with that song.”

Footsteps crunched on the snow. Then Scott was there, just behind you, his presence radiating warmth even in the frozen air.

“I know,” he said quietly. “She told me it was your favorite. Said she’d catch you humming it in your sleep sometimes.”

Your throat tightened. “She told you that?”

He nodded, his eyes gentle when you finally glanced at him. “She wanted me to know the little things about you. The ones you don’t always share.”

That broke something in you. A sob clawed up your chest, and you pressed the back of your hand against your mouth to keep it from spilling too loudly into the night.

Scott didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer and pulled you against him. His arms wrapped firm around your shoulders, his chin brushing the top of your head. “She asked me to protect you,” he whispered. “To make you laugh when it felt impossible. To never let you forget how much you love, even when it hurts.”

You shook against him, the words spilling out raw. “I don’t want to forget her, Scotty. Ever. But I don’t know how to keep living with this.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, snowflakes catching in his hair. “You won’t forget her. We’ll remember her together.”

The song still played faintly through the walls. Scott reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. A few taps, and the opening chords echoed again—clear, steady, this time just for the two of you.

He extended his hand. “Dance with me.”

You blinked at him, tears hot against your cold skin. “Out here? In the snow?”

“Right now,” he said firmly. “With the snow. With this song. With everything.”

You hesitated only a second before taking his hand. His fingers curled tight around yours, and he drew you close, his free hand resting warm at your back.

The world shrank. No gym. No whispers. No grief heavy enough to choke you. Just his heartbeat against your cheek, steady as the music swelled.

You swayed together under the lamplight, your bodies moving slow, unhurried, as snowflakes spiraled down around you. The cold bit at your skin, but you didn’t care. Because for the first time in weeks, you felt tethered. Safe.

“I used to think I was too broken to love right,” you murmured into his chest.

Scott’s hand slid up, tangling briefly in your hair before settling back at your nape. “Then we’ll be broken together,” he said softly. “Piece by piece, we’ll figure it out. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes stung again, but this time it wasn’t just pain—it was something else. Something lighter.

“She once told me,” you said, voice trembling, “if I ever fell in love, it should be with someone who looks at me like I hung the stars.”

Scott leaned back just enough for your eyes to meet his. His blue gaze was fierce, tender. “That’s exactly how I look at you, Sam.”

The air left your lungs in a shaky laugh. “I’m afraid, Scotty. Every day. Of forgetting her. Of losing you too.”

“You won’t lose me,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. “I’ll be here. For every storm, every scar, every moment you just need someone to breathe beside you.”

Your lips met his then—soft at first, trembling from the cold, but deepening into something steady, something alive. A kiss not just of grief but of survival, of promise.

The song ended, but neither of you pulled away. You kept swaying, moving to a silence filled with ghosts and love alike.

Snow piled gently on your shoulders, melting against the warmth of your bodies. And for the first time since Hannah left, you felt like maybe you could carry her with you—not as a weight, but as a light.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your forehead still pressed to his. “For loving me when I couldn’t love myself.”

“I always will,” he murmured back. “For every song. Every snowfall. Every sleepless night. Always.”

You stayed like that until the cold finally sank through your coats. When you pulled back, your breath hitched on a soft laugh. “We should probably go back inside before people think we eloped or something.”

Scott grinned, brushing a snowflake from your hair. “Come on, let’s go show them we’re still standing.”

Hand in hand, you walked back toward the glowing gym, the music inside shifting to something faster, lighter. But the echo of your dance lingered—like Hannah had been there too, watching, smiling, still with you.

The warmth of the gym hit you instantly as the doors swung open. The buzz of voices, the thump of bass from the speakers, the swirl of lights—it was almost jarring after the quiet snowfall outside. You blinked, snow still melting in your hair, Scott’s hand still firm in yours.

It didn’t take long for people to notice. Heads turned. Whispers traveled like sparks. But you kept walking, chin high, the warmth of Scott’s palm grounding you through every stare.

Jess was the first to break from the crowd. “There you are!” She rushed up, relief flashing across her face. “We were starting to think you’d run off to Vegas.”

You laughed weakly, your voice still raw. “Just needed some air. And… a dance.”

Her brows shot up. “A dance? In this weather?”

Scott grinned, not letting go of your hand. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

Justin groaned dramatically. “Oh my god. You two are unreal. Scotty, you can be so damn happy you pulled him. Like—seriously—look at him. That’s your W, man.”

Scott’s grin widened. “Trust me, I know. Feels like winning state championships all over again—just better.”

Justin barked a laugh and shook his head. “Classic Reed. Still gotta flex like a jock.”

Scott shrugged, puffing his chest just slightly. “What can I say? Old habits. You get the touchdown, you flex. You get the guy, you flex harder.”

You raised a brow, smirking. “Wow. So I’m just the random hot girl you brag about in the locker room?”

Scott glanced down at you, eyes mischievous. “Nah. You’re the hot girl everyone’s jealous I actually bagged.”

Justin howled, doubling over. “Man, he’s still got those lines in him. Straight boy energy never dies!”

Jess smacked Justin’s chest, rolling her eyes, though her lips twitched with a smile. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m just saying,” Justin teased. “If I talked about Jess like that, I’d be in the doghouse for a week. But you two? Y’all make it look cute.”

Sheri giggled, shaking her head. “Honestly, it is kind of cute. Even if it sounds like you’re both trapped in a bad rom-com.”

You shoved Scott lightly in the chest. “I can’t believe I let you talk about me like I’m some trophy.”

Scott leaned down, close enough for only you to really hear. “Not a trophy. My win. Biggest one of my life.”

Your heart clenched at the warmth in his voice, even through the playful smirk.

The group laughed together, the heaviness of the night easing just a little.

Even Clay, who had been lingering at the edge, gave a small, knowing nod. His eyes held something unspoken—pain, yes, but also understanding. Like he’d seen Hannah in the music too.

For a moment, the grief in the room softened. The lights sparkled overhead, laughter bubbled near the dance floor, and Scott’s thumb brushed lazy circles against the back of your hand.

It wasn’t joy—not fully. But it was peace. A fragile, fleeting kind of peace you hadn’t felt in weeks.

And for now, it was enough.

The night crept on, the gym glowing under strands of fairy lights that seemed to shimmer softer as the crowd thinned. The playlist had shifted to faster tracks now—pulsing beats, students laughing louder as they tried to wring the last drops of energy from the evening.

But you and Scott stayed anchored near the edge of the dance floor, your group gathered close. It wasn’t about the music anymore. It was about the way Justin kept cracking jokes, the way Jess kept shaking her head but laughing anyway, the way Sheri’s smile felt like sunlight after weeks of rain.

“You two are disgustingly in love,” Justin announced suddenly, pointing his soda can at you and Scott like it was evidence.

Scott didn’t miss a beat. “Better than you flexing about your girl every five minutes.”

Justin grinned. “Hey, I earned that flex.” He gave Jess a dramatic side-hug. “She’s way out of my league, and I make sure everyone knows it.”

Jess rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “You’re lucky I like you, Foley.”

Scott smirked. “See? Straight guy energy.”

You snorted, elbowing Scott lightly. “Guess I’m the Jess in this situation, huh?”

Scott leaned down close, murmuring, “More like the only one I’d ever brag about.”

Jess groaned dramatically. “Okay, stop. I refuse to be the benchmark for your cheesy couple talk.”

Sheri giggled. “It’s still sweet. I don’t think Hannah would’ve minded hearing it, either.”

That pulled the laughter down a notch. The group quieted, the mention of Hannah’s name rippling through the air. But instead of leaving an ache, it settled with warmth this time—like a candle being lit, not blown out.

Clay, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. “She’d be glad you came tonight. All of you. That you’re still laughing. Still living.” His eyes flicked to you. “That you’re still here.”

The words lodged deep in your chest, but instead of breaking you, they steadied you. Scott’s hand slid into yours again, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin.

The DJ announced the last song of the night, some upbeat pop track that had half the gym rushing back to the dance floor. Your group stayed where you were, exchanging tired smiles, the kind that said everything without needing words.

When the lights finally came up, you all walked out together—shoulders brushing, laughter trailing behind you into the cool night air.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were walking alone.

By the time Scott dropped you off at his place, the night felt heavier than the suit jacket hanging off your shoulders. The Autumn Ball had drained you—grief and laughter pulling at you in equal measure until all you wanted was quiet.

Scott’s room was dim, the streetlight outside casting soft shadows across the walls. You tugged off your tie and kicked your shoes into a corner while Scott disappeared into the bathroom to wash up. When he returned, hoodie on, hair slightly damp, you were already stretched across his bed.

He flopped down beside you with a sigh, one arm immediately wrapping around your waist and tugging you against him. The warmth of his chest pressed against your back, steady and grounding.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of his breathing behind you, the rise and fall syncing with your own.

Then, with a quiet chuckle, you broke the silence. “You know… tonight proved something.”

Scott hummed, half-asleep already. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“That even though you’re the sweet boyfriend everyone swears is secretly a golden retriever,” you teased, turning your head just enough to smirk at him, “you still have some straight macho jock mannerisms in you.”

His eyes cracked open, brows furrowing in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

“Uh-huh,” you continued, grinning now. “The way you puffed out your chest when Justin said you pulled me. Or when you compared being with me to winning state championships? Classic straight-boy flex. Very… ‘locker room brag.’”

Scott laughed, hiding his face in the pillow. “Okay, guilty. Maybe I’ve still got some of that in me.”

“Some?” you shot back. “Babe, for a second I felt like one of those random hot girls jocks talk about just to sound cool.”

He rolled onto his back, laughter shaking his shoulders. “Wow. So now I’m reduced to caveman compliments?”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, smirking down at him. “Pretty much.”

Scott reached up, tugging you closer until you were half sprawled across his chest. “Well, if I still sound like a jock, it’s only because you really are the hottest guy in the room—and I’ll flex about that for the rest of my life.”

Your smirk softened into something smaller, warmer. “Okay, that was actually smooth.”

“See? Growth,” he teased, kissing your temple.

You let yourself relax against him fully then, the weight of the night finally lifting enough to let you breathe. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, grounding you in a way words never could.

“Goodnight, Scotty,” you whispered.

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured back, his arm tightening around you.

And in that cocoon of warmth and banter, you finally let yourself sleep.

Chapter Text

Words~1272

---

The drive home from the Winter Ball was silent, but not in a cold way.
Scott's hand never left yours, his thumb tracing soft circles into your skin, like he was anchoring you to something real and warm. Snow fell in lazy spirals across the windshield, softening the world into a quieter place. It was the kind of silence you could rest in—if only for a moment.

When you got to your house, the porch light was on, but the street was empty, wrapped in late-night stillness. You both stood there for a second, neither of you moving.

"You okay?" Scott asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, then shook your head. "I don't know. I'm just… full, I guess."

Scott gave a quiet smile. "Me too."

Inside, the house was dim. The hallway lamp cast long shadows, and your breath still fogged faintly from the cold. You kicked off your shoes and hung up your coat, waiting for the silence to settle in again. But it didn’t. Scott was still right behind you.

He reached for your hand again. "Come on."

You followed him upstairs to your room. There was nothing planned, nothing dramatic. Just two people trying to breathe in the same space, trying to hold each other up without saying the wrong thing.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, rubbing your arms. He crouched in front of you, meeting your gaze.
"Do you want me to stay tonight?"

Your voice came out softer than you’d meant. "Please."

Scott nodded, kicked off his shoes, and sat beside you.
"It was a good night," he said gently. "But I saw it in your eyes. That song… it meant something different to you."

"To both of us," you replied. "It was one of the only songs Hannah and I could both listen to without fighting over the aux. We used to sit in the dark and let it play when things got too loud."

Scott leaned his head against yours. "I get it."

You let out a breath.
"Sometimes I still wait for her to walk through the door. To yell at me for using her shampoo or leaving dishes in the sink."

He didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you close.

You sat like that for a long while. The room was warm now. Still, but not hollow.

"You always know when I’m about to fall apart," you said, cheek pressed to his chest.

"You're not falling apart," he murmured. "You're carrying too much. Let me hold some of it."

The tears didn’t come in a wave this time. They slipped out quietly, like the snow drifting outside your window.

Scott leaned back, pulling you down beside him. You curled into each other, limbs tangling naturally. He held you like the moment was sacred, like this—right here—was the part that mattered most.

Your hand found his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath your palm. He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering along your jaw.

"I love you, you know," you whispered.

He inhaled softly.
"I know. And I love you back. Every messed-up, hurting, beautiful part of you."

You closed your eyes, pressed your forehead to his.
"I don’t know where I’d be without you."

He kissed your temple. "Probably still trying to fight the world alone."

"Probably."

You shifted slightly, facing him more fully. The warmth between you deepened—your legs brushing, your fingers grazing, then interlacing again. There was no rush. No pressure.

His thumb drew slow, thoughtful lines over your knuckles, then your wrist, then your jaw. Your eyes stayed locked in the low light, full of everything neither of you needed to say out loud.

He leaned in again—forehead, cheek, corner of your mouth. Finally, your lips met in a kiss that was less about hunger and more about meaning.

Long. Slow. Soft.
You kissed like nothing else mattered.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you still stayed close. Foreheads pressed together, heat growing between your bodies.

"You have no idea what you do to me," Scott whispered.

You smiled. "I think I do. It’s the same thing you do to me."

The bed shifted as he pulled the blanket over both of your bodies. You lay face to face, only your boxers remaining between skin and skin.

"Can I just hold you for a while?" he asked, voice reverent.

You nodded and wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him closer. He sighed into your neck, his breath warm and slow.

There was something sacred in the way you explored each other—with care, not urgency. Hands wandered gently over fabric and skin, loosening clothes not out of haste, but with the desire to feel. To be close.

Your fingers grazed over his chest, gently tracing his nipples. You felt the way his breath caught at your touch, the way he leaned into your hand. Slowly, you moved downward, brushing along the ridges of his abs—lean and defined, but not overly muscular. Just him. Just enough.

You slipped your hand into his boxers and found him already hard, warm, and pulsing. About seven inches—thick and smooth. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, teasing him with just the edge of your touch.

"Is that okay?" you whispered.

Scott moaned softly, his head tipping back slightly as he nodded, lips parted.
"God, yes."

"Sit up," you whispered, withdrawing just enough. Scott obeyed, sitting upright as you peeled back the blanket and slid his boxers down, exposing all of him.

You couldn't help but grin, taking in the sight of him.
"You really are a masterpiece."

Scott chuckled breathlessly. "Please, X… don’t edge me like that."

You leaned in for one last hot kiss, full of promise, before you lowered your mouth to him. You started slow—soft licks and kisses along his length, swirling your tongue around the head like you were savoring a sweet. Then, gradually, you took more of him into your mouth.

Your tongue moved in lazy circles as you eased him deeper, using your warm saliva to coat him, making everything slick and easy. It took practice, sure—but you’d learned exactly how to handle him, how to breathe, how to relax.

Scott moaned louder, one hand gripping the sheets while the other found your hair, fingers curling just enough to guide, not control.
"Fuck… I love you so much."

You bobbed your head slowly, then with increasing rhythm, letting him gently thrust into your mouth. You could feel his muscles tightening, his breath hitching. Your hand reached down and cradled his balls—his weakness—gently rolling them in your palm as you sucked harder.

"I’m close," he panted.

You mumbled, "Me too," around his cock, still deep in your mouth. You could feel it—him swelling, pulsing, every nerve drawn tight.

And then he came—hot, thick, and sudden. You swallowed instinctively, moaning as you felt him spill down your throat. At the same time, you came, untouched, spilling across your own stomach and sheets, driven entirely by the intimacy of the moment.

You kept sucking, gently now, drawing out every last pulse, until he was twitching and sensitive and pulling you up by your shoulders.

You wiped the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, then leaned in to kiss him again, deep and messy.

"I love you more than anything on this goddamn earth," you murmured.

"I love you even more," he whispered, pulling you into a tight, protective hug.

"Please never let go of me," you said softly, resting against his chest.

"Never," he whispered back.

---

Chapter Text

Words~3387

—-

The sun had barely broken the horizon when you stirred, the pale light slipping through the blinds and brushing across Scott’s room. His arm was still wrapped firmly around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, the steady rhythm of his breathing anchoring you to the moment. The world felt still—no noise, no rush, just the quiet warmth of the boy you loved.

For a while, you didn’t move. You traced the outline of his hand against your stomach, the faint callouses from baseball grounding you more than any words ever could. It was strange—how silence could hurt when you were alone, but with him, it felt safe.

He shifted behind you, letting out a soft groan as he blinked awake. “Morning,” he mumbled, voice low and gravelly.

“Morning,” you whispered back.

For a moment, the two of you just lay there, breathing in sync. You didn’t talk about last night, about the Autumn Ball, about the way grief had cracked you open and how he had held every broken piece. You didn’t need to. The silence between you was enough.

Eventually, Scott sighed and rolled onto his back, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “Game day,” he muttered.

You rolled to face him, propping your head on your hand. “Big game day.”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Gotta show up sharp. Can’t let the team down.”

You studied him quietly—the way his jaw was set already, the weight of expectation sitting heavy on his shoulders even before his feet hit the floor. He always carried so much, too much, and part of you wanted to take some of it for him.

Instead, you leaned in and kissed his cheek, soft and lingering. “You’ve already shown up,” you said. “That’s enough.”

His smirk softened into something smaller, something real. He reached up, brushing his thumb across your jaw. “Not for me. But thanks for saying it.”

You slid out of bed reluctantly, watching him sit up and reach for his jersey. The sight of him—half-dressed in his uniform, already tying his cleats, sipping from the black coffee he’d left on his nightstand—made your chest ache with both love and worry.

You wanted to tell him not to be so hard on himself. You wanted to remind him that no matter what happened out there, he was more than a game. But instead, you walked over, grabbed his duffel bag, and started slipping the gear inside, piece by piece.

He raised a brow at you, amused. “You don’t have to pack for me.”

“I know,” you said, zipping it shut. “But I want to.”

For a second, he just looked at you, like he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words. Then he leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “You’ll be there?”

“Front row,” you promised.

“Good,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. “I play better when I know you’re watching.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your mouth. “Guess I’ll have to scream the loudest, then.”

His grin widened, boyish and bright, just for a moment. And in that sliver of time, you caught a glimpse of the Scott you fell in love with—before the grief, before the guilt, before everything got so heavy.

And it gave you hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d find that version of himself again.

The noise of the bleachers swelled the moment Liberty jogged out onto the diamond, cleats kicking up dirt, gloves snapping shut. Parents shouted names, students whistled, and the cheer squad tried to drown out Ridgepoint’s section with chants of “Let’s go Tigers!”

You were right in the middle of it all, Jess and Sheri on either side of you, but your eyes never left one figure: number 16.

Scott jogged to first base, tapping his glove against his thigh as he scanned the crowd. The sharp streaks of black paint under his eyes made his features stand out even more, hard edges to a face you knew was soft underneath. He shifted on his feet, tossing the ball to the shortstop, trying to look focused.

But then he caught sight of you.

For a second, the chaos around him seemed to fade. He grinned—wide, boyish, the one he saved for you—and after tossing the ball back toward the pitcher, he jogged off the line and straight toward your section of the stands.

“Reed!” someone from the dugout barked, but he ignored it.

You leaned forward over the railing as he slowed to a stop beneath you, breath visible in the crisp spring air. The crowd around you hooted, already sensing what was happening.

“Hi,” he said simply, cheeks flushed—not from the warm-up, but from you.

“Hi,” you answered, matching his grin. Then, without warning, you reached out, brushing your fingertip through the edge of the black paint under his left eye. He stilled immediately, blinking up at you.

“Hold still,” you teased.

Carefully, you traced a tiny heart just above the line of paint, your hand trembling slightly with the noise of the crowd pressing in. When you pulled back, the heart was crooked but clear enough, stamped onto his cheek like a mark that belonged only to you.

“There,” you said with a satisfied smile. “Now you’re officially my good luck charm.”

The bleachers erupted—shouts, whistles, clapping. Jess clutched Sheri’s arm. “Oh my God, he’s letting him draw on his face in public! This is history.”

Sheri giggled. “Permanent marker next time, Sam!”

Scott just blinked for a second, stunned. Then the corners of his mouth lifted, slow and disbelieving, until he was grinning so hard his dimples cut deep. “You—did you just…” He laughed, shaking his head, but he didn’t wipe it off. “That’s staying. No way I’m ruining your masterpiece.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice even as the crowd roared. “God, Scotty, you look way too good in this uniform. With the paint and now my little heart? It’s unfair. Honestly, I don’t know how I’m supposed to sit through nine innings without jumping you.”

His ears went crimson instantly, and he ducked his head, biting his lip to hide a grin. “Sam—Jesus—you can’t just say stuff like that when I’m about to play.”

The bleachers only got louder, a chant breaking out from the back rows: “Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!”

Scott glanced toward the dugout, then back at you. And with a quick shrug, like he’d already made up his mind, he leaned up and pressed a kiss to your lips—quick, but firm enough that the crowd erupted as if Liberty had already won.

When he pulled back, you smirked. “Now you’re branded. Everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Good,” he said, grinning with that same stunned, flattered look. “Because I am.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught them: Bryce and Monty, leaning against the fieldside bleachers. Monty nudged Bryce hard, and Bryce barked out a laugh, shaking his head. Both were watching, eyes sharp, smirks curling like they’d just been handed ammunition.

Scott followed your gaze. His grin faltered, his jaw tightening. But then he turned back to you, tapped the heart on his cheek with his finger, and mouthed: For you.

Then he jogged back toward first base, shoulders squared, heart still stamped proudly on his face.

Jess leaned into you, shaking her head with a smile. “Sam, you just turned a baseball game into a rom-com.”

And maybe you had. But seeing him out there, grinning like that—even with Bryce and Monty watching—you didn’t regret a second of it.

The first pitch cracked into the catcher’s mitt, and the bleachers roared to life. The announcer’s voice boomed from the speakers, muffled but energetic, calling out plays as Liberty tried to find its footing.

You sat forward on the edge of the bench, hoodie pulled tight around your shoulders, eyes fixed on Scott at first base. Even from a distance, you could see the small heart you’d drawn still faintly on his cheek, smudged but there. The sight sent a weird mix of pride and nerves rushing through you.

“Number sixteen looks sharp today,” Sheri said, handing you a water bottle she’d brought. “Not just the uniform—he’s locked in.”

“He’s always locked in,” Jess muttered, crossing her arms. “Until someone rattles him.”

You glanced at her. “He’ll be fine.”

The first few innings went smooth enough. Scott snagged a line drive in the top of the second, quick reflexes earning cheers from the crowd. When it was his turn to bat, he cracked a single clean down the third-base line. His grin as he slid safe onto first was so bright, you couldn’t help but stand and clap, shouting his name over the crowd.

Jess leaned in, smirking. “You’re his biggest cheerleader. It’s disgusting.”

You laughed, but your chest was swelling with pride. “Jealous much?”

But by the fourth inning, the energy shifted.

Ridgepoint’s star hitter stepped up to the plate, shoulders loose, bat swinging like a pendulum. The first pitch—strike. The second—ball. The third—he connected.

The sound was like a cannon. The ball sailed over left field, clear past the fence. A three-run homer.

The Ridgepoint crowd exploded, their section chanting while Liberty groaned. Scott slammed his glove into the dirt, jaw set, frustration etched across his face.

“Shit,” Sheri muttered. “That’s not good.”

You leaned forward, stomach tight. Scott paced the bag at first, tugging at the bill of his cap, eyes darting anywhere but the scoreboard. You knew that look—it wasn’t just anger at the other team. It was anger at himself.

By the sixth inning, the score was Ridgepoint 6, Liberty 1. Mistakes piled up—missed catches, wild pitches—and every time Scott touched the ball, you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched harder.

He came up to bat again in the bottom of the sixth, the pressure thick. The pitcher wound up. First pitch—strike. Second—foul ball. Third—swing and a miss.

Scott threw his helmet down as he stalked back to the dugout, the clang making you flinch.

Jess sighed. “Here we go.”

“Don’t,” you warned quietly, though your chest ached.

From the bleachers, you could see him on the bench, sitting apart from the others, fingers knotted in his hair. The crooked little heart was still there on his cheek, and something about it made your throat tighten.

You whispered under your breath, too soft for anyone to hear. “Come on, Scotty. You’re better than this. Just breathe.”

He didn’t even look up when the line broke and the team trudged toward the locker rooms. His duffel hung heavy on his shoulder, and he was the last one through the doors.

You didn’t move.

Even when Jess touched your sleeve and Sheri gave you a worried look, you just shook your head. “I’ll wait for him,” you said quietly, eyes still on the spot where Scott had disappeared.

The bleachers slowly emptied, the cheers from Ridgepoint fading into the night. But you stayed put, the stadium lights buzzing overhead, your chest tight. The game was over, but the storm inside Scott wasn’t. And you weren’t about to leave him to face it alone.

The floodlights buzzed against the dark night, casting long shadows across the empty field. The bleachers were deserted now, only scraps of popcorn and paper cups left behind. You sat on the lowest bench, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, refusing to leave.

The locker room doors stayed closed for what felt like an eternity. The scrape of the field crew’s rakes echoed across the diamond, but you barely noticed. You were waiting.

Finally, the doors opened.

Scott stepped out.

His uniform was gone, replaced by jeans, sneakers, and his trademark blue-and-white Liberty Tigers fleece jacket, the one he wore everywhere—warm, worn-in, and so unmistakably him. His duffel hung low from one shoulder, his hair damp from the shower. But what caught your breath was his face.

The heart was still there.

Smudged, faint, but unmistakable. The crooked little black heart you had traced on his cheek before the first pitch. He could’ve wiped it off in the shower. Could’ve hidden it. But he hadn’t.

He kept it.

You stood instantly. “Hey.”

His lips twitched into the smallest curve. “Hey.”

You closed the space between you and wrapped your arms around him. For a moment, he was rigid, heavy with defeat. But then his chest hitched, and he folded into you, burying his face into your shoulder, his fleece scratchy against your cheek.

“I should’ve done better,” he muttered. “Every time I tried, I just made it worse. I couldn’t do anything right tonight.”

You pulled back enough to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the fading heart. “You kept it,” you whispered.

His eyes flickered, embarrassed but soft. “Of course I did. It was the only good thing I had out there.”

Your throat tightened. “Scotty…”

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing. “I let everyone down. The team. The coaches. You.”

“You didn’t let me down,” you said firmly. “Not once. That heart… it’s ours. You’re the only reason I sat through the whole game. You’re the reason I still believe any of this means something. And you’re the reason I’m standing here right now.”

His lips pressed together, his face crumbling at the edges. He bent down and pressed a shaky kiss to your forehead.

“You’re the only reason I didn’t completely lose it out there,” he whispered.

“And you’re the reason I’ll survive this,” you whispered back.

From across the parking lot, Jess’s voice carried loud and teasing: “Hey! We’re heading to the car!”

Scott turned his head, lifting a hand in a half-wave before his eyes found yours again. He hadn’t let go. “You coming?”

You patted your pocket, frowning. “Shit. I left my phone in the bleachers. I’ll grab it. Meet you there?”

He hesitated, his brows knitting. “Want me to come with?”

You reached up, brushing the faint black heart on his cheek again. “Nah. Two seconds. Besides, someone has to keep showing this off.”

That tugged a real smile out of him. “Okay. But hurry back.”

You turned toward the empty stands, the bright lights stretching your shadow long across the dirt. Your phone lay under the bench where you’d left it. You bent down to grab it—

And froze.

At the bottom of the bleachers, leaning against the railing in the glow of the lights, was Bryce Walker. Arms crossed. Smirk curling. Waiting.

Your phone was still clutched in your hand, but it felt useless—like a toy against the weight of Bryce Walker’s shadow. The floodlights cast him in sharp relief, his sneer cutting like a blade.

“What the hell do you want?” you snapped, voice sharper than you felt inside.

He smirked. “Funny how you always show up where you don’t belong. End of the game, team’s a disaster, Scott’s head’s a mess—and there you are. Always in the middle.”

“Leave me alone.”

Bryce pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate, closing the distance. “You ever wonder why Liberty’s falling apart? It’s not Monty. It’s not me. It’s you. You’ve got Scott so whipped he can’t even think straight. On the field. Off the field. Everyone sees it. He’s weaker with you around.”

Your jaw tightened. “He’s stronger without you. At least he’s not hurting people to feel powerful.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You really think he loves you? He doesn’t. He just doesn’t know how to quit you without looking like an asshole. You’re an anchor. A burden.”

The words cut, but you lifted your chin higher. “At least I’m not a rapist. At least I don’t ruin people’s lives for fun.”

That hit. His eyes narrowed, the smirk twitching into something uglier. “Careful.”

“Why? Afraid of the truth?” you shot back. “Hannah told me what you did. Everyone knows. You think hiding behind your daddy’s money makes you untouchable? It won’t. You’re done, Bryce.”

His fists clenched. His voice dropped, low and venomous. “You think Hannah loved you? She hated being your sister. She told people. Said you were a weight around her neck.”

It felt like a punch straight to the ribs. For a second, your breath caught—but you forced yourself to stand taller. “You don’t get to say her name. You didn’t know her. You didn’t love her. All you ever did was break her.”

Bryce’s smirk twisted. “And you think you didn’t? Please. You’re pathetic. She pitied you. Just like Scott does now.”

That one made your fists clench. “If Scott pities me, then he’s the bravest man alive, because he still loves me in spite of everything. That’s something you’ll never understand, Bryce. Love. Real love. Not fear. Not control. Love.”

His face darkened. He shoved you, hard, slamming you back into the bleachers. Metal rattled, the cold shock running up your spine.

“You don’t know what love is either,” he spat. “You’re a parasite. You drag everyone down—Scott, your parents, even Hannah.”

Your vision blurred with anger and tears, but you didn’t break. “And you’re a coward. You hide behind money, threats, and silence. I might be broken, but at least I’m not empty like you.”

Your phone was cold in your hand, but your voice cut sharper than you expected. “At least I’m not a rapist.”

The word landed like a punch.

Bryce’s smirk collapsed into something darker. His jaw clenched, fists curling so tight his knuckles whitened. He took two quick steps forward, closing the space between you, his shadow blotting out the glow of the floodlights.

“What the hell did you just say?” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.

You didn’t back down, though your heart hammered in your chest. “You heard me. Hannah told me what you did. Everyone knows. You can hide behind your money and your lies, but it won’t save you forever.”

Bryce’s teeth bared, and before you could react, his hand slammed into the metal bleacher just inches beside your head. The crash echoed through the empty stadium, making you flinch.

“You don’t say her name,” he snarled, his face so close you could smell the stale cologne on his jacket. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

Your own voice rose, shaking but fierce. “She’s my sister. You don’t get to silence me the way you silenced her.”

For a split second, his fist drew back like he was about to swing. The rage in his eyes was wild, uncontained.

Your pulse thundered. This was it.

“HEY!”

Scott’s roar ripped across the night, raw and furious.

He was sprinting toward you, his blue-and-white Liberty Tigers fleece jacket a blur under the floodlights. His fists were clenched, his face twisted in a fury you’d never seen from him before.

“Back off!” he bellowed, planting himself between you and Bryce, his chest heaving. “Touch him again and I swear to God I’ll end you!”

Bryce froze, fist still half-cocked, then lowered it with a sharp breath. His sneer returned, but it wasn’t as steady as before. “There he is. Number sixteen. Hero of the night. Tell me, Scott—how’s it feel to throw your future away for this?” He jabbed a finger toward you, dismissive, cruel.

Scott didn’t blink. “It feels like finally doing the right thing.”

Bryce’s lip curled. “You were stronger before him. Now you’re pathetic.”

“No,” Scott said, voice steady and lethal. “I was pathetic when I was covering for you. Protecting a monster. That wasn’t strength—that was weakness. And I’ll never make that mistake again.”

For a moment, you thought Bryce might lunge again. His hands flexed, his jaw ticked, his whole body vibrating with anger. But then he spat at the ground, backing away with a muttered, “Pathetic. Both of you. Not worth it.”

His footsteps echoed as he stalked off into the shadows.

Scott spun to you instantly, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t even know had fallen. “Did he hurt you?”

Your voice shook. “I’m okay. You got here in time.”

His forehead pressed to yours, his voice hoarse. “I swear, Sam—I’ll never let him touch you again.”

And for the first time all night, you let yourself tremble—because you knew you didn’t have to face this alone anymore.

Chapter Text

Words~3402

—-

The car ride home was drowned in silence. Not the calm kind, not the kind that felt restful, but the kind that pressed against the glass, sat heavy in your chest, and made even the hum of the engine sound too loud.

Scott had one hand locked on the wheel, the other clamped around yours on the center console like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His grip was tight—too tight—but you didn’t pull away. You let him hold on, because you could feel it: something inside him was shaking apart, thread by thread.

Streetlights slid over his face in flashes—jaw rigid, lips pressed flat, eyes fixed on the road ahead with a kind of laser focus that made you ache. He hadn’t said a word since Bryce stormed off. Neither had you. There didn’t seem to be space for words here, not with the weight of what almost happened still burning in your chest.

Every so often, his thumb twitched against your hand, like he needed proof you were still there. You squeezed back each time, quietly reminding him you weren’t going anywhere.

By the time the silver Audi pulled into the Bakers’ driveway, dusk had deepened into full dark. The porch light clicked on automatically, spilling a pale glow across the steps. Scott killed the engine, but his hand didn’t leave yours. His knuckles were still pale when he finally let out a sharp breath, like he’d been holding it in since the field.

Neither of you spoke. He dropped his duffel by the door inside, kicked his shoes aside, and followed you upstairs. The creak of the hallway floorboards was the only sound.

When you pushed your bedroom door shut, you turned back to see him standing there, frozen in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, staring down at the carpet. His shoulders looked like they were carrying the weight of the whole damn world.

He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. Just stood there in the center of your room like someone had hit pause, his arms locked across his chest, fists pressed tight into his sides.

“Scotty?” you asked softly, shutting the door all the way.

No answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, shoulders wound so tight you could almost hear them creak.

You crossed the room slowly, careful not to spook him, and laid a hand on his arm. “Talk to me.”

Still nothing. His skin was warm beneath your palm, but it felt like you were touching stone.

You slid your other hand up to his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Please.”

Finally, his head lifted. And when his eyes met yours, the glassy sheen there stole the breath from your lungs.

“I almost lost you today,” he whispered. The words came out raw, like they’d been scraped out of him.

Your throat tightened. “Scotty—”

“If I’d been thirty seconds later,” he cut in, voice shaking now, “if I hadn’t turned back when I did—” He broke off, dragging both hands over his face, fingers trembling. “I can’t stop seeing it. Him. You. The way he shoved you.”

You stepped closer, desperate to close the space between you. “But you did come back. You were there. You got to me.”

He shook his head, short and sharp. “Not fast enough. Do you get that? Every second I wasn’t there—every second—he could’ve—” His voice cracked, the word dying in his throat.

You reached for him again, your hands steady even though your own chest was burning. “Scotty, look at me. You saved me.”

But he was already unraveling, shoulders heaving with shallow breaths, eyes darting like he was cornered. You could feel the storm breaking inside him, the edges starting to crack.

His breaths were coming too fast now. Short, ragged gasps that barely seemed to reach his lungs. He pressed a fist hard against his sternum like he could hold his chest together, but the tremor in his arm betrayed him.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked, raw and panicked. “I can’t breathe—”

“Scotty,” you said firmly, stepping in close. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Nothing’s happening now. It’s just us.”

But his eyes had gone glassy, darting everywhere but you. His hands clawed at the fabric of his Liberty fleece jacket, tugging like it was strangling him.

“I can’t—” His chest heaved, a broken sound tearing from his throat. “It’s closing in—I can’t feel—”

You grabbed his wrists, grounding him. “Hey. Look at me.”

He tried, but his gaze kept sliding away, caught somewhere between fear and memory.

“Scotty!” Your voice was sharp now, commanding, and his head jerked toward you.

You softened immediately. “That’s it. Stay with me. You’re here. You’re in my room. You’re safe.”

He shook his head wildly, tears spilling hot down his cheeks. “I was too late—I almost lost you—”

“You didn’t,” you whispered, tightening your grip. “You found me. You pulled me out. You saved me. I’m right here.”

He choked on another sob, his knees buckling. You guided him down to the edge of the bed before he collapsed outright, dropping beside him and catching his trembling hands in yours. His whole body shook like he was coming apart at the seams.

“Scotty, listen to me,” you said, voice steady despite your own heart racing. You pressed his palms flat against your chest. “Feel that? That’s my heart. Steady. Strong. With you. Match me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Come on. With me.”

His eyes squeezed shut, his breathing ragged. He tried to follow, but each inhale stuttered, catching like a sob.

“That’s okay,” you soothed. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just keep trying. In… and out. I’ve got you.”

For a few agonizing seconds, it didn’t feel like it was working. His chest hitched violently, his hands clutching at your shirt like he might fall without it. But then—slightly—his exhales grew longer, his gasps less sharp.

“That’s it,” you whispered, brushing damp hair back from his forehead. “There you go. You’re doing it.”

His lips trembled. “I can’t—lose you.”

“You won’t.” Your voice broke, but you held firm. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you. We’re going to breathe through this together.”

He collapsed forward then, his forehead hitting your shoulder, sobs tearing out of him between each breath. His body shook so hard it rattled against yours.

You wrapped your arms around him tight, pressing your lips to his temple. “Let it out, Scotty. You don’t have to hold it in. Not with me.”

“I was so scared,” he gasped, words muffled against your shirt. “When I saw him—when I saw you—I thought—” His voice shattered completely, dissolving into another sob.

“I know,” you whispered, rocking him gently. “But it’s over. He’s gone. You’re safe. I’m safe. And nothing—nothing—can change the fact that you got to me in time.”

His sobs turned raw, ragged things that ripped through the room, but you held on. You didn’t flinch. You let him cling, let him break, let him feel every ounce of the terror he’d been burying since the field.

Little by little, the rhythm of his breathing began to catch on yours. In and out. Uneven at first, then steadier. His grip loosened—not because he wanted to let go, but because his muscles were exhausted from the sheer effort of holding on so tight.

“I’m here,” you murmured again and again, a mantra. “I’m here. Every breath. Every second. Always.”

Finally, after what felt like forever, his chest slowed against yours. His sobs ebbed into shaky exhales. His eyes, red and raw, finally blinked open to meet yours.

He whispered hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head fiercely, cupping his damp face in both hands. “Don’t you dare apologize. Not to me. This isn’t weakness, Scotty. This is you trusting me enough to fall apart. And I’m honored you did.”

His lip quivered, another tear slipping free. But this time, when he leaned into your palms, it wasn’t with panic. It was with something softer.

His eyes, swollen and rimmed red, searched yours like he was afraid of what he might find there. But all you gave him was steady warmth, your thumbs brushing across his damp cheeks.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he whispered, his voice rasping from the tears.

You shook your head, firm but gentle. “I’m glad I did. Because now you know—you never have to go through something like that alone.”

His breath caught, his fingers curling weakly into your shirt again like he needed the anchor. He hesitated, chest rising unevenly, before the words tumbled out of him in one desperate rush.

“I love you.”

Your heart stopped.

He said it again, louder this time, like he needed to force it past the fear: “I love you, Sam. God, I love you so much it scares the hell out of me.” His voice cracked, trembling. “I’ve never loved anyone like this before. You… you make the world quieter. You make it brighter. You make it bearable. And I don’t ever want to go another day without telling you that.”

Tears blurred your own vision now, your chest tightening as if his words had settled directly into your bones.

“Scotty…” Your throat closed around his name.

But he wasn’t finished. His hands came up, still trembling, to cradle your face as if you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. His blue eyes burned into yours.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, raw and certain. “When I saw him shove you—when I thought, even for a second, that I could lose you—I realized… you’re it for me. You’re my home. My safe place. My whole goddamn world.”

Your tears spilled freely then, hot against his fingers as they cupped your cheeks.

“I love you too,” you breathed, the words bursting out of you, unstoppable. “I love you in all the ways I never thought I could. I love how your voice softens when you say my name. How you never let go of my hand, even when you’re scared. How you see me when I try to disappear.” Your voice broke, but you pushed through. “You are the safest place I’ve ever known.”

Scotty’s forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling but holding each other as if nothing else existed.

“You’re my home,” he whispered again, voice breaking.

“And you’re mine,” you answered.

The kiss came naturally—slow, tender, salty with shared tears. Not because it was expected. Not because it was a neat ending. But because in that moment, it was the only thing that felt true.

When you finally pulled back, both of you gasping softly against each other, Scotty gave a shaky laugh. His thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away a tear, and his lips curled into a crooked grin.

“You realize what this means, right?” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

“That we’re both mentally unstable whiny bitches,” he said, deadpan, though his voice was still raw.

It startled a laugh out of you—a real one, bubbling up from deep in your chest. You swatted his arm lightly. “You’re such an ass.”

“But I’m your ass,” he countered with a crooked smirk, though his eyes softened immediately. “And I wouldn’t trade this—us—for anything.”

You shook your head, still smiling through tears. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” he whispered, pulling you into another kiss—this one warmer, lighter, threaded through with laughter instead of panic.

And when you leaned into him again, both of you a little broken, both of you still trembling, it felt less like two shattered pieces clinging together—
and more like home.

When the laughter finally died down, the quiet returned—but it wasn’t heavy like before. It was softer now, almost gentle, the kind of silence that let you breathe. Scotty leaned back against the headboard, one arm still tight around your waist, the other brushing idle patterns across your sleeve. His breathing had steadied, though every now and then, you could feel a tremor ripple through him like his body hadn’t quite caught up to the calm.

You shifted slightly to look at him, and that’s when you noticed it.

The little black heart.

Still smeared faintly on his cheekbone, half-faded from sweat and tears, but there. A fragile imprint of your fingertips from before the game, when the world still felt simpler.

You reached up and touched it lightly, your thumb grazing the smudge.

“You still have it,” you murmured.

Scotty blinked. “Have what?”

“The heart,” you said, smiling faintly. “From the paint.”

He reached up self-consciously, fingertips brushing the spot. “Oh, shit. I forgot about that.” He let his hand fall back down, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Guess it survived the game. And the panic attack.”

Your chest squeezed. “It’s kind of perfect, isn’t it? Messy. Smudged. But still there.”

His smile softened, eyes locking on yours. “Like us.”

You swallowed hard, the warmth in your throat almost overwhelming.

Then, with a sudden spark in your chest, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand. “We need to take a picture of this.”

Scotty raised a brow. “A picture?”

“Yeah.” You sat up straighter, pulling him with you. “Of the heart. Of you. Of us. Something to remember this by.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I probably look like shit right now. My eyes are puffy, I’ve got paint smeared across my face, and I just had a full-on meltdown.”

“Exactly,” you said softly. “That’s why it matters. Because this is real. This is you.”

Something flickered in his eyes then—vulnerability, but also trust. He nodded. “Okay. But only if you’re in it too.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

You scooted closer, angling the phone just right, your head pressed against his, your cheek brushing against the faint smear of paint. The camera clicked once. Twice. Then again, when he leaned over and kissed your temple just as you snapped it.

You laughed when you saw the photos—messy hair, swollen eyes, the smudged heart standing out like a badge of survival. “We look like disasters,” you teased.

“Beautiful disasters,” he corrected, nudging your side.

You looked at him, really looked at him—the curve of his smile, the rawness still etched into his face, the way he was holding you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

And you realized: this was love. Not the polished kind from movies. Not perfect smiles and posed prom photos. But this—tears and paint and panic and laughter tangled together in a single night.

You pressed another quick kiss to his cheek, right over the heart. “Promise me we won’t delete these.”

“Promise,” Scotty said firmly. “Even if we look like hell, even if I cringe every time I see it. We’ll keep them. Because it’s us.”

He took your phone from you then, holding it out at arm’s length. “One more.”

This time, he kissed you on the mouth as the shutter clicked, your smiles caught between lips, laughter spilling into the frame.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again. “Now we’ve got proof.”

“Of what?” you asked, smiling faintly.

“That even at my worst, you still love me,” he whispered. “And that at your best or your worst, I always will.”

Your throat tightened, tears threatening again—but you smiled anyway. “I’ll take that proof over anything.”

He slipped the phone back onto the nightstand and tugged you down into the blankets with him. His fleece jacket rustled against the sheets, still faintly smelling of grass and dirt from the field. The heart on his cheek smudged further as your face brushed against it, but you didn’t care.

Because in that moment, you knew you’d remember it forever—
the night you saw him break, the night you saw him fight his way back,
and the night you both chose to capture the messy, fragile, beautiful truth of what it meant to be each other’s home.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside your window, painting thin golden lines across the walls. The fleece jacket still smelled faintly of grass and sweat from the game, mixed with the warm, familiar scent of Scotty’s cologne. It wrapped around you like a second blanket, thick and heavy, as if even fabric could try to shield you from the world.

Scotty was sprawled across half your body, one arm draped protectively over your stomach, his legs tangled with yours. His breath was warm against your neck, uneven still, but calmer than before. You kept stroking his hair slowly, each pass of your fingers through the strands seeming to loosen the tightness in his shoulders.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled again, his voice muffled, half-asleep but unwilling to let go.

“Pretty sure that’s because you’re crushing me,” you teased, tugging at the collar of his fleece jacket. “This thing is like sleeping under a carpet.”

He groaned playfully but didn’t budge. “Don’t disrespect the jacket. It’s iconic.”

You grinned, even though he couldn’t see it. “Iconic? Scotty, it’s your high school baseball fleece. Not a designer label.”

“Exactly,” he said, lifting his head to smirk at you. His blue eyes glinted in the low light. “It’s got character. Legacy. Besides, you love it. Admit it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe it’s tolerable.”

“Tolerable?” He pretended to gasp, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. “This jacket has been through more battles than you know. It’s basically armor. Emotional support fabric.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Fine, I love the jacket. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your cheek lazily. Then, with a mischievous grin: “Want me to leave it here so you can cuddle it when I’m not around?”

You gave him a look. “You’re not serious.”

“Totally serious. You’d totally do it.”

“…Okay, maybe.”

He laughed quietly, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady now, slower, like the panic had finally ebbed away. You closed your eyes, listening to it, syncing your breathing with his.

After a long pause, you whispered, “Hey.”

“Mm?” His lips brushed against your hair with the sound.

“You know when you called us mentally unstable whiny bitches earlier?”

He chuckled low, his chest vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah. Best description of us I’ve ever come up with.”

“I think I want it cross-stitched and framed above the bed,” you said, deadpan.

That broke him. Scotty laughed so hard his body shook against yours, his face buried in your neck to muffle the sound. “God, you’re ridiculous,” he managed between laughs.

“You love it.”

“I do,” he admitted without hesitation, his tone softening immediately. “God, I really do.”

You shifted slightly so you could look at him, your faces close in the dim glow. “I love you too, you know.”

His grin softened into something tender, his eyes tired but shining. “Say it again.”

You arched a brow. “What, you didn’t hear me the first time?”

“Need it on repeat,” he whispered.

You smiled, pressing your forehead against his. “I love you, Scotty. Even when you’re a cocky, straight-jock cliché in a fleece jacket.”

He smirked, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “And I love you, even when you roast me like I’m on some Comedy Central special.”

You laughed quietly, the warmth of it pushing back the heaviness of the day. He kissed you softly then—not desperate, not rushed, but steady, grounding. A kiss that said we survived today.

When you pulled back, he lingered close, eyes searching yours. “You’re my safe place. You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened, but you nodded. “You’re mine too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of everything unsaid but deeply understood. You tangled your hand with his, your fingers fitting perfectly together, and for the first time since Hannah died, you thought maybe, just maybe, you could believe in forever again.

Eventually, Scotty’s breathing evened out, his weight heavy and warm against you. You stayed awake a little longer, memorizing the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips parted slightly in sleep, the faint shadow of the black paint heart still smudged on his cheek.

You smiled to yourself. “We’re gonna be okay,” you whispered into the dark.

And for once, you didn’t just say it.
You believed it.

Chapter Text

Words~8857

Part 1
The sun hit the bleachers like it wanted to blind you. The metal was hot against the back of your legs, and the air carried the faint smell of cut grass and sweat from baseball practice warming up across the field. You weren’t there for the game, though. You weren’t there for anything, really. Just killing time, scrolling on your phone, pretending you weren’t avoiding people.

“You ditching class, or practicing to be brooding full-time?”

The voice made you look up.
Scott Reed stood at the bottom of the bleachers, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, baseball cap hooked through the strap. He squinted up at you like you were some kind of puzzle.

You lowered your phone. “Do you ever mind your own business?”

He grinned and started climbing the steps, slow, casual. When he dropped onto the bench beside you, the metal groaned under his weight. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to make a point.

“You’ve got a real attitude, you know that?” he said, bouncing a baseball on his knee like it was second nature.

“And you’ve got a real problem with boundaries.”

Scott chuckled, spinning the ball between his fingers. “You say that like it’s the first time someone’s told me.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back toward the field, trying to tune him out. But he had this way of filling silence with his presence, even when he wasn’t saying anything. Annoying. Distracting.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” you muttered.

He smirked. “And you’re not nearly as intimidating as you try to be.”

You shot him a glare. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look away, just smirked a little deeper like he enjoyed pushing you.

“I didn’t ask you to sit here,” you said.

“I didn’t ask for permission,” he shot back.

You groaned, shoving your phone into your pocket. “Unbelievable.”

For a moment, the two of you sat there in a silence that wasn’t comfortable—but it wasn’t hostile either. More like the air was suspended, waiting for something to tip it one way or the other.

Eventually, Scott stood, tossing the baseball into the air and catching it easily. “Later, Baker.”

Your head snapped toward him. “How do you know my name?”

He shrugged, already descending the bleachers. “It’s a small school.”

And then he was gone, leaving the metal seat beside you still warm from where he’d been.

The next day, you came back to the bleachers out of habit. The sun wasn’t as harsh this time, the sky overcast enough to make the metal cool under your palms as you climbed the steps. You weren’t expecting him.

But there he was.

Scott Reed. Sitting in your spot like he’d been born there.

He leaned back against the rail, legs sprawled out, baseball cap pulled low. He looked perfectly at ease. Too at ease.

“You’re in my seat,” you said flatly.

He tipped his head toward you, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “Squatter’s rights.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not how it works.”

“That’s exactly how it works,” he said, scooting over just enough to pat the bench beside him. “C’mon. I’m not that bad.”

You stayed standing. “You’re worse.”

“Wow,” he said, pretending to clutch his chest. “Cold-blooded. Alright, deal time. Sit with me for five minutes. If I annoy you before then, I’ll leave.”

You raised a brow. “Three minutes.”

His grin widened. “Three it is.”

You sighed and sat, leaving a careful amount of space between you. He didn’t comment, just leaned back again, spinning that damn baseball in his hand like yesterday.

“So,” Scott said after a beat, “what’s blasting in those earbuds all the time? Lemme guess—some moody alt band no one’s heard of?”

You side-eyed him. “Better than whatever gym playlist you probably scream to on repeat.”

He chuckled. “Ouch. Someone’s got claws.”

You didn’t answer, staring out at the field where Monty was tossing pitches too aggressively to a freshman. Scott followed your gaze but didn’t say anything. The silence stretched—different from yesterday’s. Not exactly comfortable, but not unbearable either.

“You know,” he said eventually, “I think you secretly like me.”

You snapped your head toward him. “Excuse me?”

He smirked. “You keep coming back here. If I was that annoying, you’d find a different spot.”

You opened your mouth, ready to bite back, but stopped. He wasn’t wrong. And that irritated you more than anything else.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Reed,” you muttered.

“Too late,” he said, tossing the baseball into the air and catching it with a soft thud.

The three minutes came and went. He didn’t leave.
And you didn’t tell him to.

The next week, it became a thing. Not that you agreed to it. Not that either of you said anything. It just… happened.

You’d climb the bleachers, earbuds in, ready to tune out the world for twenty minutes before class, and Scott Reed would already be there. Sometimes he was waiting. Sometimes he showed up a few minutes later, duffel bag hitting the metal with a thud as he dropped down next to you like he owned the place.

The first time he beat you there, he had the audacity to grin.
“Guess this is our spot now.”

You rolled your eyes and sat anyway.

Sometimes he filled the air with chatter. Baseball stats. Complaints about Monty being an ass in practice. How Bryce’s jokes weren’t actually funny but everyone laughed anyway.

Sometimes you didn’t respond. And to your surprise, he didn’t push. He’d just sit there, spinning his baseball, humming under his breath. Like he wanted you to know he was still there but wasn’t demanding anything.

One morning, he leaned back and peeked at your phone screen.
“What’s this? Death Cab for Cutie? Dude, no wonder you look like you’re perpetually at a funeral.”

You shot him a glare. “Better than the trash you probably listen to.”

He smirked. “You don’t even know what I listen to.”

“Country. Or rap about trucks.”

Scott let out a laugh so loud Monty looked up from the field. “That’s… not entirely wrong.”

You shook your head, but your lips twitched despite yourself.

Another day, you pulled a pack of gum from your pocket and slid a piece into your mouth. Scott’s eyes flicked to it, then to you.

“You gonna offer me one?”

“No.”

The next morning, there was a pack of your favorite gum sitting beside your backpack when you got to the bleachers. He didn’t say a word about it. Just nodded when you picked it up.

And you… didn’t throw it away.

By the end of the week, the silence between you wasn’t hostile anymore. Still sharp at the edges, but less like barbed wire and more like static. Charged. Waiting.

You caught yourself scanning the bleachers when you arrived, half-expecting to see him. Half-hoping.

And when he wasn’t there one Friday—your spot empty, no duffel bag, no cocky smirk—you sat for twenty minutes alone, music buzzing in your ears, the silence suddenly heavier.

On Monday, he was back. He dropped into the seat with a huff, sunglasses shoved into his hair.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice lower than usual. “Family stuff.”

You didn’t ask. You just shifted a little closer on the bench.

He noticed. Didn’t comment. But when his hand brushed yours for half a second, neither of you pulled away.

Not really a tradition. Not yet.
But it was becoming one.

It happened on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that smelled like pencil shavings and cafeteria pizza and boredom.

You sat in the back row of history, doodling half-heartedly in the margin of your notebook while Mr. Lawson scribbled project pairings on the board. The words semester-long and presentation had already made you want to crawl out of your skin.

“Baker,” Lawson called, scanning his list. “Partnered with…”

You didn’t even look up. Not until he said it.
“Reed.”

Your head snapped up.

Across the room, Scott turned in his seat with the slowest, smuggest grin you’d ever seen. The kind of grin that made you want to launch your notebook at his face.

Of course. Of course the universe hated you.

When Lawson started handing out rubrics, Scott didn’t waste time. His desk scraped against the tile as he dragged his chair over, plopping down beside you like he’d been assigned a throne.

“Guess we’re stuck together,” he said, tapping the rubric like it was a joke only he understood.

You muttered, “Guess so.”

He leaned back, legs sprawled out, arms folded over his chest like he owned half the classroom. “Don’t look so thrilled. I promise not to tank your grade.”

“You’re assuming I care about what you promise.”

That got a laugh out of him. A real one. Heads turned at the sound, a few whispers starting up in the corner. People weren’t used to hearing you talk much. And Scott Reed? He wasn’t exactly known for hanging out with Hannah Baker’s little brother.

Lawson cleared his throat. “Settle down, people. The project’s on the shifting political alliances leading up to World War I. Presentations are in three weeks. Use your time wisely.”

Scott leaned in, voice low, deliberately brushing his elbow against yours as he smirked. “You’re the brains. I’ll be the charm.”

You deadpanned, “So we’re doomed.”

He grinned wider.

The room buzzed with chatter, everyone comparing partners, already swapping excuses for why they wouldn’t do the work. You tried to focus on the rubric, but your pulse thudded too loud in your ears. Scott Reed was sitting next to you. Scott Reed was your partner.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was just an assignment. Just three weeks of forced proximity. Nothing more.

But when you glanced sideways and saw him spinning a pen between his fingers, tongue poking at his cheek in concentration, you felt it—something small and sharp and inevitable.

This wasn’t just an assignment.
This was the beginning of something you didn’t have a name for yet.

Part 2

The next afternoon, the library smelled like dust and too-strong coffee. The hum of computers and the occasional squeak of sneakers on the polished floor filled the silence. You had claimed a corner table, your notes already spread out in neat piles, highlighters lined up like soldiers.

Scott was late. Obviously.

You glanced at the clock again. Ten minutes. If he bailed this early into the project, you’d strangle him.

Then, finally, the sound of sneakers scuffing tile. A smoothie in one hand, a baseball cap shoved backwards on his head, Scott Reed sauntered over like punctuality was beneath him.

“You’re late,” you said without looking up.

He dropped into the chair across from you, his duffel sliding to the floor. “Traffic.”

You raised a brow. “From where? The vending machines?”

He grinned around the straw of his smoothie. “Busted.”

You exhaled, pushing a spare pen across the table. “At least tell me you brought something useful.”

He glanced down at your color-coded stacks of notes, then back at his smoothie. “I brought good vibes.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We’re doomed.”

But instead of being offended, he leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “C’mon, Baker. Give me some credit. I might surprise you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Want me to prove it?”

You sighed. “Fine. Tell me what you know about the Triple Alliance.”

Scott blinked. “Is that… like… a Pokémon thing?”

You stared. He cracked up.

“I’m kidding,” he said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. “Kidding! Italy, Germany, Austria-Hungary. Boom. Look at me go.”

You tried not to laugh. You failed. Just a little.

And that was the beginning.

What should’ve been an hour of outlining quickly turned into a weird rhythm: you explaining, him asking questions—not dumb ones, but the kind that made you pause and actually think. He didn’t know the material, but he listened. He got it.

At one point, he leaned back, sipping the last of his smoothie. “You’re intense, you know that?”

You looked up from your notes. “Intense?”

“Yeah.” He gestured vaguely. “All this prep. The colors. The way you explain stuff like you actually care if I get it. It’s… intense.”

You frowned. “That’s called effort.”

He grinned. “It’s called intimidating.”

You stared at him, waiting for the punchline. But he just shrugged, genuine for once. “It’s kinda cool, though.”

Your stomach twisted. You shoved another paper his way. “Read this.”

He chuckled, but he read it.

By the time you left the library, the project actually had structure. And against all odds, you didn’t hate working with him. Not yet.

The bell above the door jingled as you pushed into Monet’s, the warm smell of espresso and baked goods hitting you instantly. Afternoon light spilled through the windows, catching the dust motes in the air. You spotted Scott immediately—he’d snagged a table in the corner, laptop open but obviously untouched. His gaze was fixed on the menu board like it was written in another language.

“You’re early,” you said, setting your backpack down opposite him.

Scott looked up, flashing that crooked grin. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I am surprised.” You unzipped your bag, pulling out your own laptop. “Mostly because I thought you’d forget.”

He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “You wound me. I wouldn’t ditch my favorite partner.”

You arched a brow. “I’m your only partner.”

“Details.” He leaned back, stretching his long legs under the table until one brushed yours. You shot him a look, and he smirked but didn’t move.

You shook your head, turning your laptop on. “Let’s just start. I want to finish the slides for the Triple Entente today.”

“Triple Entente,” he repeated, like he was tasting the words. “France, Britain, Russia. Boom. See, I pay attention.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “Not bad.”

“Told you.” He smirked, reaching for his iced coffee. “Besides, I Googled it last night. Gotta keep up with you somehow.”

That earned the tiniest smile from you, and he noticed. You hated that he noticed.

Scott leaned forward, peeking at your screen. “Color-coded slides again?”

“Yes,” you said flatly.

He tilted his head. “Blue for Britain, green for Russia, red for France. Kinda neat.”

You blinked at him. “You don’t hate it?”

“Didn’t say that.” He grinned. “But it’s very… you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What does that mean?”

Scott hesitated, his gaze flicking away for once. “Just that… you care. Like, you try harder than most people. A lot harder. It shows.”

You stared at him. You didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, you asked, “Do you ever try?”

He smirked again, but softer this time. “When it’s worth it.”

Your chest tightened. You quickly looked back at your notes, cheeks warmer than you wanted them to be.

For the next hour, you worked side by side. Scott asked questions—not dumb ones, but the kind that showed he was actually thinking. He teased you for your coffee order (“extra caramel, really?”), and you rolled your eyes at the way he inhaled a blueberry muffin in under two minutes.

And yet… it was easy. Easier than you expected.

When you finally packed up, Scott leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. “Not bad, Baker. We might actually ace this thing.”

You stood, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. “We will ace it. Because I won’t let you drag me down.”

Scott grinned as he followed you to the door. “Guess I’ll just have to keep proving you wrong.”

And for the first time, you didn’t hate the idea.

Scott was early.

You weren’t ready—your notes were still sprawled across the dining table, your laptop charging on the floor, and you were upstairs trying to convince your hair not to look like a science experiment. By the time the doorbell rang, you muttered a curse under your breath and bolted down the stairs two at a time.

Your mom got there first.

When you reached the bottom step, Scott was standing in the entryway, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, grin nervous but trying to play it cool.

“You must be Scott,” your mom said warmly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, polite in a way you’d never seen him at school.

You stopped short, eyebrows shooting up. Since when did Scott Reed say “ma’am”?

“Mom,” you cut in quickly, grabbing his arm. “We’ll be in the dining room. Thanks.”

She raised an eyebrow but smiled. “Nice to meet you, Scott.”

“You too, Mrs. Baker,” he said, and you could practically hear the points he was trying to score.

You dragged him into the dining room before your mom could say anything else.

Scott dropped his duffel by the table and glanced around. “Nice place. Very… normal.”

“Sorry we don’t have a pool table in the kitchen like Bryce does,” you muttered, already pulling out your laptop.

He chuckled, sliding into a chair. “Touché.”

You started arranging the books into piles—notes, sources, drafts—while Scott watched, chin resting in his hand.

“Do you always have this much… system?” he asked.

“Do you always have this little?” you shot back.

He smirked, but softer than usual. “Fair.”

His gaze wandered, and you noticed when it landed on the framed photo sitting on the bookshelf in the corner—Hannah, arms wrapped around you in a half-hug, both of you laughing. Scott didn’t comment, but his eyes lingered for a second longer than you liked.

“Don’t,” you said quietly.

He turned back quickly. “I wasn’t going to.”

The silence stretched between you until your dad poked his head into the room. “Everything alright? Need snacks?”

Scott straightened instantly. “No, sir. We’re good. Thank you, though.”

Your dad gave a small nod, his eyes flicking between the two of you like he was filing the scene away for later.

Scott laughed quietly, settling into his chair. And for once, he didn’t push. He didn’t fill the space with endless chatter. He just… worked. Asked real questions. Made decent suggestions. By the time the sun dipped lower, you actually had a working draft.

When he finally stood to leave, backpack slung over his shoulder, he gave you a small smile. Not smug. Not cocky. Just real.

“See you tomorrow, Baker.”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him walk down the driveway. “See you.”

Later that night, your phone buzzed.

Scott: your dad lowkey terrifies me
You: good. he should
Scott: you didn’t say goodbye
You: didn’t realize i had to
Scott: just saying. felt weird leaving like that
You stared at the screen for a long moment before replying:
You: You’ll survive.

You didn’t delete the chat.

The glow of your phone lit up your room long after the house had gone quiet. You were curled up under the blanket, still half-thinking about the way Scott had said “ma’am” to your mom like he hadn’t spent the last year swaggering around the halls of Liberty with Bryce’s pack.

It didn’t add up. And that bothered you.

Your phone buzzed again.

Scott: u still up?

You hesitated. Then typed back.
You: yeah. what’s up?

A few seconds later:
Scott: nothing. just couldn’t sleep.

You stared at the text, thumb hovering. Then you typed:
You: you thinking abt the project or abt my dad glaring at you like you broke the law?

A bubble appeared instantly.
Scott: …ok both. but mostly ur dad.
Scott: he looks like the type of guy who’d bury me in the backyard if I mess up.

You smirked.
You: he would. and hannah would help.

This time, there was a pause before his reply came.
Scott: she really doesn’t like me, huh?

You bit your lip. The truth sat heavy in your chest. Hannah had been brutal the first time she’d met Scott, her protectiveness burning hotter than any judgment.

You: she doesn’t trust ppl easily. especially not guys who hang around bryce.

The typing bubble came and went. Finally:
Scott: yeah. fair.
Scott: but I’m not him.

You stared at that for a long moment.

You: prove it.

Another pause. Then:
Scott: working on it.

You let out a slow breath, leaning your head back against the wall.

The conversation shifted after that—lighter, easier. Scott sent you a photo of his messy notes with the caption: this counts as effort right?? You replied with a picture of your color-coded slides: this is effort, reed.

He sent a blurry selfie of him making a dumb face under his blanket, hair sticking up like a disaster. You snorted out loud and texted back: ur hopeless.

Minutes bled into hours, your phone screen the only light left. And somewhere between a joke about Monty being “built like a rotisserie chicken” and him admitting he sometimes stayed at practice late just to avoid going home, the edge between you both softened.

At 1:34 a.m., his last text buzzed in.
Scott: night, baker. thanks for not being boring.
You: night, reed. thanks for not being bryce.

You didn’t expect to fall asleep smiling. But you did.

Part 3
The knock came just after sunset.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just… steady. Enough to break the low hum of music drifting from your speakers as you tried to finish an English essay you weren’t actually reading.

When you pulled the door open, Scott Reed was standing there. Hood up. Hands shoved deep into his pockets. His duffel bag was slung low on one shoulder, like he hadn’t really planned to be anywhere but ended up here anyway.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just shifted from one foot to the other, eyes flicking to the porch light and then back to you.

“Reed?” you asked, confused. “What are you doing here?”

His voice was quiet, almost too soft for him. “Can we… hang out?”

That was it. No explanation. No sarcasm. Just a request.

You blinked, part of you wanting to ask why, the other part too startled by the weight in his voice. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t trying to fill the silence with some cocky one-liner. He looked tired. Bone-deep tired.

You stepped aside. “Yeah. Come in.”

He brushed past you, his hoodie brushing against your arm, and you shut the door behind him. The house was quiet—your parents were still out, and Hannah hadn’t come downstairs since dinner—so the sound of Scott’s duffel hitting the hallway floor felt louder than it should.

He followed you to your room like he’d been there a thousand times already, even though it wasn’t that many. He stopped in the middle, glancing around, like he wasn’t sure if he should sit.

You tossed him one of your hoodies from the chair. “Here. Warm up.”

Scott caught it and pulled it on without hesitation, tugging the hood up over his head. He inhaled once, eyes half-lidded, then muttered with the faintest grin, “Smells like you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be creepy or flattering?”

“Not a complaint,” he said, sinking down onto the edge of your bed.

You sat at your desk, swiveling your chair toward him. For a while, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the music humming softly from your speaker—a lo-fi playlist you usually used to focus.

Scott leaned back on his hands, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Your house is quiet.”

You tilted your head. “That a bad thing?”

He shook his head, eyes still on the ceiling. “No. Just… different. Mine’s always noise. Shouting, TV blasting, even when nobody’s talking. It’s like the walls don’t know how to shut up.”

There was a weight to the way he said it. You didn’t ask for details—you weren’t sure he’d give them if you did. Instead, you just let the silence stretch between you, soft instead of heavy this time.

After a while, you got up and changed the music to something else—some indie track you knew Hannah hated but you loved anyway. Scott smirked at the switch but didn’t comment.

You dropped onto the floor across from him, leaning your back against the bedframe. He looked down at you, eyes softer now, and then—without asking—he slid down too, settling cross-legged beside you.

Neither of you said anything else.
And for once, that felt like enough.

After that night, Scott kept showing up.

Not every day. Not with a plan. Just… more often than not. Sometimes he’d text you first with a vague “you home?” and sometimes he wouldn’t. He’d just appear at your door with that duffel bag and that half-smirk like he wasn’t intruding, like he belonged.

You stopped asking why after the third time.

One Wednesday afternoon, you were stretched out on your bed trying to focus on Of Mice and Men. The words kept blurring together, and the highlight pen you held had already dried out from neglect. A knock sounded—two quick raps, one pause, then another. Scott’s knock.

When you opened the door, he didn’t even say hi. He just walked past you, dropped his duffel by your desk chair, and collapsed onto your bed face-first.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” you muttered, closing the door.

His voice was muffled in your blanket. “Already did.”

You rolled your eyes and sat back at your desk, pretending to read again. The silence stretched. Then you heard him shift, rolling onto his back.

“You always work this hard?” he asked.

You didn’t look up. “You always avoid it this much?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Touché.”

When you finally glanced over, he was lying there with his hands folded behind his head, eyes tracing the cracks in your ceiling like he was studying constellations only he could see. His shoes were still on. You shot him a look.

“Shoes,” you ordered.

Scott groaned dramatically, then kicked them off onto the floor, smirking at you like he’d done you some grand favor.

“You’re insufferable,” you said.

“And yet,” he drawled, “you keep letting me in.”

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your mouth but failed.

⸻

It became a rhythm.

Some days he’d talk. About practice. About how Monty was driving him insane. About the new kid Charlie joining drills and being “weirdly too nice.” Sometimes about his dad, but always carefully—like the words might bite if he let them out wrong.

Other days he’d say almost nothing at all. He’d drop his bag, sprawl across your bed, and let you work. Sometimes you’d catch him watching the ceiling fan spin for twenty minutes straight. Sometimes he’d hum along to your playlist without realizing it.

One night, he asked, “Why do you always play music?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your notes. “Makes the silence less loud.”

He didn’t answer right away. When you glanced over, his eyes were on you, softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I get that.”

⸻

It was late one Friday when you both ended up falling asleep in the same room for the first time.

You’d put on a movie—some action flick Scott swore was “iconic” but turned out to be nothing but explosions and terrible one-liners. He’d been mocking it so much you were both laughing until your ribs hurt.

At some point, you stopped keeping track of the dialogue. The movie droned on, and Scott stretched out across the bed, his head slipping lower until it rested partly on your shoulder.

You froze. Not because it was unwelcome. But because it was so natural.

His breathing slowed. Steady. Safe.

You didn’t move. Not until morning.

⸻

From then on, his presence wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t a surprise. It was part of your routine.

Sometimes he came with homework. Sometimes he came with nothing but exhaustion. But he always came. And you—despite yourself—started waiting for him.

It was one of those afternoons where the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or clear. You and Scott had walked home together, cutting through the side streets where the cracked pavement grew weeds and the mailboxes leaned like they were tired of standing upright.

He kept kicking a rock ahead of him, letting it skitter down the sidewalk until it stopped, then sending it forward again with another lazy tap of his sneaker.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the scuff of shoes and the distant rush of cars. Then, out of nowhere, he asked:

“Do you think I’m fake?”

You blinked, turning your head. “What?”

He kept his eyes on the rock, shoulders tight. “Like… the me people see at school. Loud. Joking all the time. Acting like I don’t care about anything. Do you think that’s fake?”

You slowed your steps, studying him. His voice wasn’t sharp, not teasing. It was low. Careful. Almost like he regretted saying it out loud.

You let the silence stretch for a moment, then said, “I don’t think it’s fake.”

His jaw shifted, skeptical. “No?”

“I think it’s armor.”

That made him look at you. Really look.

“Armor?” he repeated.

You nodded. “People wear different versions of themselves, right? Some of it’s real, some of it’s just… protection. You act like nothing touches you so they can’t see what actually does.”

He kicked the rock harder than before. It clattered against a mailbox and bounced into the gutter.

“You sound like you rehearsed that,” he muttered.

You shrugged. “You’re not the only one who hides.”

That shut him up.

The two of you kept walking, the air thicker now. He shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket, his shoulders hunched like he wanted to disappear. But then he shifted closer, his arm brushing yours as if by accident.

He didn’t say thanks. But you felt it anyway.

⸻

Later that evening, the two of you sat on the edge of your bed, a textbook open between you but ignored. He was fiddling with the hem of his sleeve again, his thumb rubbing circles into the fabric like it might fray apart.

“You ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life?” he asked suddenly.

The question hit you harder than you expected.

“All the time,” you admitted.

His eyes flicked to yours. Surprised. Relieved.

You swallowed. “Like, you wake up and think… this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. But you don’t know what the right way even looks like.”

Scott nodded slowly, his face softening in a way you rarely saw. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You didn’t say anything else. Neither did he. But the space between you shifted again. Less like two classmates stuck on a project, more like two people carrying the same kind of weight—different shapes, same heaviness.

When he left that night, he didn’t joke or smirk. He just said, quietly, “See you tomorrow.”

And for the first time, you believed he meant it.

Your room was quiet except for the hum of your desk lamp. The project binder was open on the floor, but neither of you had touched it for at least twenty minutes. Scott sat cross-legged by your dresser, picking at the threads of his hoodie sleeve, his baseball cap pushed backward on his head.

He’d been quieter than usual. No teasing, no cocky smirks. Just little sighs here and there, as if something heavy was circling in his chest.

Then he said it:

“My dad told me once I’d never be good at anything but baseball.”

You froze mid-note, lifting your eyes. His face was blank, but his jaw was set too tight, like he was bracing for the echo of his own words.

“That’s not true,” you said quietly.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept twisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I know. But sometimes… it sticks.”

You shut the binder gently and slid down onto the carpet beside him. Close enough that your knees brushed.

“Then we unstick it,” you said.

That finally made him glance at you. His blue eyes were sharper in the lamplight, tired in a way he never let people see.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, carefully, you placed your hand over his. Not tight. Just steady.

He stared at your fingers resting against his knuckles, like the simple touch was more shocking than anything else. Slowly, his hand turned under yours, his thumb brushing against your palm.

His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Why do you let me be like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like… this.” He gestured weakly at himself, then dropped his hand again. “I don’t let anyone see this shit. Not Monty. Not Bryce. Not anyone.”

You held his gaze. “Because I’ve seen worse. And because I think you’re better.”

He blinked like the words knocked the air out of him. His breath caught, shallow.

The space between you shifted—suddenly charged, suddenly fragile.

His hand was still under yours when he leaned closer. Not fast. Not certain. Just enough that his nose almost brushed yours.

Your heart thundered in your chest.

Close. So close.

But he stopped there. Forehead against yours, breath warm and shaky.

“I want to,” he whispered, voice breaking. “But I’m scared.”

Your throat tightened. You could feel his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers where they pressed into your palm.

“Then we don’t rush it,” you murmured.

He closed his eyes, forehead still pressed to yours. His shoulders eased a little.

When he finally shifted, he didn’t kiss you. Instead, he dropped his head onto your shoulder, letting out a breath that sounded like relief and exhaustion all at once.

You wrapped your arm around his back, pulling him closer. “It’s okay, Scott. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time, he let himself stay quiet. No jokes, no armor. Just a boy sitting in your room, letting you hold him while the silence wrapped around you both like something fragile and new.

Part 4
Two days later, Scott was back in your room.
Same hoodie, same restless hands tugging at the drawstrings, same baseball cap tossed carelessly on your desk.

But the air was different.

It wasn’t silence this time. It was something else—thicker, like both of you knew the moment you hadn’t let happen before was still lingering between you.

You were lying side by side on your bed, legs stretched out, the project binder abandoned at the footboard. A playlist hummed low from your phone, some moody indie track that made the space feel smaller, more private.

Scott turned his head toward you, his cheek against the pillow. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

“This. Us. Sitting here. Talking about shit I don’t talk about with anyone. Doing projects. Listening to music I’d probably get roasted for.” His lips tugged into a faint smirk. “It’s… weird.”

You shifted onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “Weird doesn’t always mean bad.”

He nodded, quiet for a beat. His eyes flicked from your face to the ceiling and back again. “I keep thinking about the other night.”

Your chest tightened. “Me too.”

“About how I wanted to kiss you.”

You swallowed hard. “And?”

He let out a shaky laugh. “And I still do.”

The words hovered between you. A challenge. A confession. A promise.

You didn’t move at first. Neither did he. But then, almost cautiously, Scott shifted closer. His hand brushed against yours on the blanket.

You didn’t pull away.

“Can I?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded.

And then he leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy or overthought. It was slow—careful—like he wanted to make sure you had a chance to stop him, like he needed you to want it just as much as he did.

His lips pressed to yours, warm and trembling at first. He lingered there, waiting, until you pushed back just slightly. That was all it took.

The kiss deepened. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just real. His hand slid up, hesitating, before resting against your jaw, thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone.

Your heart was beating so fast you swore he could feel it in the press of your chest against his.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing harder, your foreheads resting together.

Scott let out a nervous laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Okay. That wasn’t so scary.”

You smiled through your own rush of adrenaline. “Told you.”

He grinned wider, then kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t careful. It was certain.

And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole life for this exact moment.

You hadn’t meant to say anything. Really. The plan was to sip your iced coffee, half-listen while Jess roasted Monty’s haircut, and let Sheri and Justin argue over which milkshake flavor was superior. But then you heard yourself blurting it out.

“I’m dating someone.”

The table froze.

Sheri’s spoon clattered against her cup. Jess blinked like she hadn’t heard right. And Justin, mid-sip of his soda, nearly choked.

Jess was the first to recover. “Wait. What?”

Your throat felt dry. But the words were already there. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

Sheri gasped so loudly people at the next table turned. “OH MY GOD.”

Justin leaned forward, eyes wide. “Okay, spill. Who is it? Don’t tell me it’s some senior we don’t know, or worse—someone from Ridgepoint.”

You swallowed. “It’s Scott.”

Silence.

Three stunned faces staring back at you.

“Scott Reed?” Jess asked finally, like she needed confirmation from another universe.

You nodded, cheeks burning. “Yeah.”

Sheri’s jaw dropped. “Baseball Scott? Number sixteen? Bryce’s Scott?”

“Not Bryce’s Scott,” you rushed to add. “Not anymore. He hasn’t been that guy for a some time.”

Justin blinked. Then shook his head slowly, a grin tugging at his lips. “Holy shit.”

Jess leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms like she was about to deliver a verdict. Her eyes narrowed at you. “And you’ve been hiding this from us?”

“I wasn’t hiding it!” you protested. “Okay, maybe a little. But it’s new, and fragile, and I didn’t want to jinx it. Or—” You sighed. “I didn’t want you to think I’d lost my mind.”

Sheri’s hand shot across the table, warm and reassuring. “Sam. You’re allowed to be happy. You don’t need our permission.”

Justin smirked. “Still… damn. Scott Reed.” He whistled. “You pulled a jock. The jock.”

“Don’t say pulled,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands.

Jess tapped the table with one perfectly painted nail. “No, you know what? I’m not even mad.”

You peeked at her. “You’re not?”

She grinned wickedly. “Nope. Because honestly? It’s kinda hot. Like, the brooding artist and the golden boy of Liberty baseball? That’s some forbidden-romance, slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers energy right there. If this were a movie, I’d eat it up.”

You groaned. “Jess…”

Sheri giggled. “She’s not wrong. You two balance each other out. He’s all loud and jock-y, you’re all… broody and dramatic. It works.”

Justin pointed his straw at you. “And I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Dude is whipped. Classic case.”

Your head snapped up. “You noticed?”

“Uh, yeah,” Justin said with a shrug. “He laughs at your dumb jokes. He hovers around your locker like a golden retriever. The guy basically wears a neon sign that says I’m in love with Sam Baker.”

Sheri squealed softly. “That’s so cute.”

Jess raised a brow. “Hold on, though. Just so we’re clear—if he screws this up, I will destroy him. Cinema-strength ass-kicking, just like Hannah once promised.”

Justin chuckled. “And if you need muscle, I’ll remind him I used to play ball too. I know exactly where to hit to make him regret it.”

You laughed despite yourself, overwhelmed but also relieved. “Wow. I feel so… protected.”

Sheri squeezed your hand again. “We love you. That’s all this is. We just want you safe. And if he makes you happy—really happy—then he’s already good in my book.”

Jess softened too, her grin fading into something more genuine. “And you do look happy. Like… lighter. It’s nice to see.”

Your chest ached a little at that. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

Jess lifted her cup. “To Sam and Scotty: Liberty High’s most chaotic, least expected couple.”

Sheri clinked her cup against Jess’s. “To love.”

Justin smirked. “And to Sam finally having better taste in men than his playlists.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling so hard it hurt. “I hate all of you.”

“Shut up,” Jess said, grinning. “You love us. Almost as much as you clearly love him.”

You looked down, cheeks hot, heart full. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a secret anymore.

The locker room smelled like sweat, Axe spray, and damp turf. It was loud—too loud. Monty was tossing a baseball against the wall like he wanted to break it, Bryce was holding court with a cocky grin, and the younger players orbited them, laughing too hard at every line.

Scott sat on the bench, hunched over, lacing his cleats tighter than he needed to. His pulse drummed in his ears. He’d promised himself he would say it today. He was tired of hiding. Tired of living with two versions of himself.

He cleared his throat. “Hey. I need to tell you guys something.”

The chatter dipped, just enough for Bryce to raise a brow. “What, Reed? You finally learning how to throw faster than a twelve-year-old?”

A few laughs. Scott ignored them. “I’m… seeing someone.”

The whistles came fast. “Ooooh, Scotty’s got himself a girl,” Monty jeered.

“Not a girl,” Scott said quickly. His voice cracked just slightly.

That quieted the room. A couple of guys exchanged looks.

Bryce leaned forward, smirking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott swallowed hard. “I’m dating a guy. Sam Baker.”

It landed like a grenade. For a second, no one moved. Then Bryce laughed, sharp and cutting. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Hannah Baker’s brother? That scrawny little weirdo?”

Monty barked out a laugh too. “Holy shit, Reed. You’re serious?”

Scott’s throat tightened. “Yeah. I’m serious.”

Bryce shook his head, grinning like a shark. “Man, I knew you were soft, but this? This is a whole new level. Guess you really do like playing catcher, huh?”

Laughter ripped through the room. Even some of the younger guys, nervous and unsure, joined in.

Scott forced a laugh too—thin, broken. “Whatever, man.”

He hated himself the second the words left his mouth.

Monty clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to sting. “Don’t worry, Reed. We’ll keep your little secret. Long as you keep showing up when Bryce calls.”

Scott froze. He wanted to push him off, wanted to say something, anything. But when he looked up, Bryce was already watching him, eyes cold, daring him to fight back.

And just like every time before, Scott dropped his gaze. “Yeah. Sure.”

Bryce leaned back, satisfied. “Good boy.”

The laughter started up again, and Scott sat there, his hands trembling in his lap. The duffel bag at his feet felt heavier than ever.

For the rest of practice, he went through the motions—catch, throw, run—but inside he was unraveling. Because he’d told the truth, but in the same breath, he’d let Bryce own it.

And that cut deeper than the jokes.

Scott’s cleats crunched against the asphalt as he trudged out of the locker room, duffel slung over one shoulder. He was still buzzing with adrenaline, but not the good kind—the kind that left your chest tight and your hands shaking. His fleece jacket was zipped up to his throat, but he still felt raw, exposed.

And then he saw you.

You were waiting where you always did—leaned casually against the passenger side door of his silver Audi, hoodie strings loose, arms crossed like you’d been there forever. Under the floodlights of the empty parking lot, you looked calm, steady. The complete opposite of him.

When your eyes met, you straightened. “Scotty.”

He dropped his duffel onto the ground with a thud. “Hey.” His voice cracked on the word.

You tilted your head. “So?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I told them.”

You didn’t move. Just waited.

Scott’s laugh came out brittle. “And Bryce laughed. Monty too. The others didn’t say much. Just… stared. Like I was some freak show.”

You unfolded your arms, stepping closer. “But you told them. That’s more than enough.”

His gaze flicked to yours, glassy and ashamed. “I told them, yeah. But then Bryce made a crack, and I—” His throat bobbed. “I laughed with him. Like the same old Scotty, like I was still his shadow. His little pet. And I f—ing hate myself for it.”

You reached up and held his jaw gently, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You’re not his. Not anymore.”

His breath stuttered. “Then why does it feel like I am every time he looks at me? Like I’m the old Scotty again, standing there while he tells me who I am.”

“Because breaking free doesn’t happen in one night,” you whispered. “It happens in pieces. And tonight you already made the first one—you chose me. You chose us. That’s more than Bryce has ever been capable of.”

Scott’s chest rose sharply. He wanted to believe it, but the shame clung tight. “I wanted to be brave for you. I wanted to make him shut up. But I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you murmured, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You’re learning. You’re healing. You don’t have to win every fight to prove you’re worth loving.”

He folded then, arms sliding around you, pulling you against his chest so hard it almost knocked the air out of you. His voice was a hoarse whisper in your ear. “I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anything. And I hate that he still has this hold on me.”

“I love you too,” you said into the soft fabric of his fleece jacket. “Enough for both of us on the nights you can’t stand tall yet.”

For a while, you just stood there in the hum of the parking lot lights, his heartbeat frantic against yours, your steady breaths slowly grounding him.

Finally, he pulled back, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. His voice was quieter now. “Let’s just get out of here.”

He opened the driver’s door without asking, because of course you weren’t driving. You slid into your rightful place—passenger princess, as always—watching him fumble with his keys before finally starting the engine.

As he pulled onto the road, you noticed the faint smudge of the black paint heart you’d drawn on his cheek hours earlier. He hadn’t washed it off. The sight made something ache in your chest.

You turned toward him with a small smile. “You know, it’s kind of poetic. You keeping that little heart. Like a rebellion. Like saying screw you to Bryce without even opening your mouth.”

Scott huffed a laugh, eyes still on the road. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’m learning from the best.”

You leaned back in your seat, smirking. “Damn right you are. Passenger princess wisdom, baby.”

He glanced sideways at you, finally smiling for real. “I should feel pathetic right now. But with you sitting there, talking like that? I actually feel… lighter.”

You reached over, threading your fingers through his on the center console. “Good. Because you don’t need to carry him anymore. You’ve got me. Always.”

Scott squeezed your hand tight. His knuckles were still trembling, but the way he held on told you one thing clear as day:

He was still fighting.

And he wasn’t fighting alone.

You found Hannah sprawled across her bed, legs crossed at the ankles, doodling in her notebook instead of doing her math homework. A half-finished soda sat on her nightstand, condensation dripping onto a coaster.

“Can I come in?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe.

She didn’t look up right away, just smirked. “Depends. Are you here to finally admit I’m cooler than you?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “Serious talk, Hannah.”

That made her sit up. She set the notebook aside, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Ooooh, big brother energy. What’s going on?”

You hesitated, sitting at the edge of her bed. Your fingers twisted in your hoodie pocket. “I’m… with someone.”

Her brows shot up. “Like with with? As in relationship status: taken?”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Yeah.”

Her smirk widened. “Spill it. Who’s the lucky guy?”

You swallowed. “Scott Reed.”

The smirk dropped. “Wait. Scott Reed? As in baseball jock, hangs around Bryce Walker, Scott Reed?”

“Yeah.”

She blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Silence stretched for a beat too long. Then she sat forward, arms crossing. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re dating one of them?”

“He’s not like them,” you said quickly. “Not with me. He’s… different. He listens. He cares. He makes me feel like I’m not broken all the time.”

Hannah’s face softened, though her frown didn’t vanish. “You really believe that?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

She studied you for a long moment, then sighed, rubbing her temples. “God, of all the people…”

“Hannah—”

“I’m not mad at you,” she cut in. “I’m mad because if he hurts you, I’ll have to kill him, and then I’ll get arrested, and Mom and Dad will be pissed.”

A laugh broke out of you despite the tension. “Cinema strength, right?”

That made her crack a small grin. “Damn right.”

For the first time in the whole conversation, you saw a flicker of approval in her eyes.

“I’ll give him a chance,” she said finally. “But if he so much as looks at you wrong—”

“You’ll kick his ass,” you finished for her.

She smirked. “Exactly.”

And just like that, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter. Because if Hannah—sarcastic, sharp, unfiltered Hannah—was willing to give Scott a chance, maybe the world wasn’t about to collapse around you.

Part 5

The doorbell rang just as your mom set down the salad bowl. You nearly tripped over yourself getting there first, palms sweating despite the fact you’d rehearsed this moment in your head a hundred times.

Scott stood on the porch in a crisp button-up, dark jeans, and that faintly nervous half-smile you knew better than anyone. He held a bouquet of tulips in one hand.

“For your mom,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Brownie points already,” you teased, stepping aside.

He rolled his eyes but looked relieved when your mom lit up at the flowers. She ushered him in with warm thanks, and your dad followed with one of those handshakes that was part-greeting, part-test-of-strength. Scott passed, though you could see the tension in his shoulders.

Then Hannah came down the stairs.

She didn’t look shocked—because she already knew. You’d told her earlier in her room, blurting it out before you could lose your nerve. She’d stared at you for a long minute, then muttered, “If he hurts you, he’s dead.” Which was… classic Hannah.

Now, seeing Scott standing in the hallway, she crossed her arms and raised a brow. “So this is the famous Reed.”

Scott stood straighter. “Hey, Hannah.”

“Hey yourself.” She gave him a once-over, then smirked faintly. “You clean up better than I expected. But let me get one thing clear—if you hurt my brother, I will personally kick your ass. Cinema strength is a real thing.”

Your mom gasped. “Hannah Baker!”

Your dad coughed into his hand, trying not to laugh. “We don’t say that at the dinner table.”

Scott, instead of getting defensive, nodded solemnly. “Fair. I’d probably deserve it.”

Hannah’s smirk widened just a little. “Good answer.”

You shoved her shoulder lightly as you passed. “Can you not?”

“I’m just saying,” she said, hands up in mock-innocence. “Gotta make sure he knows the terms and conditions.”

At dinner, the awkwardness you’d dreaded didn’t really happen. Your mom asked Scott polite questions about school and baseball; your dad grilled him about his future plans; Hannah occasionally chimed in with a jab disguised as concern. Scott handled it all calmly, polite but never fake, and even cracked a few jokes that earned real laughter from your parents.

At one point, he complimented your dad’s lasagna with a dramatic “This should win a championship trophy,” and even Hannah snorted into her water.

By dessert, the atmosphere had softened. Hannah still kept shooting you looks—silent reminders that she was watching—but her glare had lost its edge.

When Scott finally left, bouquet-vase secured in the kitchen and lasagna leftovers in his hands, you walked him to the door. He let out a long breath as soon as you closed it behind him.

“That was the most terrifying ninety minutes of my life,” he muttered, grinning despite himself.

You kissed his cheek. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

“Your sister’s got a death glare that could actually kill a man.”

You laughed. “Cinema strength, remember? Consider yourself warned.”

He groaned. “Great. Now I’ve got two Bakers who might kick my ass.”

But the way he kissed you goodnight told you he didn’t mind. Not one bit.

Chapter Text

Words~2251

—-

The bell over Monet’s door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the smell of espresso and cinnamon hanging in the air. The place was almost empty—it always felt quieter in the afternoons, like the world had slowed down just enough for the walls to breathe.

Jess was already there, tucked into her usual spot by the window. She had a steaming cup of coffee in front of her, spoon clinking sharply against the ceramic as she stirred it over and over. Too fast. Too hard. Like the cup had personally offended her.

You slid into the seat across from her. She didn’t waste time.

“I’m reporting him.”

The words landed like a punch in your chest. You blinked. “Bryce?”

Jess’s eyes snapped up. “Yes. But not for me. Not yet. For you.”

Your breath caught. You gripped the edge of the table like it might keep you steady. “Jess—”

“You don’t have to say it,” she cut you off. Her voice was steady, but her hand was trembling slightly where it gripped the spoon. “I saw your face after that night. I saw the way Scott wouldn’t let you walk alone. You didn’t tell anyone, but I know what he tried to do. What he said.”

You stared down at your untouched drink. The coffee was already cooling, but your fingers burned against the cup.

“I was scared,” you admitted finally, the words scraping their way out of your throat.

Jess’s mouth tightened. She leaned forward. “So was I. So am I. But I’m done letting fear keep us quiet.”

Her voice wavered just slightly, and that—more than anything—broke through your silence. Jess was always fire. Always fight. Hearing the tremor beneath her anger made something in you shift.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered.

Her hand came across the table, fingers brushing yours. “Then I’ll do it with you. For you. For all of us. We don’t have to let him keep winning.”

You looked at her, and for a moment, she wasn’t the fierce girl who could cut anyone down with a sentence. She was your friend. Someone who had been broken, too, and was tired of pretending she wasn’t.

And in that moment, you realized she wasn’t asking. She was deciding.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay.”

Jess squeezed your hand, her eyes shining with something equal parts relief and determination.

“Good,” she said. “Then we start now.”

Scott was pacing your bedroom when you told him. Back and forth, from the desk to the window, like a storm caught inside four walls. His duffel bag was still on the floor where he’d dropped it after practice, half-zipped, cleats sticking out. He hadn’t even bothered changing his hoodie.

You stood by the door, arms crossed tight against your chest, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve.

“We’re reporting him.”

Scott froze mid-step, his back to you. His shoulders stiffened. “We?”

“Jess and I. She’s going to help me—with the school, maybe even the police. Whatever it takes.”

When he finally turned around, his eyes were sharp, conflicted. “You’re serious.”

You nodded. “He came after me, Scotty. And if you hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what would’ve happened. He said things—about Hannah, about you, about me. He knew exactly where to hit. And I can’t… I can’t let him keep walking around like that didn’t happen.”

Scott sank down hard onto the edge of your bed, elbows braced on his knees. He buried his face in his hands, exhaling shakily. “I want to say yes. I want to be all in. But if we do this…” He looked up at you, voice low and raw. “It’s war. Bryce and Monty won’t stop. They’ll make your life hell. Ours. Everyone’s.”

“They already have,” you said quietly.

He flinched like you’d hit him. His hands curled into fists.

You moved closer, sitting beside him so your knees touched. “You’re not losing everything. You’re choosing better. You’re choosing us.”

Scott turned to look at you, his eyes glassy. “You don’t get it. I spent years thinking they were my family. I was loyal to them. Even when I knew they didn’t deserve it. Even when I knew they were hurting people.” His voice cracked. “And now, it feels like I have to burn that entire part of me to the ground.”

“Then let it burn,” you whispered. “You don’t need both. You have me. You have Jess. You have all of us. That’s enough.”

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, breathing hard. For a moment, you thought he might shut down completely. But then his hand slipped sideways, finding yours. His grip was shaky but strong, like he was holding onto the last solid thing in the room.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Not of him. Not even of Monty. I’m scared of what this will do to you.”

“I’m scared too,” you said. “But we can’t keep living like this. Looking over our shoulders. Pretending it’ll just stop.”

Silence filled the room again, thick and heavy. Scott’s thumb traced slowly across your knuckles, grounding himself. Finally, he let out a long, unsteady breath.

“Okay,” he said. “If you’re in, I’m in. But don’t expect me to be calm about it. I don’t know if I can be.”

You managed a small smile. “I don’t need calm, Scotty. I just need you.”

That cracked him open. He leaned forward until his forehead touched yours, his breath warm, his voice just a whisper:

“You’ll always have me.”

The next morning, the hallways felt louder than usual—lockers slamming, kids shouting, sneakers squeaking on the tile. But all of it faded into static as you walked beside Jess toward Principal Bolan’s office.

She carried a thin folder clutched tight to her chest. You recognized it—the statement she’d written, your words typed out in neat, formal paragraphs. Words you weren’t sure you’d ever have the strength to say out loud.

Scott walked with you up until the office doors. He hadn’t said much the whole morning, just kept his hand on your back like he was steering you through the crowd, like he was afraid if he let go, you’d vanish. When you reached the office, he stopped.

“I’ll wait here,” he said softly.

You nodded, meeting his eyes. They were wide, stormy, but steady. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said firmly. “Go. I’ll be right here when you come out.”

Jess gave him a small nod, then opened the door.

⸻

Bolan’s office was as stiff as you remembered it—too-clean carpet, leather chair that squeaked when he leaned back, a row of file cabinets lined up like soldiers. He gestured for you and Jess to sit.

“What brings you in today?” His voice was even, practiced.

Jess set the folder on his desk. Her hands didn’t shake. Yours did.

“We need to report something,” she said. “Something serious. About Bryce Walker.”

Bolan’s expression barely changed. He folded his hands together on the desk. “Go on.”

Jess slid the folder toward him. “This is a written statement. About an incident after the Ridgepoint game. Bryce targeted Sam. He confronted him, physically shoved him, and—” She hesitated, glancing at you.

You forced the words out. “He threatened me. Called me a burden. Said I was ruining Scott. He shoved me hard enough I bruised. If Scott hadn’t shown up when he did…” Your throat tightened. “I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Bolan leaned back, flipping the folder open, scanning the first page. His eyes moved quickly, unreadable.

“And you’re both certain of this?” he asked.

Jess’s jaw tightened. “We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.”

Bolan nodded slowly, closing the folder. He steepled his fingers, his voice calm, too calm. “This is a serious accusation. You understand that? Once this is on record, there will be consequences for everyone involved. Are you prepared for that?”

Your stomach churned. Jess answered for both of you. “Yes. We are.”

You forced yourself to speak too. “He’s not going to stop. Not unless someone finally does something.”

For the first time, Bolan’s gaze softened—just barely. He set the folder aside. “All right. I’ll escalate this to the district. We’ll need formal statements, possibly a hearing. I’ll be in touch.”

Jess nodded, standing. You followed, legs shaky, palms damp.

“Thank you,” you managed, even though the words felt hollow.

Outside, the door clicked shut behind you. Scott was on his feet instantly.

“Well?” he asked, voice low.

Jess exhaled. “It’s done. He has the statement.”

Scott’s eyes went to you. You couldn’t speak, not yet, so you just reached for his hand. He took it, gripping hard, as if anchoring you both.

The three of you had ended up on the hill behind the school without even really planning it. It was muscle memory by now—this was where you always went when the walls of Liberty felt like they were caving in.

The grass was still damp from the rain, little beads of water soaking into your jeans, but you didn’t care. Sam sat cross-legged, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. Scott stretched out next to him, lying on his back with his Liberty fleece jacket pulled tight against the chill. Jess hugged her knees, her curls bouncing every time the breeze picked up.

For a while, no one spoke. The sky above was streaked in pink and gold, the last shards of daylight slowly dimming. It felt like the world was holding its breath with you.

Scott was the first to break the quiet. “Feels weird,” he muttered, staring up at the sky.

“What does?” you asked softly.

“Reporting him. Saying it out loud. I thought I’d feel lighter, but it just feels… heavy. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Jess tilted her head at him. “Of course it feels heavy. You finally stopped carrying it alone. That doesn’t mean the weight disappears—it just means you’re not the only one holding it anymore.”

Scott sat up slowly, propping his elbows on his knees. He gave her a small, crooked smile. “You always gotta make everything sound so wise?”

Jess rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Don’t start with me, Reed. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

That got a weak laugh out of you, but Jess didn’t join in. Instead, she drew in a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter. Sharper around the edges.

“I need to say something,” she said.

Both you and Scott turned to her. “Jess?”

She blinked hard, her eyes already glossing with tears. “I love you. Both of you. And I don’t think I’ve said that enough. Not just in the casual, friend-way. I mean—really love you. You’re my family. And without you two… I wouldn’t have survived this year.”

Scott’s lips parted like he hadn’t expected that at all. “Jess…”

But she shook her head. “No. Let me finish before I lose my nerve.” She shifted her gaze, first to Scott. “I’ve seen you change, Scotty. I’ve seen you walk away from people you once thought were everything to you. I’ve seen you put Sam first, even when it scared the hell out of you. You went from being Bryce’s shadow to being someone I’m proud to call my friend. And I know Hannah would’ve been proud of you too.”

Scott swallowed hard, his throat visibly tight. His voice cracked when he finally managed, “That means more than you know.”

Jess reached out, squeezing his hand before turning to you.

“And Sam… you’re braver than you think. You’ve been carrying so much—grief, guilt, all of it—and you still choose love. You still choose us. You’ve taught me more about strength than anyone. And seeing you and Scott together?” Her face broke into a watery smile. “It gives me hope. Real hope. And God, do I love you for that.”

Your chest constricted. “Jess…”

But she wasn’t done. She leaned forward suddenly, wrapping both of you in her arms at once, pulling you into a messy, suffocating hug. “I love you idiots. Don’t ever forget that. Together, apart, whatever—you’re mine. You’re my people.”

You let out a shaky laugh into her shoulder. “We’re stuck with you too, huh?”

“Damn right you are,” Jess sniffed, tightening her arms around you both.

Scott chuckled, but his voice was thick with emotion. “This is… kinda nice. Wholesome, even.”

“Shut up,” Jess said into his jacket, though she was laughing too.

The three of you stayed tangled together far longer than usual, the hug shifting between laughter and quiet sniffles. The kind of hug that said more than words ever could.

Finally, Scott pulled back just enough to look at you both. His cheeks were red, eyes glassy, but he was smiling. “Family’s a good word for it.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

Jess wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then poked Scott in the chest. “Don’t screw this up. Either of you. Because if you do, I’ll end both of your careers before they even start.”

That finally made you laugh for real, the kind that left your ribs aching. Scott shook his head and pulled you closer into his side.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon and the first stars started to show, you realized that—for the first time in days—you didn’t feel crushed by the weight of everything.

You felt… held.

And for now, that was enough

Chapter Text

Words~ 2928

—-

The day after the report was filed, Liberty felt like it had slipped into some kind of strange hush.

Not peaceful—never peaceful—but muted. Like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

The whispers weren’t loud anymore. They didn’t echo through the halls like gossip usually did. Instead, they died off the moment you walked by. Teachers called names for attendance slower, voices snagging when they reached yours or Jess’s. Even Monet’s, usually buzzing with music and laughter, felt cold when you pushed open the door.

Scott stayed close—always a step behind, always with his hand brushing yours. But his mind was somewhere else. You could see it in the way he stared at his phone for minutes without typing, or in the way he paced in class when he thought no one was looking. His jaw never unclenched.

You’d seen Scott angry before. Loud, reckless, cocky. This wasn’t that. This was quiet. Heavy. Like the anger had turned inward.

That night, sitting on the edge of your bed, you asked, “You okay?”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just dragged a hand over his face.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I keep thinking about… that place. The clubhouse. About who I was then.”

You shifted closer, hand brushing his arm. “You’re not that person anymore.”

His eyes flicked to you, sharp. “I was, though. I was someone who didn’t stop it. Who didn’t say a word. And now I’m watching you and Jess be brave, and all I can think about is how long I stayed silent.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just slipped your fingers between his, steady.
“Then maybe it’s time to stop being silent.”

Scott’s throat worked as he swallowed, but he didn’t reply. He just sat there, staring at your joined hands, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to hold them at all.

The next day dragged like sandpaper. You could feel Scott pulling further into himself with every passing period. He wasn’t avoiding you—he still held your hand in the hallway, still kissed your temple when no one was looking—but something gnawed at him, and he wouldn’t let you in.

By sixth period, you thought maybe you’d imagined it. Maybe he just needed space.
But then, after the bell, you saw him standing frozen outside the girls’ restroom near the gym.

At first, you thought he was waiting for you. But his body was too tense, his head bowed, like he was trying not to breathe too loudly.

You slowed. “Scotty?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes flicked toward the door.

And that’s when you heard it.

Two voices inside. Jess. And Sheri.

Their words were hushed, muffled by tile and distance—but just clear enough.

“You’ve never told anyone?” Jess asked, her voice taut, like a violin string pulled too tight.

“I did,” Sheri said. “I told myself. That was the only one who listened.”

Your stomach twisted.

Then Sheri’s voice dropped, raw and trembling: “I didn’t just feel violated. I felt watched. And I remember who was there. Who looked away.”

Beside you, Scott flinched. His shoulders went rigid, fists clenching at his sides.

The silence that followed inside the bathroom was unbearable. Jess whispered something you couldn’t catch, but you weren’t listening anymore. You were looking at Scott—at the way his face had gone pale, his jaw slack, his chest heaving too fast.

“Scotty,” you whispered again, softer now.

He shook his head, like trying to dislodge the words that had just hit him like a sledgehammer.

And then he stepped back. Slowly. Carefully. Like the floor was about to collapse.

Without looking at you, he turned and walked down the hall, disappearing into the maze of lockers before either Jess or Sheri could emerge.

You didn’t follow. Not yet. Because you already knew where he was going: straight back into his own head, into the shadows of who he used to be.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, you realized you couldn’t save him from that.
Not until he was ready to face it.

Scott didn’t come over that night.
You waited. You texted. He answered, but only with half-sentences—“yeah,” “I’m fine,” “don’t worry.”
You knew better than to believe him.

When you finally gave up and crawled into bed, you stared at your phone in the dark, rereading his last reply over and over. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It felt like a lie.

⸻

Scott’s POV (from Sam’s eyes):

He didn’t sleep. You knew that because when you met him at his locker the next morning, he looked like he’d been awake for weeks. His hoodie was wrinkled, his hair unbrushed, his eyes glassy in a way you recognized too well.

He didn’t say good morning. He didn’t kiss your cheek. He just muttered, “Hey,” and slammed his locker shut like it had wronged him.

You touched his sleeve gently. “Scotty…”

He shook his head. “Not here.”

And that was all you got.

⸻

Later, you found him in the library, head bent over a notebook, pen tapping nervously against the margin. He wasn’t writing. Just… scribbling circles until the paper tore.

You sat across from him, watching. “You’re spiraling.”

He lifted his head finally, eyes red-rimmed but sharp. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About what Sheri said?” you asked carefully.

He swallowed hard. “She was right. I was there. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t do anything. I just—stood there.” His voice cracked. “And I told myself that meant I wasn’t guilty. That silence was enough.”

Your chest ached. “Scotty—”

“I’m not that guy anymore,” he cut in quickly, desperate. “But I was then. And she deserves to hear me say it out loud. To her face. No excuses.”

You blinked. “You’re going to apologize?”

He nodded once, jaw set. “Today. I can’t breathe until I do.”

For a long moment, you just looked at him. At the boy who used to stand in the shadows of monsters, now trying to step into the light even if it burned.

You reached across the table and slid your hand over his. “Then I’ll stand with you. Whatever happens.”

Scott squeezed your hand hard, like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

And in that silence, you knew: he meant it. He was going to Sheri.

He was going to face the ghost.

took Scott hours to work up the courage.
Through English, through math, through lunch—you saw it in the way his leg bounced under the table, the way he picked at his cuticles until they bled. He wasn’t scared of Sheri. He was scared of himself. Of saying the wrong thing. Of saying nothing at all.

By the last period, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed your wrist as the bell rang. “Stay close. Please.”

You nodded. “Always.”

⸻

You found Sheri by the vending machines, earbuds in, scrolling her phone. She looked up when Scott said her name, her eyes narrowing instantly.

“What?”

Scott’s voice wavered. “Can we talk?”

Her gaze flicked to you, then back to him. For a second, she didn’t answer. Then: “Fine. But not here.”

She led the way to the courtyard, the one with the cracked benches and the hedges that never quite grew even. The air was brisk, clouds rolling heavy above. You hung back at the edge, letting Scott step forward, though your chest tightened with every shaky breath he took.

Sheri crossed her arms. “Say it.”

Scott shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He looked at her, really looked, and for the first time you saw him stripped of all his armor—the cocky smile, the jock bravado, the sharp comebacks. Just Scott.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice cracked halfway through. “For that night. For being there. For standing still when I should’ve moved. For letting you feel alone.”

Sheri’s face hardened. “You were there.”

He nodded, eyes glassy. “I was.”

“And you saw.”

His throat worked. “Yes.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “And you said nothing. Not to Bryce. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“I was scared,” he admitted, voice raw. “Scared of losing the only version of me that people accepted. Scared of them turning on me. And that’s not an excuse. It’s just the truth. I let my fear be louder than your pain.”

Her jaw clenched. “You let me feel like I was the only one. Like it was my shame to carry.”

“I know,” he said. Tears slipped down his face now. “I know. And I regret it every day. Not because of what people might think now. Not because it’s finally catching up to us. But because it broke something in me. Something human. And I can’t keep pretending it didn’t.”

Sheri’s arms loosened, but her eyes didn’t soften. “Do you regret it, or do you just want forgiveness?”

Scott stepped closer, shoulders shaking. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I just need you to know—I see you. I see what you carried. And I’m so, so sorry I didn’t carry it with you.”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Then she blinked hard, tears spilling despite herself. She looked away, wiping quickly at her cheeks.

You moved closer, placing a hand gently on Scott’s back, steadying him as his breathing hitched.

Sheri’s voice finally came, quieter. “You want to make it right?”

Scott nodded instantly. “Yes.”

“Then show up. Next time. For me. For anyone. Don’t just stand there.”

“I swear I won’t,” he whispered.

She studied him, then nodded once. “I don’t forgive you. Not yet.”

Scott’s face fell, but he didn’t argue.

“But…” she added, her voice trembling, “I hear you.”

Scott let out a shaky breath, shoulders sagging. He whispered, “Thank you.”

Sheri turned and walked away, strong even as her steps shook.

And Scott—Scott stayed frozen in place, tears still streaming, your hand the only anchor keeping him steady.

You whispered, “You did it.”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel clean.”

“You’re not supposed to. Not yet. But you’re closer.”

Scott finally turned into you, burying his face against your shoulder, his sobs muffled in your hoodie.

And you held him. Because for the first time, he wasn’t hiding from the weight of his past. He was carrying it.

And you weren’t going to let him carry it alone.

The courtyard emptied as the last of the lunch crowd disappeared. Sheri was gone, leaving only the echo of her words. The air smelled faintly of damp grass and asphalt, the kind of scent that always followed rain.

Scott was still shaking when you led him toward the back staircase, your arm hooked through his like he might collapse without it. Neither of you spoke until you reached the quiet of your room later that afternoon.

He dropped onto your bed without ceremony, head in his hands. His fleece jacket still smelled faintly of the field, the faint outline of the little black-paint heart still visible on his cheek, smeared now with dried tears.

You sat beside him, careful. “Scotty.”

His voice came muffled. “I don’t deserve you.”

The words cut deeper than anything Bryce had ever thrown at you. You sat up straighter, heart thudding. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes red, hair sticking up where he’d run his hands through it too many times. “You. Us. The way you stand by me, even when I’ve done… all the shit I’ve done. I don’t deserve that.” His voice cracked. “I don’t deserve you.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hands, prying them from where they clutched his knees. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” he said quickly, almost desperately. “I stood there in that room and I didn’t do a goddamn thing. And now I’m standing here with you, acting like I get to be loved—like I get to be forgiven. But I don’t. Not by Sheri. Not by you.”

You shook your head, squeezing his hands tighter. “You think love works like a reward system? Like a report card? That I’m checking boxes to decide if you get to keep me?”

He blinked, thrown off.

“I’m here because I love you,” you said, voice sharp, fierce. “The boy who stayed outside my door the night Hannah died, who held me when I couldn’t breathe, who put a stupid little heart on his cheek just because I drew it. That’s the boy I love. And yeah, you’ve done things you regret. So have I. So has everyone in our group. But that doesn’t erase who you are now.”

Scott’s chest heaved, his eyes searching yours. “And who am I now?”

You leaned forward, your forehead pressing against his. “You’re the boy who apologized. Who didn’t hide. Who broke himself open in front of Sheri because she deserved to hear it. That’s who you are.”

His breath shuddered against your lips. “But what if I fail again?”

“Then I’ll be there to pick you back up,” you said firmly. “Because we’re not perfect. We’re not clean. But we’re together. And that means we carry the weight together.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, raw and wrecked. Then his face crumpled, and he leaned into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly you could barely breathe.

You buried your face in his shoulder, whispering into the fabric of his fleece. “You deserve love, Scotty. You deserve forgiveness. You deserve me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss you, hard, desperate, full of salt and heat and everything he couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t about passion—it was about survival. About needing to know that he was still here, still allowed to be loved.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, you cupped his face in your hands. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. That’s enough.”

Scott’s voice was hoarse, but steady now. “I’m so damn lucky.”

You smiled softly, brushing your thumb across his cheek where the black paint still lingered. “Yeah, you are.”

And for the first time since that night in the bleachers, he let himself laugh—small, broken, but real.

The late afternoon sun was sinking low, painting the Liberty courtyard in amber and gold when Jess found you and Scott again. Sheri was with her, arms crossed at first, but softer than before.

You were sitting on the bench with Scott’s arm draped around your shoulders. His head rested back, eyes closed like he was trying to soak in whatever scraps of peace he could find. You traced absent lines on the back of his hand, grounding him as much as yourself.

Jess approached first, her voice careful. “Mind if we join?”

Scott’s eyes opened, heavy but calmer than earlier. He nodded. “Yeah. Sit.”

Jess and Sheri lowered themselves onto the bench across from you two. For a while, the only sound was the rustle of leaves and distant shouts from the football field.

Then Sheri spoke.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she said, eyes locked on Scott. “In the courtyard. How you admitted you were there. That you didn’t stop it.”

Scott sat up a little, jaw tightening, but he didn’t look away. “I meant every word.”

Sheri nodded slowly. “And I thought I’d never want to hear that from you. But the truth is… I did. Because pretending it didn’t happen made it worse. And hearing you say it out loud—it made me feel less crazy. Less invisible.”

Scott’s throat bobbed. “Sheri, I’ll never forgive myself for what I didn’t do.”

Her gaze softened. “Maybe. But I forgive you.”

Scott blinked, stunned. “What?”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I forgive you. Not because what you did—or didn’t do—was okay. But because I can see you now. I see how you’ve changed. How you show up for the people around you. How you love Sam.” Her eyes flicked to you, warm and steady. “That’s not the boy who stood in that room. That’s someone better. And I think Hannah would’ve seen that too.”

Your chest tightened at her name, but the warmth in Sheri’s words wrapped around you like a blanket. You glanced at Scott. His face was wet, though he hadn’t noticed the tears yet.

“You… forgive me?” he whispered, almost like he didn’t believe it.

Sheri nodded. “I do. Because carrying that hate in me doesn’t make me heal faster. And because I can see you’re trying—not just for yourself, but for all of us. For him.” She gestured at you.

You tightened your hold on Scott’s hand. “Told you,” you whispered.

Scott let out a shaky laugh, finally brushing at his eyes with his sleeve. “I don’t deserve that.”

Sheri tilted her head. “Maybe not. But forgiveness isn’t about deserving. It’s about what we choose to do with our pain. And I’m choosing to let go of the part that keeps me chained to the past.”

Jess reached over, squeezing Sheri’s shoulder proudly. “That’s brave.”

Sheri smiled faintly. “Braver than I feel most days.”

Scott leaned forward, voice trembling. “Thank you. I’ll never stop trying to prove worthy of that forgiveness.”

“You already are,” Sheri said simply.

The four of you sat there as the sky dimmed, silence stretching—but not heavy this time. It was lighter. Warmer. Healing in a way words alone couldn’t capture.

For the first time in a long while, Scott’s breathing evened out. His shoulders dropped. And when he looked at you, his eyes were clearer, steadier.

Sheri had given him something he hadn’t dared hope for.

A second chance.

Chapter Text

Words~2172

—-

The hallways at Liberty felt louder than usual, even when no one was speaking.
Maybe it was because of the report. Maybe it was because of Bryce. Or maybe it was because you’d overheard Principal Bolan two days ago, voice sharp and hushed as he spoke with Bryce’s mom outside his office.

You couldn’t catch everything, but you caught enough: words like “formal action,” “misunderstanding,” and “protect the program.”
It made your stomach twist.

And now, every step through the school felt like walking across glass. Teachers paused a beat too long when they called on you. Classmates stopped mid-whisper when you passed by. Even Monet’s, usually a safe haven, felt colder—its chatter dampened, its coffee bitterer.

But it wasn’t just the outside world.

Scott had changed too.

Not obviously. He still kissed you at your locker in the morning, still laced his fingers through yours on the way to class, still leaned against your desk in math when the teacher wasn’t looking. But there was something in his eyes that wouldn’t stay still. Something that drifted just past you, like his head was replaying a film only he could see.

At lunch, you caught him zoning out in the middle of Justin’s story, fingers tapping restlessly on his water bottle. Later in English, he missed an entire page turn, staring at the same paragraph until the bell rang.

And every time you asked, “You okay?” he gave the same answer.

“Just tired.”

It didn’t sound like a lie.
But it didn’t sound like the truth either.

You noticed.
Of course you noticed.

And it left a knot in your chest you couldn’t untangle.

Now, days later, it showed in little cracks. He still walked you to class, still kissed you at your locker, still texted you memes like nothing had changed. But sometimes his eyes would drift away mid-conversation. At lunch, he’d zone out while the others laughed. His grip on your hand would tighten like he was reminding himself you were real.

Jess noticed. Of course she did.
At lunch one day, she leaned across the table, narrowing her eyes.
“Your boy’s brooding again. He’s been staring at the same French fry for five minutes.”

You sighed, nudging Scott under the table. He startled and tried to play it off with a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Sheri gave you a knowing look, but her voice was kind.
“He’s still working through it. Forgiveness doesn’t magically heal you. But he’s trying. And that’s what matters.”

Scott didn’t argue. He just mumbled, “I’m fine,” and pushed his tray away.

But you knew better.

By Sunday night, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The two of you were stretched out on your bed, the blanket half-slipped to the floor. The hum of your phone was the only sound in the room. Scott lay beside you, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it had answers written in the paint.

You turned to face him.
“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m just tired,” he said automatically.

You shook your head. “No, Scotty. This isn’t tired. This is you carrying something you won’t say out loud.”

His jaw clenched. He kept staring upward.

“Talk to me,” you urged. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.”

Finally, he turned his head. His eyes were glassy, but steady.
“She forgave me,” he said softly. “Sheri forgave me. But I can’t forgive myself.”

Your heart tightened. “Why not?”

He swallowed hard. His voice shook when he answered.
“Because I wasn’t just there.”

You blinked, stomach dropping.
“What do you mean?”

Scott’s chest rose and fell, unsteady. He met your eyes, and the words came out like a confession tearing itself free:
“I was part of it.”

And just like that, the air between you changed.

The silence wasn’t gentle. It was sharp. Shattering.

The words sat heavy in the room, sharp enough to slice through the quiet.

You sat up, staring down at him. “Part of it?”

Scott turned onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes raw. “I didn’t touch her. I swear I didn’t. But I was there. I laughed at Bryce’s jokes. I stood in that room and didn’t stop a damn thing. That’s part of it, isn’t it? That’s what makes me guilty.”

You felt your stomach knot. You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that it wasn’t the same—but deep down, you knew it was. Standing there. Saying nothing. That was part of the violence too.

“You told me before you weren’t like them,” you said, voice shaking. “You let me believe that.”

“I wanted to believe it myself,” he whispered. “I told myself, ‘you didn’t touch her, you didn’t join in,’ like that made me clean. But it doesn’t. I was one of the watchers. That’s who I was.”

You stood, pacing now, your hands twisting together. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why keep that from me?”

His voice cracked. “Because I didn’t want you to look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you snapped.

“Like I’m the monster I keep telling myself I was.” His words came in a rush now, desperate. “I thought if I showed you enough of the new me, the better me, maybe you wouldn’t care about who I used to be. Maybe I could bury it. But Sheri—hearing her say she felt watched—she was talking about me too. And I can’t bury it anymore.”

You stopped pacing, chest tight. “Scott… how many times?”

His face crumpled. “Three. Maybe four. I don’t know. Sometimes I was drunk, sometimes I left early. But I kept going back. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t even try.”

Silence. The kind that pressed down, suffocating.

You pressed your knuckles to your mouth, trying to breathe through the sharp ache in your chest. “Do you know what it feels like to realize the person you love was part of the very thing that destroyed people like Hannah? Like Sheri?”

Scott sat up, his whole body shaking. “I do now. I’ve replayed it every night since. And I hate myself for it.”

You met his eyes, tears stinging. “I trusted you. I defended you. To my friends. To Hannah. To myself.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he admitted. “I don’t deserve you. But I’m not hiding anymore. If you want the truth—this is it. Every ugly part. Every piece I’ve tried to lock away.”

You stared at him, searching for the boy you’d fallen for in the storm of guilt and shame. And maybe—just maybe—he was still there, buried under the weight of who he used to be.

Your voice was hoarse when you finally spoke. “I don’t hate you, Scotty. But I don’t know how to forgive this. Not yet.”

His face broke, but he nodded. “Then I’ll wait. I’ll spend every day proving I’m not that boy anymore. That I’m someone who deserves to stand beside you.”

You sank back onto the edge of the bed, exhausted. “If we do this, there can’t be any more half-truths. No more hiding. I need everything. Even the pieces you’re scared to show me.”

Scott’s breath caught. He reached out slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him. “Then I’ll give you everything. No edits. No masks. Just me.”

You didn’t take his hand right away. But you didn’t pull away when his fingers brushed yours either.

The truth was out now. Brutal. Bloody. Real.
And there was no going back.

The house had gone quiet hours ago. The storm of words and confessions had burned itself out, leaving behind only the low hum of the night outside your window. You and Scott hadn’t spoken much since—just a few fragments here and there, nothing close to the weight of what had been said.

Now, lying in bed, the both of you faced each other in the dim glow of your lamp. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes still damp, his cheek pressed against the pillow like he hadn’t slept in years. You felt raw, but not angry anymore—just drained.

You broke the silence first. “I overreacted.”

Scott’s brows knit together, his voice quiet. “No, you didn’t. You had every right to—”

“I did,” you interrupted softly. “Because I was scared. Because I thought the boy in front of me and the boy you used to be were the same. And I needed space to see the difference.”

He blinked at you, a flicker of hope behind the guilt. “And now?”

You reached out, your fingers brushing gently against his forehead, sweeping away a stray strand of hair that had fallen over his eyes. The smallest, most intimate gesture. “Now I see you, Scotty. Not who you were. Who you are. Who you’re trying to be. And I love you.”

His breath caught, his lips parting like he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

You leaned closer, your forehead nearly touching his. “I love you. Even when it hurts. Even when it’s complicated. I don’t want to run from that.”

Tears welled in his eyes again, softer this time. He exhaled shakily, his voice breaking as he whispered, “I love you too. More than I ever thought I could love anyone. And I swear—I’ll never hide from you again.”

You gave him a small smile, letting your thumb trace the curve of his cheekbone. “Good. Because you don’t need to.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It was gentle, full. You both breathed in the same rhythm, eyes locked, hands finding each other under the blanket.

Two boys, bruised by the past, but still choosing each other anyway.

And in that moment, forgiveness wasn’t about erasing what had happened. It was about saying: I see you. And I’m still here.

The next morning arrived with sunlight spilling in through the blinds, softer than it had any right to be after the week you’d had. Scott was still asleep beside you, one arm thrown haphazardly over your waist, his hair sticking out in five different directions. For once, he looked peaceful—no tight jaw, no storm behind his eyes. Just Scott. Just the boy you loved.

You reached over to grab your phone from the nightstand, more out of habit than anything. Notifications buzzed as the screen lit up. You started scrolling aimlessly, half-awake, until your gallery opened by accident.

And there it was.

A photo you’d forgotten you even took.

Scott, under the floodlights of the field, still in his Liberty uniform, grinning with that stupidly smug face. His cheeks were flushed from the game, hair sweaty under his cap—and on his left cheek, clear as day, was the little black heart you had traced on him with your finger.

You froze, thumb hovering over the screen. For a moment, it felt like your chest cracked open.

You hadn’t realized you’d taken it. Maybe it was in the rush of trying to cheer him up, maybe because you just wanted to remember that night even if everything else fell apart. But there it was: proof of what he meant to you. Proof of what you two had built.

Scott stirred beside you, groaning into the pillow. “Why are you staring at me like I did something?”

You smiled faintly and turned the screen toward him. “Because you did.”

His eyes blinked open, squinting at the phone. The second he saw the photo, his lips curved upward. “You kept that?”

“I didn’t even know I had it,” you admitted. “But… yeah. I guess I did.”

Scott propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at the image again. “That heart—man, I thought it would wipe off the second I started sweating. But it didn’t. It stayed the whole game.”

You laughed softly. “Of course it did. It was basically permanent marker, courtesy of my artistic genius.”

He grinned, then his smile softened. “No, I mean… it stayed. Like love does. Even when I don’t feel like I deserve it.”

Your throat tightened, the lump rising fast. You set the phone down and leaned forward, brushing a hand over his messy hair. “That’s because it wasn’t just paint. It was me saying you mattered. And you still do. Even now. Especially now.”

Scott stared at you, eyes glassy but warm. Then, slowly, he whispered, “Can you send me that picture? So I can look at it when I forget?”

You nodded. “Already sent.”

The notification pinged on his phone a second later. He picked it up, looked at it again, and shook his head with a soft laugh. “Damn. Number sixteen, caught in 4K being in love.”

You smirked. “You mean caught being my passenger princess.”

“Hey—” he laughed, rolling onto his back. “That’s slander. I drive.”

“And I sit there looking cute. That makes me the princess.”

Scott reached out, pulling you down onto his chest. “Fine. Then you’re my princess.”

You looked up at him, heart tugging hard. “Forever?”

He pressed his lips to your forehead, firm and sure. “Forever.”

And for once, you believed it without hesitation.

Chapter Text

Words~4115

—-

The hallway before second period was crowded, voices bouncing against the lockers, shoes squeaking on the linoleum. You were digging through your bag for a notebook when a voice cut through the noise.

“Walk with me,” Principal Bolan said.

You looked up, startled. He was standing a few feet away, his suit sharper than usual, his tie knotted too tightly. His expression wasn’t angry—just grim. Serious in a way that made your stomach twist.

Scott fell into step beside you without saying a word. The two of you followed Bolan down a side hallway near the administration wing, one rarely used during passing periods. The further you went, the quieter it got, until it was just the three of you by the windows, the hum of the building faint in the background.

Bolan stopped and turned, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I wanted you both to hear it directly,” he said.

You tightened your grip on the strap of your backpack. “Hear what?”

“The disciplinary committee has reached a decision,” he said. “An official announcement will be made Monday morning. Bryce Walker will be suspended from all athletic programs pending further review.”

For a second, the words didn’t register. Suspended. It sounded so… light compared to everything. Like taping over a crack in a dam.

Scott’s brow furrowed. “And that’s it? Suspended?”

“For now,” Bolan said, adjusting his tie again. “This isn’t the end. It’s the beginning. There may be further consequences after the review.”

You glanced at Scott. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t argue again, though—you could tell he wanted to.

Bolan’s voice lowered. “You should be prepared. These things rarely stay clean. Whispers, rumors, attempts to discredit. They’re coming.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “We know.”

Bolan studied you both for a moment longer, then simply said, “Stay steady,” before walking away, leaving you and Scott standing in the dim hallway.

Scott finally exhaled through his nose. “Suspension.” He shook his head. “Feels like a slap on the wrist.”

You touched his arm gently. “It’s something. Maybe not everything. But it’s the first crack.”

Scott looked at you then, eyes stormy but steady. His hand slipped into yours, and he squeezed once. Hard.

And for a brief moment, the silence around you felt less like waiting—and more like bracing.

By lunch, the courtyard had turned into your war room. Same table you’d been claiming for weeks, the one tucked against the far hedge where you could almost pretend the world wasn’t watching.

Jess, Sheri, and Clay were already there when you and Scott arrived. The air had that mid-autumn bite—wind sharp enough to sting your cheeks, gray clouds stacked heavy overhead.

You dropped your bag onto the bench. Scott leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, his Liberty fleece pulled tight across his chest. He hadn’t said much since Bolan’s hallway confession. You felt the weight of it too.

“So?” Jess asked, eyes flicking between you and Scott.

You pulled in a breath. “Monday morning. Bolan’s making the announcement. Bryce is suspended from all sports. Pending review.”

The table went quiet. Sheri’s shoulders slumped, like she’d been holding out for something heavier.

“That’s it?” Clay muttered, rubbing at his temple.

“For now,” you said. “Bolan made it sound like there could be more. But… that’s what we’ve got.”

Jess blew out a sharp breath, stirring her coffee. “It’s not enough. But it’s something. And honestly? It’s more than I thought they’d do this fast.”

Sheri nodded slowly. “It’s not justice. But it’s a start.”

Scott still hadn’t spoken. His eyes stayed fixed on the cracked pavement beneath his sneakers. His hand brushed yours under the table, searching, and you threaded your fingers through his. He squeezed—tight, almost desperate.

“It’s going to get worse,” Clay said suddenly, breaking the silence. He looked up at all of you, his expression weary but sharp. “This weekend, people are going to start talking. Bryce is going to hear it. And when he does—”

“He’ll retaliate,” Jess finished flatly.

You felt Scott tense beside you. He finally looked up, jaw locked, eyes cold. But he didn’t speak. His grip on your hand said enough.

No one at that table noticed the hooded figure a few rows down. Bryce, slouched against the stone bench with earbuds dangling but not playing anything. Watching. Listening.

By the time you noticed the faint weight of someone’s eyes, he was already gone.

And hours later, when you were home, scrolling through Instagram—you realized the war had already started.

It started quietly, almost too quietly.

You were sprawled on your bed that evening, Scott FaceTiming you from his own room. His hair was damp from the shower, hoodie half-zipped, the little paint heart from the game photo still saved as his lock screen.

You were halfway through telling him about a dumb meme Clay had sent when you froze.

“Wait.” You squinted at your phone. “Do you see this?”

Scott frowned. “What?”

You angled your screen to show him the Instagram story you’d just tapped into. A burner account. No profile pic. No followers. But the post was clear—a photo of you at last year’s pep rally, cropped and edited to make it look like you were DM’ing Bryce. Fake messages scrawled across the image.

Scott leaned closer to his camera. “What the hell…”

“That’s not the worst part,” you muttered, swiping. The next story loaded. A shaky, chopped-up video of someone laughing at a distorted version of Hannah’s tape intro, spliced together with your face.

Your stomach dropped.

Scott’s voice sharpened. “He’s making it look like you’re mocking her.”

Before you could reply, his phone buzzed again. He glanced down, jaw tightening. “Group chat’s blowing up.”

Jess had texted: Check Twitter. Now.
Sheri: It’s coordinated. Like ten new accounts all at once.
Clay: This is Bryce. 100%.

You looked back at Scott. His face was pale in the glow of his screen, eyes flicking fast as more notifications rolled in. “He was at lunch,” he said suddenly, almost to himself.

Your chest tightened. “What?”

“I didn’t see him, but—he must’ve been. He was listening. He knows what we said.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s why it feels so targeted. He’s using our words. Twisting them.”

Scott ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

Another ping. Jess again: What do we do?

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, but Scott’s voice pulled you back. “Don’t react,” he said firmly. “That’s what he wants.”

You nodded slowly, even though your hands shook. “We don’t give him control.”

But the sick knot in your stomach told you it was already too late.

The first shots had been fired. And the whole school was watching.

Saturday didn’t start like a war. It started with sunlight slipping through your blinds, the faint sound of your mom in the kitchen, and Scott’s sleepy text: Morning, baby. Coffee later?

But within an hour, your phone was vibrating so much it nearly slid off the nightstand.

The first message came from Jess.
Jess: He’s posting again.
You: What now?
Jess: Check Snap. And Insta. He’s going after Sheri.

Your stomach sank as you opened Instagram. And there it was—Sheri’s face plastered on a story from yet another burner account. Not a photo she’d chosen, but one stolen from last month’s fall dance. Her smile frozen mid-laugh, Bryce’s caption scrawled across it: “Funny how the preacher’s daughter always ends up in the backseat.”

You felt sick.

Your phone buzzed again—this time a call. Scott’s voice was sharp the second you picked up. “It’s not just Sheri. He’s dragging me too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone dug up an old clip from practice. I was laughing at one of Monty’s dumb jokes—just background noise—and now it’s cut up to make it look like I was part of it. Like I was one of them.” His breath was ragged. “They’re twisting everything.”

You didn’t even have time to respond before another notification hit your screen. This one cut deeper. A blurry photo from Homecoming, your first year—Sheri and Hannah on the bleachers, heads bent close in conversation. The caption slapped over it: “Guess it wasn’t just boys she couldn’t save.”

The air left your lungs. “He’s using Hannah now.”

Scott swore on the other end. “He doesn’t care who he hurts. He just wants noise.”

Your group chat exploded.
Jess: He’s baiting us. Trying to split us.
Sheri: I can’t breathe. I didn’t even—none of that is true.
Clay: That’s the point. He doesn’t need truth. Just doubt.

Scott’s reply came last. Steady. Firm.
Scott: We hold together. That’s the only way we win.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your chest heavy. Because Bryce wasn’t just spreading lies—he was painting over the truth with something uglier, easier to believe for people who wanted excuses.

And if you didn’t fight back, you could already feel how quickly the school might believe him.

By Sunday, the fight wasn’t loud anymore. It was suffocating.

You lay in bed, phone glowing inches from your face, scrolling through story after story until the words blurred together. More burner accounts. More lies. More whispers twisted into weapons.

Your notifications were endless—tags, mentions, group chat screenshots you didn’t even want to open. You muted three accounts. Blocked five. But the posts still spread like wildfire, re-uploaded, reshared, impossible to contain.

Jess messaged first:
Jess: I can’t do this anymore tonight. My mom saw one of the posts. She asked if it was true.
You: What did you say?
Jess: The truth. But she didn’t look convinced.

Sheri had gone quiet hours ago. Clay only sent a single line: Feels like drowning.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Your chest ached with something heavier than fear—it was fatigue, the kind that settled deep into your bones.

You tossed your phone onto the nightstand and pressed your palms into your eyes. The room was too quiet, too dark.

Then, your phone buzzed again. FaceTime.

Scott.

You hesitated before answering, swiping reluctantly. His tired face filled the screen, hair messy, hoodie hood pulled halfway over his head.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You didn’t even fake a smile. “Hey.”

He tilted the phone. You caught a glimpse of his bedroom ceiling, his posters, the faint hum of his fan. “You look wrecked.”

“I feel wrecked.”

He sighed, nodding. “Me too. Everyone does.”

You lay back against your pillow, the phone propped against your chest. “He’s winning, Scotty. Every time he posts, it spreads. People believe him. They want to.”

“I know.” His voice was steady but low. “But he’s not winning where it matters.”

You frowned. “What does that even mean?”

Scott leaned closer to the camera, his dark eyes locking on yours through the screen. “He’s trying to tear us apart. That’s the whole play. He wants to break the group, break us. And we’re still here. Still standing. Still together. That’s a win.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t feel like I’m standing.”

“Then lean on me,” he said simply. “I’ll carry you for a while. That’s what we do, right? Take turns holding each other up.”

You blinked back tears. He made it sound so easy.

“Scott…” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.”

He gave the smallest, softest smile. “Me too. But I’m still with you. Always.”

The screen blurred as your eyes filled, and you let yourself believe him. For just a moment, you let yourself breathe in the steady rhythm of his voice, the quiet certainty in the way he said always.

You whispered back, “Same.”

And for the first time all weekend, you didn’t feel completely alone.

Monday morning came gray and heavy, like the sky itself knew what was about to drop.

You walked into school with Scott by your side, his fleece jacket zipped halfway, his hand brushing yours every few steps. He didn’t say much, but you could feel it—he was wound tight, ready to react.

Whispers had already started before the first bell. Heads turned as you passed. Some kids glanced at Scott, some at you, but most just looked away like you were carrying something contagious.

When you slid into your homeroom seat, the loudspeaker crackled alive. Principal Bolan’s voice came steady, almost rehearsed:

“As part of an ongoing internal investigation, effective immediately, Bryce Walker is suspended from all school athletic activities pending disciplinary review. Further information will be provided as available.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

For a split second, the room was silent.

Then the murmurs erupted.

“Did you hear that?”
“No way.”
“Suspended? For what?”
“They’re saying it’s not just sports. There’s more coming.”

Someone behind you whispered, just loud enough: “That’s because of them.”

Your jaw tightened. You didn’t turn.

Scott shifted beside you, his hand slipping under the desk to grip yours tight. His knuckles were pale, but his grip was steady.

You exhaled slowly and forced yourself to look at him. His eyes met yours, sharp but calm, and for a second you felt like you could breathe again.

The bell rang. Chairs scraped. People filed out in clusters, voices buzzing louder than usual.

Clay caught up with you in the hall, breathless. “It’s official then. Monday morning, just like Bolan said.”

Jess appeared next, phone already out, notifications flooding. “Everyone’s losing it online. Half of them are saying it’s about grades. The other half are saying…” She trailed off, her jaw tight.

Scott cut in, voice low. “They’re saying what they always say. Let them.”

Sheri joined last, hugging her books to her chest. “He’s not here.”

Your eyes scanned the hallway instinctively. Empty locker. No sign of Bryce.

“Not yet,” you murmured.

The group fell into step together, a small knot of defiance in the chaos. The whispers didn’t stop. They probably wouldn’t.

But for the first time, it wasn’t just you.

And when Scott leaned close enough for only you to hear, his words steadied something deep inside you.

“Whatever comes next,” he said, “we face it together.”

You squeezed his hand back. “Together.”

And for the first time in weeks, you almost believed it.

By the time lunch came, the courtyard felt like the only place you could breathe. The air was crisp with mid-autumn chill, a wind skimming across the stone benches and sending loose leaves dancing over the grass.

You, Jess, Sheri, Clay, and Scott had claimed your usual corner table—your unofficial headquarters since all of this began. The others still clustered in their familiar groups, but their voices carried across the yard in sharp, speculative bursts. You could feel their eyes on you.

Jess slammed her tray down harder than she meant to. “This isn’t enough. A suspension from sports? He’ll twist it. He’ll say it’s grades, or an injury, or politics. And people will believe him.”

Clay rubbed his temple. “He doesn’t even need people to believe him. He just needs doubt. That’s how guys like him survive.”

Scott leaned against the bench, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Let him talk. The truth doesn’t need him to believe it.”

You reached under the table and laced your fingers with his. His thumb brushed against your hand, subtle, grounding.

Sheri glanced between all of you, her voice softer. “I keep thinking… it’s only been a few weeks since Hannah. And now this. It’s like the ground hasn’t stopped shifting under us.”

The words hung there, heavy and real.

Jess’s eyes softened. She leaned toward Sheri, touching her arm. “You’re right. It hasn’t. But you’re still here. We’re still here. That means something.”

Sheri gave the faintest nod, blinking fast.

Clay exhaled, looking around the group. “So what happens when he pushes back? When Bryce decides to come after us directly?”

Jess’s jaw clenched. “Then we don’t let him fracture us. He wants us divided. That’s how he wins.”

Scott finally spoke, his voice steady but low. “If he comes for anyone, he comes for me first.”

You squeezed his hand harder. “No. If he comes, he comes for all of us.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of that truth pressed against all of you.

Then Jess broke the silence, her voice trembling but fierce. “I love you guys. All of you. And seeing you two—” she looked between you and Scott, her expression softer now—“seeing you together, seeing how much you’ve both changed… it keeps me going. Without you, I don’t think I’d still be standing.”

Scott blinked, caught off guard. “Jess—”

She held up a hand. “No, let me finish. Scott, I’ve watched you go from being Bryce’s shadow to being the guy who’d stand in front of fire for someone else. And Sam, you—” she looked at you, eyes shining—“you’ve been braver than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m proud of you both. Of what you have. Of who you are.”

Your throat tightened. Scott’s hand tightened around yours.

And for the first time that day, the whispers around you felt far away.

For the first time, you felt unbreakable.

The next morning, the air in the hallways was different. Not lighter. Not safer. Just tense—like everyone was waiting for something.

And then he showed up.

Bryce Walker strolled through the double doors like he hadn’t been gone at all. Head high, hair slicked back, backpack slung casually over one shoulder. The world didn’t move for him—people moved for him. Like shadows bending away from light.

You felt your chest tighten. Your hand instinctively found Scott’s as you stood by your locker. His grip locked around yours, firm, protective.

Jess spotted him too. Her voice was sharp, low. “He’s baiting us. Watch his face. He wants a reaction.”

Sheri pulled her hoodie tighter, her knuckles white around the strap of her bag. “He’s not even pretending to be ashamed.”

Bryce’s eyes scanned the hall, deliberate, searching. And then—he found you.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t sneer. Just stared. Long enough for the air between you to feel poisoned. Long enough for Scott to step subtly in front of you, his body blocking Bryce’s line of sight.

Clay whispered, “Don’t bite. That’s what he wants.”

You nodded, even as your jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Bryce didn’t say a word. He just brushed past a group of freshmen, shouldered his way down the hall, and disappeared into homeroom. But the mark he left lingered—like smoke after a fire.

Scott leaned close, his voice low, for you alone. “I swear, he looks at you like it’s a game. But I’m not playing anymore.”

You squeezed his hand tighter. “Neither am I.”

The Reed mansion was almost unsettling in its stillness. Big house, polished floors, air that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something too expensive to name. For once, it wasn’t intimidating—it was just quiet. And maybe that’s why you felt yourself breathe easier when Scott pulled you up the stairs toward his room.

“Dad’s not home,” he muttered. “Which means you can relax. No lectures. No raised eyebrows. Just… us.”

You smiled faintly at that. “Good. Because if he gave me another look like last time, I was gonna ask him if he wanted my autograph or something.”

Scott snorted as he pushed open his door. “You’re impossible.”

You stepped inside, dropped your bag, and looked around. For a moment, you didn’t even register it—you’d been here before, after all. The navy bedspread tucked military neat, the Liberty Tigers caps lined up on the dresser, the baseball posters, the neutral curtains. Everything in its place. Everything spotless.

But then it hit you.

You stopped mid-step, squinting at the walls.

“…Hold on.”

Scott glanced up from tugging off his hoodie. “What?”

You blinked, scanning again. “I just noticed something.”

His brow furrowed. “You look like you’re about to insult me.”

“I mean…” You turned to him slowly, dramatic for effect. “Babe. Your room is so straight.”

Scott froze, then let out a laugh. “What?”

“Like—painfully straight,” you said, walking over to one of the posters. “Baseball. More baseball. Blue bedspread. Beige curtains. This is giving ‘closeted college frat boy who thinks throwing up a Bob Marley poster makes him interesting.’”

Scott threw a pillow at you. “Shut up.”

You caught it and grinned. “No, really! Where’s the personality? Where’s the color? Where’s the—” you gestured broadly “—gay energy?”

Scott collapsed back onto the bed, hands over his face, muffling his laughter. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” you said, climbing onto the mattress and sitting cross-legged beside him. “We need to gayify this place immediately. Fairy lights. Pride flag. Maybe a lava lamp. At least a scented candle that doesn’t smell like ‘generic masculine.’”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “What, you want me to hang a disco ball in the corner too?”

“Yes.” You poked his shoulder. “Don’t tempt me, Reed. I will order one tonight.”

Scott groaned but hooked an arm around your waist, tugging you down beside him. “You realize you’re insulting the one room where you actually get to kiss me in peace, right?”

“That’s exactly why I want it upgraded,” you teased, settling in against his chest. “If I’m gonna make out with my ridiculously hot boyfriend, I refuse to do it in a room that looks like a Home Depot display section.”

Scott laughed again, the sound soft and easy in a way you hadn’t heard in days. He kissed your hair, his voice dropping low. “You know… you’re the only person who could get away with roasting me in my own house.”

You tilted your head up, smirking. “That’s because you love me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his grin softening into something real. “Yeah, I do.”

You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his face, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Then let me make this place look like you actually love me back. Starting with rainbow throw pillows.”

Scott groaned dramatically. “God help me.”

But he was smiling.

Scott’s laugh was still echoing when you shifted in his arms, your head propped on his chest as you glanced around the room again, making a face.

“I’m serious, though,” you said, pointing at the navy dresser. “There is zero personality in here. The only splash of color is the Liberty Tigers fleece, and that’s literally just more blue and white. You’re living in a sad straight-boy starter pack.”

Scott pinched your side lightly. “Says the guy whose bedroom still has glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.”

“That’s called whimsy,” you shot back, mock-offended. “What you’ve got is… Target catalog. 2012.”

He groaned into your hair, laughing anyway. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned, poking his chest. “Admit it—you like that I’m gonna fix this place up. One rainbow pillow at a time. Maybe even a glitter wall.”

Scott gave you a horrified look. “Absolutely not.”

“Fine, maybe not glitter. But a pride flag, yes. And candles. And fairy lights. Definitely fairy lights. Right now, the only thing keeping this room from being completely unredeemable is—” You paused for dramatic effect, eyes narrowing at the nightstand.

Scott tilted his head. “What?”

You smirked. “The emergency stash.”

His brows furrowed, confused—until your grin widened, and you pointed at the drawer by his bed.

Scott’s ears went pink. “Oh my God—”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” you teased, crawling over him to tap the nightstand. “I’ve seen the drawer, Reed. Condoms, lube… more lube. Honestly, it’s the most responsible thing in this entire house.”

Scott buried his face in his hands, groaning, but he was laughing too hard to stop you. “Why are you like this?”

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Because I love you. And also because it’s hilarious that the only positive thing about your aggressively straight room is that you’ve basically turned it into a pharmacy aisle for safe sex.”

He shoved your shoulder gently, still red-faced. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re welcome,” you said, plopping down beside him again, smug. “At least now I have proof that you planned ahead. That’s growth, Scotty. Character development.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but his smile was wide, unguarded. “You’re lucky you’re cute. Otherwise I’d kick you out right now.”

You smirked, resting your chin on his chest. “Please. You wouldn’t survive five minutes without me rainbow-ifying your tragic little man cave.”

He kissed your forehead, pulling you close again. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love it,” you said.

“I do,” he admitted, quietly, like it was the truest thing he’d ever said.

And in that moment—amidst the banter, the teasing, the laughter—it was easy to forget everything else.

Just two boys. One “tragically straight” room. And a love strong enough to paint the walls in every color, even if only in your imagination.

Chapter Text

Words~2967

—-

The air in Liberty High buzzed with unease the second Principal Bolan’s email hit inboxes. Mandatory assembly. Auditorium. Attendance required. That was all it said, but everyone knew what it meant.

The Bryce situation.

You walked in beside Scott, your shoulders brushing as you made your way down the hall. He gave you one of his small, tight-lipped nods—reassurance for you, or for himself, you couldn’t tell.

At your locker, Jess was already waiting. Her hoodie was zipped all the way up, her eyes flicking nervously around the hallway.

“They’re saying he might show up,” she blurted.

Your stomach dropped. “Bryce?”

“Yeah.” She tugged at the sleeve of her hoodie. “Monty’s here already, so…”

You didn’t need her to finish. If Monty was around, Bryce wasn’t far behind.

When the bell rang, the halls emptied toward the auditorium like a current. You sat with Scott on one side and Jess on the other, with Sheri and Clay squeezed in close. The entire room buzzed with whispers until the microphone squeaked.

Bolan stepped up to the podium. His tie was too tight, his smile too stiff. “Thank you for being here.”

You felt Scott’s hand twitch beside yours.

“I want to acknowledge that the last few weeks have challenged our community,” Bolan continued, using the tone he saved for PTA meetings and snow day announcements. “Tensions have risen. Words have been said. Emotions have run high.”

Jess scoffed under her breath.

“As a school, Liberty High strives to be a place of safety and mutual respect. We do not condone harmful behavior of any kind—”

“Then say his name,” you muttered.

Bolan paused, blinking. “I’m sorry?”

You stood, your heartbeat thudding in your ears. “Say his name.”

A ripple spread through the room. Scott’s hand shot out, gently tugging your sleeve like he was telling you to sit, but you didn’t move.

“If you’re really here to talk about safety,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, “then talk about who made people feel unsafe. Stop hiding him behind vague sentences.”

Silence. Thick. Uncomfortable.

Jess stood too. “He’s right. Bryce Walker hurt people. We’re done pretending he didn’t.”

Clay’s voice joined in next. “Some of us stayed quiet for too long. Not anymore.”

Sheri didn’t speak, but she rose from her seat, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jess.

One by one, a handful of other students followed. Not everyone. But enough.

Bolan looked like someone had just yanked the script out of his hands. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, like each word weighed a hundred pounds, he finally forced it out:

“As I already said… Bryce Walker has been suspended from all athletic activities pending investigation.”

Whispers exploded through the auditorium. You sat down again, your pulse still racing. Scott’s hand found yours, squeezing once.

It wasn’t victory. But it was something.

By the time lunch rolled around, Liberty felt like it was holding its breath.

The cafeteria buzzed like a hive that had been kicked too many times. Every table was full of whispers—some sharp, some sympathetic, some just plain curious. You, Scott, Jess, Sheri, and Clay huddled at your corner table, the one you’d claimed since all this started. Close enough to see the room. Far enough to breathe.

Scott leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, scanning the crowd like a sentry. His jaw was tight, eyes always moving. You caught the muscle in his cheek twitch every time someone glanced your way.

Jess stabbed at her salad with her fork. “He’s gonna try something. You know he is.”

“Let him,” Scott muttered.

Sheri shook her head. “He won’t just come at you. He’ll go after all of us.”

Before you could reply, the cafeteria shifted.

Bryce Walker had arrived.

He walked in like he owned the room, Monty flanking him, the two of them parting the crowd without a word. Gasps followed. A couple of kids stood to leave. Most just froze, caught between watching and pretending not to.

Bryce strolled past tables like he hadn’t heard Bolan’s announcement at all. Like nothing could touch him. His smile was sharp, wrong.

Then he stopped—right in front of your table.

“Well, well,” Bryce said, voice low but venom dripping from every syllable. “Looks like the heroes have spoken.”

Scott stood instantly, chair screeching back against the floor. “Shut up, Bryce.”

Bryce smirked, leaning just slightly closer. “You’re awfully brave for someone who used to party with us.”

Scott’s nostrils flared. “People change.”

“Yeah? Or maybe they just get soft.”

That was enough for you. You stood too, your pulse hammering in your throat. “Leave.”

Bryce’s gaze snapped to you. His stare was like ice, cutting and unblinking. “Careful, Baker. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re starting another crusade.”

Jess stood now too, her voice sharp as glass. “He’s not alone. None of us are.”

Bryce chuckled. Not kindly. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

He turned to walk away, Monty following like a shadow. But not before Bryce leaned in just close enough to mutter something you couldn’t quite catch—something that made Scott’s fists clench at his sides.

You stared after him, your whole body buzzing with adrenaline.

Scott finally spoke, his voice tight. “He’s not backing down.”

“No,” you said, sitting back down slowly. “But neither are we.”

The table fell into silence, every one of you watching Bryce’s back as he sauntered out of the cafeteria.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, but not everyone headed back to class right away. The cafeteria still buzzed with whispers from Bryce’s appearance, like static that wouldn’t fade.

You, Scott, Jess, and Clay filed out together, sticking close. Scott’s hand brushed yours once, grounding, but neither of you spoke. Not with so many eyes on you.

By the time you reached your history classroom, you realized someone was missing.

“Where’s Sheri?” Jess asked, scanning the hallway.

Clay frowned. “She was right behind us.”

Scott muttered, “I’ll check by the lockers.”

But Jess shook her head. Something in her face tightened. “No. I think I know where she went.”

She took off down the hall. You and Scott followed.

The trail led to the bathroom near the back stairwell—the one nobody used if they didn’t have to. The fluorescent light flickered above the door, buzzing faintly.

Jess pushed the door open.

Sheri was there. Sitting on the tiled floor, back against the wall, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her phone lay face down beside her, and her shoulders shook with silent sobs.

“Sheri…” Jess dropped down beside her immediately.

Sheri lifted her head. Her eyes were red, raw. “They posted it again.”

You froze. “What?”

“The photo. From the clubhouse.” Her voice cracked. “They think it’s funny. They’re still laughing at me.”

Scott swore under his breath and pressed a hand to the wall like he needed to hold himself up.

Jess wrapped an arm around Sheri, pulling her close. “We’ll get it taken down.”

“They’ll just put it up again,” Sheri whispered. “No one cares what it did to me. They don’t see me. They only see… the joke.”

Her words cut through the quiet like glass.

Jess held her tighter. “They’re scared, Sheri. Scared of what happens when we speak up. That’s why they’re trying to humiliate us.”

Sheri shook her head. “Then why does it still hurt so much?”

You crouched down across from her, your own chest tightening. “Because it was real. What you went through—what we all went through—it was real. And it mattered. And it still matters.”

Sheri blinked at you through tears.

Scott finally stepped forward, kneeling down next to Jess. His voice was low but steady. “They want us to believe we’re powerless. But you’re not powerless, Sheri. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

Her lip trembled. “Then why do I feel so weak?”

“Because you’re human,” you said softly. “Because you were hurt. But weakness isn’t crying on the bathroom floor. Weakness is pretending nothing ever happened. And that’s not you.”

Sheri covered her face with her hands, muffling another sob. Jess rubbed her back in circles, whispering things you couldn’t catch.

You looked at Scott. He looked back at you. And for a moment, the whole world narrowed to the four of you on that cold bathroom floor—holding one of your own together, piece by piece.

Finally, Sheri lowered her hands. Her eyes were puffy, but her voice steadied just a little. “I don’t forgive myself for staying quiet for so long.”

“You don’t need to,” Jess said firmly. “You just need to keep going. With us.”

Sheri’s gaze flicked between all of you. Then she nodded once, shaky but sure.

Scott squeezed her shoulder. “We’re not letting you do this alone. Not ever again.”

For the first time that day, Sheri managed a tiny, broken smile.

And in that bathroom, surrounded by flickering lights and silence, you all realized something:

Bryce could post lies, he could stir rumors, he could try to break each of you apart.

But you weren’t breaking.

Not this time.

By the end of the day, the air at Liberty High felt heavier than ever. The confrontation in the auditorium, Bryce’s return, Sheri’s tears—it all stacked into a weight you couldn’t shake off.

So when the final bell rang, you didn’t head home right away. Neither did Scott.

You found yourselves drifting to the old baseball field, the place that had somehow become your spot. The bleachers creaked under your weight as you both climbed up, the autumn wind carrying the sharp bite of cold across the empty diamond.

Scott sat beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the field. His jaw flexed, like he was chewing on thoughts he couldn’t swallow.

“Feels smaller now,” he muttered.

You glanced at him. “What does?”

He nodded toward the bases, the outfield, the dugout. “All of it. The field. The games. Back then, it felt like the biggest thing in the world. Like if I could just hit harder, throw faster, win more—it would all mean something.”

You pulled your jacket tighter around you. “And now?”

He exhaled, long and low. “Now I know none of that matters. Not compared to what we’re standing up to. Not compared to what you’ve already lost.”

The mention of Hannah landed between you like a stone in still water. You didn’t answer right away. Just traced your finger across the cold metal bench.

Finally, you said quietly, “We’re different now.”

Scott turned to you, his expression softening. “Yeah. We are.”

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… heavy. Full of everything unspoken.

After a moment, you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. The warmth of him pressed steady against the chill in the air.

“I thought I’d feel better after today,” Scott admitted. “After Bolan finally said his name out loud. After people stood up with us.”

“And you don’t?”

He shook his head. “I feel like we’re standing on the edge of something worse.”

You laced your fingers through his, squeezing gently. “Maybe we are. But at least we’re standing there together.”

Scott turned, studying you with eyes that looked far too tired for his age. Then, with a soft huff of a laugh, he leaned back on the bench and tugged you with him.

You landed half on top of him, your cheek pressed against his chest as you both stared up at the dusky sky.

“Do you remember when we first sat here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. You wouldn’t leave me alone. I thought you were just trying to piss me off.”

“I was,” he said, chuckling softly. “But not for the reason you think.”

You tilted your head up. “Oh yeah?”

“I didn’t know how else to get close to you. Annoying you was easier than admitting I… liked you.”

You reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “You were a dick back then.”

He smirked. “And you were terrifying.”

“Still am,” you teased.

“Yeah,” he said, softer now. “But you let me see you anyway.”

The weight of his words sat between you. You shifted slightly, your hand still brushing across his cheek. “And you let me see you. The real you. Not the one who hid behind Bryce. Not the one who only cared about the game. Just… you.”

His throat bobbed. “I still don’t know if that’s enough.”

“It is,” you whispered. “For me, it is.”

Scott’s hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing gently along your cheekbone. His voice broke just a little. “I care so much it scares me sometimes.”

You leaned into his touch, your eyes locked on his. “Me too.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing the same air, hearts syncing under the fading light.

And then, finally, he kissed you. Slow. Lingering. Not out of passion, but out of sheer, aching need to remind you both that you were still here. Still fighting. Still together.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“With you,” you murmured, “I’ll keep trying.”

The floodlights from the parking lot flickered on in the distance, casting a pale glow across the empty field.

And in that moment—two kids on a creaking bleacher, holding onto each other against the dark—you almost believed it would be enough.

The two of you stepped into Scott’s room, and the moment your eyes scanned the space—navy walls, trophies polished within an inch of their life, Liberty Tigers fleece thrown neatly across the chair—you couldn’t hold back a groan.

“It’s still as straight as always,” you declared dramatically, dropping your backpack on the carpet.

Scott shut the door behind you and rolled his eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Oh, here we go again.”

“Yes, here we go again,” you shot back, gesturing grandly at the room. “Scott Reed’s Museum of Heterosexual Aspirations. Complete with trophies, a pennant, and a complete lack of personality.”

Scott crossed his arms, lips twitching into a smile despite himself. “You act like the room personally offended you.”

“It has, multiple times,” you retorted, already wandering toward his dresser. “I mean, this place screams straight boy starter pack.”

“Babe,” he said with mock patience. “It’s my room. Not a crime scene.”

You turned back to him, grinning. “Correction—it’s not a crime scene yet. But don’t worry. I came prepared.”

Scott groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “What did you do?”

That was your cue—you unzipped your backpack and triumphantly pulled out a folded pride progress flag, holding it aloft like you’d just won an Olympic medal.

“Behold!” you announced. “The gayification begins.”

Scott blinked, then let out a small laugh. “You actually brought a flag?”

“Of course I did. Did you really think I was going to let you keep living in this aggressively heterosexual cave?”

Scott was still chuckling when you marched over to his wall, pride flag in hand, trying to eyeball where it would look best.

“Above the bed,” you declared.

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Really? So every time my dad walks in, he gets a neon sign screaming your son’s queer?”

You smirked. “Exactly. Front row, center stage.”

He rolled his eyes again but came over, helping you spread the fabric. The progress flag shimmered in the dim light, its chevron colors folding over your hands as you tried to straighten it.

“Hold this corner,” you said, handing him a tack.

Scott took it, but his fingers lingered a moment on the fabric. He didn’t look at you, just at the flag. His jaw flexed.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I don’t really… label myself. Not fully. I mean, yeah, I’m not straight. But gay, bi—none of it’s ever really fit. ‘Queer’ feels closer. But even that… it’s just me, I guess.”

You softened. “That’s why I brought this one,” you explained, brushing the chevron stripes with your thumb. “Not just rainbow. Progress. It’s for all of us. Doesn’t box you in.”

Scott gave you a look then—half teasing, half grateful. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

“Someone has to,” you shot back, nudging him with your shoulder.

You both laughed, the sound filling the too-straight room as you pressed the last tack in place. When you stepped back, the flag draped proudly above the bed, its colors breaking the monotony of Liberty blue and black.

Scott stood there staring at it. His lips parted like he was about to make a joke—then didn’t.

Instead, his voice went soft. “She would’ve liked this.”

You turned. “Your mom?”

He nodded, eyes still on the flag. “I think she knew. Even back when I was, like, thirteen. I never told her. But she just… had this way of knowing stuff before I did. She used to say, ‘Scotty, whoever you love, just make sure they’re good to you. That’s all that matters.’”

Your chest tightened. “She said that?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed, blinking hard. “And looking at this—looking at us—I think she’d be proud. Not just of me. Of… us. For not hiding.”

You reached out, threading your fingers with his. “She’d be proud as hell. And she’d probably be the first one to help me pick out curtains to match this flag.”

Scott let out a watery laugh, finally meeting your eyes. “She would’ve roasted me harder than you do.”

“Impossible,” you teased gently, squeezing his hand.

For a moment, the two of you just stood there—under the flag, in his too-straight room, with his mother’s memory hovering somewhere soft between you.

Scott kissed your temple and whispered, “Thanks for bringing this. It feels like… a piece of me finally got to breathe.”

Chapter Text

October 31st. Halloween.

The first one without Hannah.

The air at Liberty High was electric—but not the fun kind. Sure, there were paper bats taped to the lockers and one teacher wore a Dracula cape all day, but it didn’t make things lighter. If anything, the thin holiday cheer only made the grief heavier. Everyone felt it.

You passed a group of underclassmen joking about their costumes, but it didn’t touch you. You clutched the strap of your backpack tighter and walked toward Scott’s locker, planning to meet him before lunch.

But the crowd around it made you stop in your tracks.

The word was written in thick red marker. Jagged. Sloppy.

FAG.

There was no mistaking it.

Scott stood there, frozen. His fists clenched at his sides. Jess was already pushing people back, Sheri shouting for someone to find a teacher.

You moved through the cluster of gawkers, stepping in front of the word. You looked at Scott—his jaw locked, his eyes glassy.

“Don’t look at them,” you said quietly.

“They looked anyway,” he whispered.

Jess touched your arm. “We already called the office. They’re checking cameras.”

You nodded but didn’t let go of Scott’s hand. Not even when Principal Bolan showed up, lips tight and clipboard ready. Not even when Sheri started crying and Clay looked ready to fight.

“We’ll handle it,” Bolan said. “But I need statements. All of you.”

Scott finally spoke. “After school. Not now.”

And you walked away with him. Past whispers, past hallway stares.

⸻

The rest of the school day dragged like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from. Scott didn’t go to last period. Neither did you. Instead, you found yourselves in the bleachers again. The wind was cold enough to bite.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

Then, “You think it’s always going to be like this?”

You turned to him. “No. I think it gets better. Slowly. But it does.”

Scott shook his head. “I don’t want them to see me as a victim. I want to burn their whole world down.”

You leaned into him. “Maybe we start by surviving tonight. One moment at a time.”

He looked at you sideways. “So… you still down for the party?”

You smiled weakly. “Still got your costume?”

“Firefighter, baby. Tight pants and everything.”

You laughed. “Guess I’m showing up dead.”

“Skeleton, huh?” He nudged you. “I always had a thing for bones.”

You rolled your eyes. But your heart felt lighter.

⸻

The party was at Marcus’s cousin’s house. Big backyard, glowing pumpkins, fog machines, fake spiderwebs, and a playlist that vibrated the porch steps. The energy was high, students in all sorts of outrageous outfits drinking cider and dancing like midterms didn’t exist.

You showed up as a skeleton—painted face, dark hoodie over bone-print clothes. Scott was already there when you arrived, leaning against a wall in his ridiculous, sexy firefighter outfit—tight navy shirt, suspenders, and boots. His hair was slightly tousled and his smirk was criminal.

He looked so good it was almost stupid.

Jess arrived dressed as Catwoman. Sheri came in angel wings with glitter on her face. Clay wore a half-hearted vampire cape that flapped with every step.

“You clean up okay, Bones,” Scott whispered when you met him by the drinks table.

“You’re gonna start a fire walking around like that.”

He grinned. “You planning on putting me out?”

You raised your brow. “Careful, Reed. I bite.”

He leaned in. “Good. Maybe I’ve been waiting to get burned.”

Behind you, Sheri rolled her eyes. “Okay, seriously, do you two have to flirt like it’s a competition?”

Jess sipped her drink. “Honestly, it’s kind of hot—but also kind of disgusting.”

You looked over your shoulder, smirking. “Just trying to bring a little heat to the party.”

Scott gave a dramatic tug to one of his suspenders. “You’re welcome.”

Clay coughed loudly. “Yup. Definitely disgusting.”

Scott leaned in closer and whispered, “You keep staring like that and I’m gonna have to arrest you.”

You chuckled, leaning against him. “Wait aren’t you supposed to be a firefighter? Since when do firefighters arrest people“ you asked smilingly "No complaints though“ you smirked „Oh no. Cuffed by Officer Hotness. What shall I do?”

Jess groaned. “Nope. I’m leaving.”

Sheri waved. “I’ll come with. Before they start dry-humping over the snack table.”

You and Scott burst out laughing, and he wrapped an arm around your waist. “Dry? Not likely.”

You danced together, letting the music guide your bodies into one rhythm. Every beat seemed to push you closer. You could feel the tension crackling between your skin and his fingertips, the way his eyes trailed down to your lips and back up again.

A remix of Lorde’s “Green Light” filled the room, and for a moment, it felt like you were underwater—just the two of you in this glowing haze.

Scott leaned into your ear. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded before he finished the question.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting. Like all of it—the noise, the pain, the hallway slurs—meant nothing here.

The kiss turned deeper, and you could feel his hands drifting. Then, you broke apart, flushed.

“Too much?” he asked, slightly breathless.

You grinned. “Just enough. But let’s find a room before Jess calls the fire department.”

You sneaked up the stairs, laughing under your breath, hearts racing. You pushed open a random door—empty, quiet.

Scott closed it behind him and pressed you up against it. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you breathed.

“We’re really doing this, huh?”

“We’re really doing this.”

He kissed you again—harder this time. And even as clothes stayed on, the need beneath the surface said everything.

The room went still except for breath and heartbeat and the occasional whispered joke.

“You know,” Scott murmured against your neck, “this costume’s really working for me. I might have a skeleton kink now.”

You laughed into his shoulder. “I’m writing that down. For the next time.”

He bit your ear lightly. “Promise?”

“I never break a promise.”

He started to kiss you passionately, fighting with your tongue for dominance, a fight he clearly won since you really didn’t try much anyway.

„Ugh Scotty you are so hot“ you muffled between two kisses. „I know“ he laughed but shortly after added in a seducing voice „You too“.

He slowly but surely pushed you from the door to the big bed without letting go of your puffy lips. Scott then finally pushed you down on the bed and towered over you, crossing over your arms over your head „Does this turn you on, the hot firefighter being over you“ he smirked with his seductive eyes.

„Oh yes it does“ you moaned and kissed him back passionately.

Scott then started removing yours and his clothes never letting go of your already hot skin. „Oh how much I love you“ he moaned, after he finished removing all your clothes, now laying completely naked in front of him.

He started kissing you up from your already hard dick , to your lean stomach, planting more kisses on your nipples and finally your weakness, your neck.

You moaned louder and louder, but Scott softly put his index finger over your mouth, meaning to shush you up „You don’t want anyone else to hear, what is going on in here, do you" he said moaningly.

„I don’t care, the whole world could hear it and I‘d still wanted you to continue“ you said seductively.

„Well if that’s the case…“ he whispered hot and got down and started kissing your hard dick, which you followed with loud moans. „Ugh, yeah exactly like that Babe“ you moaned and softly pushed Scotts head down. His soft, puffy lips now touching the head of your dick, him breathing against your dick, sent a shiver down your spine.

He started to push his head down on your dick, taking it slowly but skillfully in his warm mouth. „Oh fuck, Scotty“ you breathed heavy, rolling your eyes out of horniness.

He proceeded taking your whole inches in, slowly going up and down on your hard dick. You moaned heavily, not being able to control your arousal.

After some minutes of him passionately sucking your hard, throbbing dick. He smilingly asked: „Are you ready for the next step“,you nodded instantly „More than ready“ he smirked seductively, he reached into the pocket of his firefighter trousers and took out a small bottle of lube and a condom „Always prepared for emergencies“ he said with a seductive smirk on his face. You giggled silently.

He seductively ripped open the condom packaging with his teeth and rolled it over his also throbbing hard dick and put some lube on it and his fingers. He started to slowly enter one finger into your hole, slowly moving his first finger „Is it good like that“ he asked caring. You nodded whilst you crawled your fingers into the mattress beneath you.

He continued putting a second finger into you, then three and moved them in your warm hole, you moaned aroused, whilst he kissed you passionately.

After some time he asked softly„Are you okay, can I continue?“ You quietly moaned „Yes“ and nodded.

After your approval, he removed his fingers from you and started to slowly push his hot dick into your hole, never letting go of your hot lips. You now crawled your fingers into his back, leaving some reddish marks on it.

After some time of acclimation to his dick, you softly moaned „I am ready for it“ he nodded and started to push in and out. You moaned in ecstasy, overwhelmed by the arousal.

Scott moaned and proceeded thrusting into you, slowly starting to get faster. „You are so hot“ he moaned passionately. „Ugh Scotty you… are… even hotter..“ you moaned aroused. „Please let this never end" you added smirking.

He laughed out of arousal „I don’t think I can last that long“ you smiled and kissed him passionately whilst he continued to thrust into you.

This continued for another at least 5 Minutes. „I am close“ Scott he moaned loudly, „Me too“ you answered in arousal.

He started jerking off your dick „Cum for me, Baby“ he said aroused, you smirked, feeling how your dick started pulsating more and more, after a short time you started to shoot your hot, white cum, landing on Scotts tense abs, your cum slowly dripping down from him on your Body.

Scott thrusted once or twice again into you until he also started cumming, his hot cum shooting into the condom. He continued thrusting into you for some time, getting slower and slower. He then removed himself from you after a moment and collapse on you „Oh this was amazing, bae“ he moaned „Oh yeah it was“ you whispered, softly combing through Scottys sweaty hair.

When you finally emerged, flushed and laughing, Jess gave you a knowing look.

Scott smirked. “Had to, uh, inspect the upstairs. Fire code and all.”

You winked. “Hot emergency. Handled.”

Everyone groaned.

And still, it was the first time all day you truly smiled.

Chapter Text

Words~1800

—-

The sun slipped through the blinds in thin, golden strips, cutting across the sheets in quiet patterns. The warmth, though, wasn’t from the light—it was from Scott. His arm was wrapped around your waist, his leg tangled over yours, his chest pressed to your back in a steady rhythm of sleep.

You stirred first, stretching lightly before melting back against him.

A muffled groan sounded in your ear.
“Trying to escape already?” Scott’s voice was still husky with sleep.

You smirked. “Only from your morning breath.”

His chest rumbled against your back as he chuckled. His grip tightened. “Rude. And here I was, planning on making you breakfast.”

“Then you remembered you can’t cook?”

“I make great cereal.”

“You burn toast.”

“Details.”

You rolled in his arms to face him, and the sight made you pause—his hair sticking out in every possible direction, eyes half-lidded, lips curved into a lazy grin. Somehow, he still managed to look unfairly good.

“Like what you see?” he teased.

You made a show of gasping. “You wish. I was just wondering if your hair gel is made of pure chaos.”

He leaned in until your noses brushed. “It’s not gel. It’s sex appeal, baby. Can’t buy it, can’t fake it.”

You snorted but kissed him softly, lips lingering. It was warm, unhurried, the kind of kiss that said you had nowhere else to be.

“If you keep cuddling me like this,” you murmured, “I might actually start believing you’re sweet.”

Scott grinned. “I’m a firefighter. I rescue cats and break hearts.”

“Wow. That’s your pickup line?”

“Worked on you.”

“Debatable.”

He gasped dramatically and yanked the blanket over both of your heads. “Take it back.”

“Never.”

His hands darted to your sides, tickling until you squirmed and laughed, both of you breathless under the blanket cocoon. When you finally peeked back out, the clock on the nightstand read just past ten.

“I guess we should get up,” you said reluctantly.

Scott groaned. “I’m boycotting vertical movement.”

“You’ll have to eventually. Jess said she might come over.”

“That menace.”

“She’s bringing tea.”

His head perked up. “You know what? I love tea. I love Jess. She’s my favorite person now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

He dropped a kiss onto your forehead. “You’re my tea.”

“That was… weirdly cute.”

“I specialize in weirdly cute.”

And then the doorbell rang, sharp and insistent.

You both froze.

“That better not be her already,” you whispered.

Scott groaned again, pulling the blanket over his face. “My abs aren’t ready for public viewing.”

“Wear a shirt then.”

“But you like them.”

You rolled out of bed, tugging one of Scott’s oversized hoodies over your head. He propped himself on his elbow and stared for a beat too long.

“What?” you asked, half-smiling.

“You’re hot. That’s it.”

You tossed a pillow at him. “Get dressed, Romeo.”

The doorbell rang again, sharp and impatient. You padded downstairs, already smirking at the thought of Jess’s dramatics. But when you swung open the door, Scott beat you to it—standing right behind you, shirtless, hair a mess, smirk plastered across his face like he owned the hallway.

Jess’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

Sheri covered her face with one hand. “Do we even want to know what you two were just doing?”

Scott leaned lazily against the doorframe. “Morning workout.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging on the sleeve of your oversized hoodie. “I told him to wear one. But nooo, Mr. Slut here wanted to show off.”

Scott raised his brows, feigning offense. “Slut? Really?”

“Yup,” you said sweetly. “My slut.”

Jess groaned, stepping past him. “I need bleach for my brain.”

Sheri followed, muttering, “Next time, please wear clothes before answering the door.”

Clay, lingering behind them with a grocery bag, looked horrified. “I’m not saying anything.”

Scott shot him finger guns. “Smart man.”

You shoved Scott lightly as you closed the door. “See? Hoodie would’ve solved everything.”

He grinned. “But then you wouldn’t get to call me a slut.”

“True,” you admitted, biting back a laugh. “Fine. But now you’re banned from door duty.”

Jess’s voice called from the living room. “And banned from flirting in public. Jesus Christ.”

Scott smirked, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “No promises.”

You swept dramatically into Scott’s room like you hadn’t just been there two minutes ago, throwing your hands up as if you’d discovered a crime scene.

“Wow,” you said, shaking your head slowly. “It’s still as straight in here as always.”

Scott let out the loudest eye-roll in human history. “Oh my God. Again?”

Jess and Sheri trailed in behind you, instantly laughing. “Do we want to know what you just dragged us into?” Jess teased.

Sheri raised her eyebrows at the perfectly made bed and baseball trophies. “It really is… aggressively straight.”

Clay stood near the door, awkward but trying. “I mean, it looks… organized?”

You spun toward him dramatically. “Organized is just another word for heterosexual repression.”

That got Jess cackling. Scott muttered, “Kill me now,” and dropped onto the edge of his bed.

You pointed at the wall above the bed where the progress pride flag hung proudly, the fabric catching a bit of the daylight. “And let’s be clear—that flag? The only reason it’s even here is because of me. If I hadn’t demanded some queerification in this tragic bachelor cave, you’d still be staring at a blank wall like it’s a prison cell.”

Jess nodded in mock solemnity. “Honestly, the flag’s the only thing saving this room.”

Sheri grinned. “It’s carrying the entire vibe.”

Scott threw his hands up. “One flag and suddenly the rest of my room doesn’t count?”

You crossed your arms, smug. “One flag that I put there, Reed. Which means every time you look at it, you should be thanking me.”

Scott tilted his head, glancing at the flag, then back at you. The edge of his mouth curved into a small, soft smile. “I already do.”

The room went quiet for half a beat before Jess groaned loudly. “Oh my God. You two are so sappy I could puke.”

Sheri grabbed a pillow and tossed it lightly at you. “Get a room—oh wait, you already did.”

Clay just muttered, “I… don’t think I’m qualified to comment on this,” which only made everyone laugh harder.

The room was still buzzing with laughter when Jess flopped into Scott’s desk chair and spun halfway around. “Okay, but seriously—Sam’s right. This room screams straight jock energy. The flag is literally doing all the heavy lifting.”

Sheri nodded in agreement, still grinning. “It’s like… baseball, weights, random hoodies, and then BAM—queer salvation on the wall.”

Clay raised his hand like he was in class. “Not to be that guy, but… I think it looks fine?”

Everyone stared at him.

Jess deadpanned, “That’s because you’re straight, Clay. Your opinion doesn’t count in interior design.”

Clay flushed and quickly lowered his hand. “Right. My bad.”

You burst out laughing, nearly falling over onto Scott’s bed. “See, even Clay agrees it’s tragic in here.”

Scott grabbed a pillow and smacked you with it, making you yelp. “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Jess sing-songed, spinning again in the chair.

Scott shot her a look, then caught your eye. For a second, the playful grin softened, replaced with something quieter. He leaned back on his palms, glancing up at the pride flag above his bed.

“…It does make the room feel different, though,” he admitted, voice lower.

You tilted your head, surprised by the sincerity. “Different how?”

“Like… me. Like this is actually my space, not just the version my dad expects. And I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it was there.”

For once, the room went still. Jess and Sheri exchanged a look but didn’t interrupt. Clay shifted awkwardly, clearly sensing it wasn’t his place to add anything.

You reached over, brushing your fingers against Scott’s knee. “That’s why I put it there. Because this room should feel like you—not the version you had to play.”

Scott’s eyes lingered on yours for a long moment, his usual defenses gone. “Then… thanks. For not letting me hide.”

You smiled softly. “Always.”

Jess, unable to help herself, broke the silence with a groan. “Okay, this is officially too cute. Someone pass me a bucket.”

Sheri laughed, throwing another pillow. “They’re allowed to have a moment, Jess. Chill.”

“Not in front of me!” Jess insisted, covering her eyes dramatically.

Scott chuckled, his hand finding yours as if to say: ignore them. And under that flag, in a room that was finally starting to look like his, you did.

The room hummed with low voices and half-laughter—Jess and Sheri were arguing over whose costume idea had been worse at the Halloween party, while Scott leaned back against the headboard, tossing in the occasional sarcastic jab.

But you noticed Clay sitting on the floor by the window, legs pulled up, picking at the frayed cuff of his sleeve. He was half there, half somewhere else entirely.

You slid down from the bed and sank into the space beside him. For a while, you didn’t say anything—just let the silence stretch. Then, softly:

“I never told you this,” you said, eyes on the carpet, “but at Hannah’s funeral… when you gave your speech—I really noticed how much you loved her.”

Clay’s head turned slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on his shoes. “I didn’t say everything I wanted to. I couldn’t. But I loved her, yeah. More than I knew how to handle.”

You nodded slowly. “It showed. In every word. In the way your voice cracked when you talked about that dance. I think about it a lot, actually.”

Clay finally looked at you then, his expression surprised—not by your words, but by the honesty of them.

“I thought nobody noticed,” he admitted. “That people just… tuned me out. Like I was just the quiet kid who couldn’t even save the girl he loved.”

You shook your head. “No. I noticed. Everyone did. Even Scott whispered after, ‘Clay really loved her, didn’t he?’” You swallowed hard. “And I think she knew it, too. She had to.”

Clay’s throat bobbed. His eyes were glassy, but he gave a small, almost broken smile. “Thanks. For saying that.”

You nudged his shoulder lightly. “I mean it. You loved her, Clay. And that mattered. It still does.”

For a moment, the noise of the room faded, and it was just the two of you—two people tied to Hannah in different ways, finding a fragile kind of comfort in saying her name out loud.

Then Jess called your name from across the room, breaking the spell. You stood, brushing off your jeans. Clay stayed sitting, but there was a new steadiness in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Words~2214

—-

The Monday after Halloween carried a strange, heavy stillness, like the world was trying too hard to pretend everything was fine. The sun spilled hazy shafts of light across the pavement as Mr. Baker’s SUV rolled down the curb in front of Liberty High.

You sat in the passenger seat, backpack hugged to your chest, your grip tighter than usual.

“I could’ve walked,” you muttered, more out of habit than anything else.

Mr. Baker gave you a side glance, his hand steady on the wheel. “And let you get jumped by some locker-scribbling coward before you even set foot in the building? Not happening.”

You cracked a small smile. “You really think someone would jump me?”

He shrugged, eyes still on the road. “Teenagers are unpredictable. Just… watch your back, alright?”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It carried the weight of Hannah—her absence sharp, quiet, and constant.

As the SUV turned into the lot, Mr. Baker slowed, parking in his usual cautious way. But instead of unlocking the doors right away, he shifted in his seat, his voice dropping lower.

“Hey. One more thing.”

You glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“Your mom and I… we want to talk to you tonight. About the school. About… everything.” He rubbed his thumb against the steering wheel. “We’ve been speaking to a lawyer.”

Your stomach twisted. “You’re thinking of suing?”

“We are,” he confirmed. “And we want your input. This affects you most of all.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

The lock clicked, breaking the moment. Mr. Baker gave you one last look, his expression caught between stern and protective. “Now go. Try to make it through the day without any bloodshed.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled faintly as you stepped out, the cool air hitting your face.

The door of Mr. Baker’s SUV clicked shut behind you just as a low, familiar purr cut across the lot. A sleek silver Audi glided into a space a few cars down, sunlight flashing across the tinted windows. Scott’s car—sharp, polished, annoyingly perfect, just like him.

He climbed out a second later, hoodie bunched at his shoulders, hair tousled like he’d either just rolled out of bed or styled it to look exactly that way. He spotted you immediately, grin stretching across his face.

“Morning, sunshine,” he called, slinging his duffel over one shoulder. “Nice hoodie, by the way. Looks way better on you.”

You tugged at the oversized fabric. “I’ll have to get used to smelling like your laundry detergent.”

He smirked. “Admit it—you love it.”

You eyed him up and down. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

He stretched, arms overhead, flashing a strip of skin above his waistband like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Didn’t. Too busy dreaming about you.”

You rolled your eyes, though warmth crept up your cheeks. “Wow. Smooth, Reed.”

Before you could banter further, Mr. Baker leaned over from the driver’s side window. “Morning, Scott.”

Scott straightened a little, the grin softening. “Morning, Mr. Baker.”

“You driving safe in that spaceship of yours?” Mr. Baker asked, eyeing the Audi like it had materialized out of thin air.

Scott gave a respectful nod. “Absolutely, sir. It’s only fast when I’m late.”

Mr. Baker chuckled under his breath. “Keep it that way.”

You glanced between them, amused. “Okay, before this turns into a buddy cop spinoff, I’m heading inside.”

Mr. Baker gave you a look—half serious, half gentle. “Don’t forget tonight.”

“I won’t,” you promised.

Scott waited for you to walk beside him, his hand brushing yours as you crossed toward the entrance.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the looming front doors of Liberty High. “We’ll see.”

The two of you fell into step together, backpacks shifting as the morning crowd pushed toward the double doors. Scott’s fingers brushed yours again—subtle, hidden—but it was enough to steady you.

He glanced down at you, smirk tugging at his lips. “You know what still kills me?”

You side-eyed him. “What now?”

“That I’ve gotta tilt my head down every time we kiss. Like—do you even realize how petite you are?”

You snorted. “Petite? Please. I’m not a doll.”

“You kinda are,” he teased, bumping your shoulder with his. “I swear, you always have to look up at me like I’m the Empire State Building.”

You rolled your eyes, but a grin tugged at your mouth. “I am literally only seven centimeters smaller than you.”

Scott laughed, holding up two fingers barely apart. “And those seven centimeters are everything.”

Before you could come up with a comeback, Jess’s voice cut through the crowd.

“There you are!” She jogged up, breathless, clutching a bent postcard in one hand. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed halfway up, eyes wide and alert. “You guys need to see this.”

She thrust the card into your hands. The front was a city skyline—warm sunset bleeding across rooftops. You flipped it over, your chest tightening as you saw Justin’s messy handwriting:

I’m okay. Don’t come looking.

Scott leaned closer, reading over your shoulder. His brow furrowed. “No return address.”

Clay joined just then, coffee in one hand, bag sliding off his shoulder. “Oakland,” he said quietly, pointing to the skyline. “That’s Oakland. He must’ve sent it from there.”

Jess’s voice dropped, lower than the noise of the hallway around you. “I didn’t tell anyone over the weekend. I just… needed time to process.”

Scott frowned, eyes still locked on the words. “Why wouldn’t he want us to find him?”

“Guilt,” Clay said, his voice flat but heavy. “Over Bryce. Over not stopping him. Everything’s closing in.”

You clutched the card tighter, your throat dry. “We need to find him anyway.”

Jess nodded firmly. “We owe him that.”

Scott’s hand slipped into yours again, steady and certain. “Count me in.”

And just as the first bell rang overhead, you realized something: the fight wasn’t just about Bryce anymore. It was about finding the people who were slipping through the cracks—and not letting them disappear.

The postcard hadn’t left anyone’s mind since Jess showed it that morning. Even tucked safely in her notebook, its edges seemed to radiate through the group—a reminder that Justin was out there somewhere, alive but hiding, asking not to be found.

By third period, the weight of it made the air heavy. You and Scott walked together down the hallway near the gym, voices low, still circling the same questions.

“Why Oakland?” you asked quietly.

Scott shrugged, shoulders tense. “Close enough to disappear, far enough not to get dragged back here.”

“Still,” you murmured. “It feels like a message. Like he’s telling us where to look without saying it.”

Scott glanced at you, a flicker of worry in his eyes. “You’re not actually planning to—”

He cut off. Because a voice, sharp and venomous, sliced through the corridor.

“You’re both disgusting.”

You froze. The hairs on your arms stood up.

Leaning against the vending machine, like a king guarding his throne, was Bryce Walker. Hood up, hands stuffed in his pockets, smirk curling his mouth. And right next to him, Monty—arms crossed, jaw locked, his presence radiating that same old loyalty.

Scott’s whole body went taut. You felt it in the way his arm brushed yours—like a coiled spring.

“Excuse me?” you shot back before you could stop yourself.

Bryce pushed off the machine lazily. “Walking around like you’re proud of it. Half the school thinks I’m Satan now because of you and your little speeches.”

Monty shook his head, eyes boring into Scott. “You’ve changed, man. You’re not who you were.”

Scott stepped forward, slow but deliberate. His voice was flat, edged. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe changing is a good thing.”

Bryce laughed once, low and ugly. “Good? You let him—” he jabbed his chin toward you, “—mess with your head, and now look at you. Some broken thing. Parading around like a victim.”

Monty joined in, his tone colder. “You used to be someone. Now you’re just soft.”

Scott didn’t flinch. Instead, he let out a short, humorless laugh. “You know what’s funny? You two—saying the same crap over and over. ‘You used to be someone. You’re soft. You’re different.’ Aren’t you tired of dropping the same sentences?”

For a beat, the words hung in the air like smoke. Even Bryce’s smirk flickered. Monty’s brow twitched.

You stepped up, shoulder brushing Scott’s. “You mean human? Try it sometime.”

Bryce’s eyes sharpened, cutting straight into you. “Look who thinks they’re tough. You ruined him. Turned him into this. He used to party. He used to win games. Now he’s your lapdog.”

Scott’s fists curled so tight you heard the leather of his jacket creak. “Don’t.”

Bryce leaned in close, his voice dropping to a hiss. “You were in that clubhouse, too, Scott. You stood there. You watched. Don’t pretend you’re any better than me.”

It hit like a gunshot.

Scott’s chest rose sharply, his face flashing with something between rage and shame.

And then he shoved Bryce. Hard.

Bryce stumbled back against the vending machine with a metallic slam. Monty stepped forward instantly, grabbing Scott by the shoulder.

“Don’t start this,” Monty warned.

The sound of footsteps came fast from the stairwell—Jess, Sheri, and Clay. Jess’s eyes widened the moment she saw Bryce. “What the hell is going on?!”

“Back off!” Bryce barked, shoving Scott again. “You want to fight me? Fine. But stop pretending you’re some saint.”

Scott lunged, but Monty caught his arm. Sheri grabbed yours, trying to pull you back, and Jess planted herself between Bryce and Scott, glaring daggers.

Clay’s voice cut through, desperate: “Enough!”

But Scott’s voice, raw and hoarse, tore louder. “He doesn’t get to say that! He doesn’t get to make you feel like less!”

That’s when the teachers stormed in. Principal Bolan among them, fury already etched across his face.

“Everyone—my office. Now!”

The hallway erupted in whispers as students leaned out of classroom doors, phones already out, recording.

And all you could think, heart hammering, was that Bryce had drawn blood without even landing a punch.

The office smelled like burnt coffee and old carpet. Principal Bolan hadn’t raised his voice—he didn’t have to. The weight of his silence, the slow way he wrote notes on his legal pad, was worse than yelling.

When it was over, you, Scott, Jess, Sheri, and Clay spilled into the hallway outside. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too cold.

Scott’s knuckles were red and raw, his chest still rising hard like he hadn’t come down from the fight yet. You reached for his hand, but he pulled back, running that same hand through his hair instead.

“I almost lost it in there,” he muttered. “I wanted to—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jess crossed her arms, glaring at the floor. “It matters. Because Bryce just flipped this whole thing on you. He doesn’t even have to throw a punch—he lets you do it for him, and suddenly you’re the problem.”

“That’s not fair,” Sheri said softly. “Scott was defending—”

“I know,” Jess interrupted. “But that’s how they’ll spin it. That’s how they always spin it.”

Clay adjusted the strap of his backpack, eyes tight. “Bolan already warned me once—said he’s watching for ‘patterns of behavior.’ If they start labeling us as disruptive instead of him…” The fear sat heavy in the silence.

You leaned against the wall, exhaling. “So what? We’re supposed to just… take it? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

Scott finally looked at you then. His eyes were glassy, sharp with frustration. “That’s what he wants. He wants us silent. He wants me to sit there while he rewrites the whole story.”

“You’re not silent,” you said firmly. “You stood up. That matters.”

For a second, he almost smiled. Then he caught sight of his bruised knuckles again and the weight settled back on his shoulders.

Jess tucked her hair behind her ear. “Look, I get it. I wanted to throw my drink at him last week just for looking at me. But we have to be smart. He’s waiting for us to explode.”

“Then what do we do?” Sheri asked quietly.

Jess’s jaw tightened. “We don’t give him what he wants.”

There was a pause. Long. Heavy.

Then Scott muttered under his breath, almost too low to hear: “Easier said than done.”

You stepped closer, this time not letting him pull away. You took his scraped hand carefully in yours, ignoring his flinch. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Even if it kills me to see you hold back.”

For the first time since leaving Bolan’s office, Scott really looked at you—saw you. His lips parted like he wanted to say something more, but then Jess cleared her throat loudly.

“Okay, lovers, tone it down,” she said, trying for levity. “Some of us are still traumatized from the last time you two made heart eyes in public.”

Sheri let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. Clay shook his head, muttering, “Unbelievable,” though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

And somehow, in that fragile, fractured moment, the weight lifted—just barely. Not gone. But shifted.

The fight wasn’t over. Bryce wasn’t finished. Bolan wasn’t an ally.

But you weren’t alone.

And that, for now, was enough.

Chapter Text

Words~1969

—-

The secretary’s voice crackled over the intercom: “Mr. Baker, Mr. Reed, Ms. Davis, Ms. Holland, Mr. Jensen—Principal Bolan will see you again now.”

You felt Scott’s hand brush yours as the group filed back inside. His knuckles were red, swollen, but he didn’t even wince. Jess muttered under her breath, “Round two. Let’s see how creative he gets this time.”

The office was just as suffocating as before. Bolan sat behind his desk, tie straightened, papers stacked neatly in front of him like props. Bryce slouched in one of the chairs opposite, arms spread lazily across the armrests, Monty sitting beside him with that trademark smirk carved into his face.

“Alright,” Bolan began, his voice even, as though he hadn’t just watched a near brawl explode in his hallway. “We’ve all had a few minutes to calm down. Let’s try this again.”

Scott didn’t sit. He stayed standing behind your chair, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on Bryce.

“What happened earlier,” Bolan continued, “was unacceptable. Violence, in any form, will not be tolerated at Liberty High.”

Jess crossed her arms. “But harassment and slurs are fine, right? As long as Bryce is the one saying them?”

Bolan’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant,” Sheri said softly, her voice trembling but steady enough to make Monty glance over at her.

Bryce leaned forward, all false charm. “Look, I’m just trying to live my life, play my sport, focus on my grades. But every time I turn a corner, someone’s accusing me of things I didn’t do.”

Scott scoffed under his breath. You squeezed his hand under the table before he could explode.

Monty leaned back, grinning. “It’s like they’re obsessed with you, bro.”

That made your blood boil. You stood, voice sharp. “Obsessed? He called us disgusting. He shoved Scott. And then he said I ruined him. That I’m the reason he’s not ‘one of them’ anymore.”

Bryce didn’t even blink. “A lot of things get said in the heat of the moment. Doesn’t mean I started anything.”

Scott’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’re a liar.”

“Scott,” Bolan warned.

But Scott’s fists were already clenching tighter. “You think we’d sit here if we didn’t have to? You think we like being targets just because he can’t stand that people see through him now?”

For a second, the air in the room felt like it might split.

Bryce leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled out like he owned the place. His smirk never wavered. “Look, I get it. Everyone wants a villain. Everyone wants someone to blame. But you can’t pin every bad thing that’s ever happened in this school on me. People forget the good I’ve done—the scholarships, the fundraisers, the games I’ve won for Liberty. And now one hallway argument and I’m suddenly public enemy number one?”

Jess let out a sharp laugh. “One hallway argument? Don’t you dare. You’ve been hurting people for years. You think just because you smile for the yearbook photo, it erases everything?”

Bolan raised his hand, voice low but firm. “Ms. Davis, please—”

“No,” Sheri cut in, her voice shaking but determined. “Let her say it. Because she’s right. We all know what this is about. We all know why we’re here, and it’s not just because of a fight.”

Bryce’s smirk only deepened. “Rumors,” he said smoothly. “Stories people make up to cover their own guilt. That’s all this is. And I’m the easy target.”

That’s when you snapped.

“Rumors?” you shouted, standing so fast your chair screeched across the floor. Everyone froze—Bolan, Jess, even Scott. “My sister is dead because of you. She killed herself after what you did. And you sit here acting like the victim? Like this is just some popularity contest you’re losing?”

Your chest heaved. You could barely breathe, your fists clenched so hard your nails dug into your palms.

Bryce’s eyes flicked toward you, cold and mocking. “She was unstable. Everyone knows it. Don’t put that on me because you can’t handle the truth.”

Scott reached for your arm, but you shook him off. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!” you yelled, your voice breaking now. “You raped her! You ruined her life! And now you’re trying to ruin ours too!”

The room went silent.

Bryce’s smirk cracked just a little, but he recovered fast, leaning back like none of it mattered. “Big words. But no proof.”

Clay finally stood, trembling but furious. “We don’t need proof, Bryce. We are the proof. Every single one of us sitting here, every single one of us who’s been hurt by you—our voices are the proof.”

Bolan slammed his hand on the desk. “Enough! This is not a courtroom. This is my office, and I will not have it turn into a shouting match.” His eyes darted quickly—too quickly—to Bryce before turning back to you. “I understand the emotions here. But this conversation is over. I’ll be contacting your parents.”

You stared at him, rage boiling in your veins. “Of course it’s over. It always is. Because protecting him is easier than protecting the people he destroys.”

For a second, the mask on Bolan’s face slipped. He looked… guilty. But then he straightened, clearing his throat. “That will be all.”

The rest of the meeting blurred. Bolan’s clipped words, Bryce’s smug half-smile, Monty’s silent shadow—it all melted together into one suffocating haze. Scott never let go of your hand, not even when Bolan dismissed you all with a promise to “review disciplinary measures further.”

The drive home was quiet. Scott’s silver Audi hummed softly down the familiar streets, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel. You stared out the window, the world outside passing in streaks of autumn color.

Finally, Scott’s voice broke the silence. “You were incredible in there.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “I screamed at him like a maniac.”

“You told the truth,” Scott said, glancing over at you. His eyes softened. “I’ve never been prouder.”

You leaned your head back against the seat. “It doesn’t matter. Bolan’s not going to do anything. He never does.”

Scott reached across the console, his fingers brushing yours. “Then maybe it’s not Bolan who has to. Maybe it’s someone bigger.”

Your chest tightened at his words. “My parents are already talking about suing.”

His eyes flicked toward you again. “Good. They should. If anyone deserves justice, it’s Hannah. And you.”

The car slowed in front of your house. Mr. Baker’s SUV was parked in the driveway, your mom’s sedan beside it. The porch light was on, though the sky hadn’t even gone dark yet.

Scott pulled up to the curb and shifted into park. He turned toward you, his hand still resting over yours. “You want me to come in?”

You shook your head slowly. “Not this time. They… they want to talk. Just me and them.”

Scott nodded, though hesitation lingered in his expression. He squeezed your hand once more, firm and grounding. “Text me after. Whatever happens, I’m here.”

You managed a small smile. “I know. Thanks, Scotty.”

You slipped out of the car and watched as he drove off, the taillights glowing red until they disappeared around the corner. Then you turned toward the front door, your stomach twisting.

Inside, your parents were already at the kitchen table. Cups of coffee sat between them, steam curling into the air. They looked up when you entered.

Your dad’s expression was steady but tense. “Bolan called us.”

You dropped your bag by the door and sank into the chair across from them. “I figured he would.”

Your mom folded her hands together, her eyes searching yours. “He said there was another fight. That Bryce provoked it.”

“He did,” you said quickly. “He always does.”

Your dad leaned forward. “That’s exactly why your mother and I have decided—we’re going to sue the school. For negligence. For failing to protect Hannah. For failing to protect you.”

The words hit like a weight, heavy but solid. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Then you nodded slowly. “Good. They need to be held accountable. Someone does.”

Your mom reached across the table, her fingers brushing yours. “This won’t be easy. It’ll be long. Messy. And public. Are you ready for that?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But Hannah deserves it. And so do the people Bryce hurt after her. We can’t let them bury this anymore.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the fridge. Then your dad placed his hand over both of yours, his voice steady. “Then we do this together. As a family.”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t look away. For the first time in a long time, you felt something close to resolve.

Not peace. Not yet. But the beginning of it.

When you finally closed your bedroom door behind you, the weight of the day came crashing back. Your parents’ words still echoed in your ears—lawsuit, negligence, Hannah—and the air in the house felt too heavy to breathe. You dropped your bag on the floor and sat on your bed, staring at the wall, trying not to think.

Your phone buzzed. Scott.
You swiped immediately.

His face appeared, a little grainy in the dim light of his room. Hair messy, hoodie half-off one shoulder, jaw tight. He looked tired. So tired.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough.

“Hey yourself,” you answered softly.

There was a pause. He rubbed his forehead like he was trying to push the day out of his head. “You okay?”

You huffed out a laugh. “You’re the one calling me, Reed. Are you okay?”

He gave you a weak grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not really. Bolan acted like me standing up for you was the same as Bryce calling us disgusting in front of half the school. Like we’re equally guilty.” He shook his head. “And then your dad—he told you they’re suing the school?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Finally.”

Scott exhaled, his lips parting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. “I should feel good about that, right? But all I can think is—what if it just makes everything worse?”

“Maybe it will,” you admitted. “At first. But you can’t keep letting them own you, Scotty. Your silence is exactly what gave them power. Us speaking up? That’s how we take it back.”

For a second, he just stared at you through the screen, eyes softening in a way that made your chest ache. And then, out of nowhere, his lips curved into the smallest, crooked grin.

“You always sound taller than you actually are, you know that?” he teased.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His grin widened. “You’re always looking up at me, little guy.”

You scoffed. “I’m only seven centimeters smaller than you. Don’t act like I’m pocket-sized.”

Scott laughed—really laughed—for the first time all day. The sound cracked something open inside you.

“That’s the exact same line you always use,” he said, shaking his head. “Aren’t you tired of repeating yourself?”

You smirked. “Not as tired as I am of you acting like a skyscraper.”

“Can’t help it if I’m built different,” he said, leaning closer to the camera with that infuriating sparkle in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he countered, softer this time.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It was warm. Comforting.

You let out a small sigh. “Get some sleep, Scotty. Tomorrow’s gonna be another fight.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But with you, I can take it.”

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice. “Damn right.”

When the call ended, you were left staring at your dark screen, but for the first time all night, the quiet didn’t feel unbearable.

Chapter Text

Words~2689

—-

Tuesday moved in a fog. Not a normal kind of fog, but the heavy kind that pressed down on your chest, making every hallway at Liberty feel smaller, every stare a little sharper. The fight with Bryce still lingered like smoke after a fire—clinging to your clothes, your skin, your thoughts. Teachers smiled too wide, pretending nothing had happened. Students whispered when you walked by, lowering their voices just enough so you couldn’t make out the words. You didn’t need to. You knew.

That evening, the Bakers’ kitchen felt heavier than usual. The clock on the wall ticked too loud, the air thick with unspoken words. Your dad sat at the head of the table, fingers laced tightly, while your mom held her coffee mug with both hands as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded.

“We’re moving forward,” Mr. Baker finally said, his voice low but steady. “With the lawsuit.”

You blinked, the words settling over you slowly. “Good. They deserve it.”

Mrs. Baker looked at you then—her eyes softer, but lined with the same exhaustion you carried. “We’re not doing this just for Hannah,” she said. “We’re doing it for you, too.”

The ache in your chest tightened. “I know,” you said quietly. “I want to help. However I can.”

Your parents exchanged a look—quick but meaningful—before your mom nodded. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. There are things you’ll need to know. But for tonight… just try to take care of yourself.”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure what “taking care” meant anymore. Sleep had become a stranger, and every time you closed your eyes, you either saw Hannah’s face or Bryce’s smirk.

You stood to leave, but your mom reached across the table, her fingers curling around yours. The warmth of her hand startled you.

“I miss her too,” she whispered.

The lump rose in your throat so fast you couldn’t swallow it down. “It never stops hurting.”

“No,” she said softly. “But it changes. It becomes softer. Still there, but not so sharp.”

You stared at the grain of the wooden table, your voice barely a breath. “I feel like I let her down. Like I didn’t do enough.”

Her hand tightened around yours. “You loved her. That was enough. And now you’re fighting for what’s right. That’s what she would’ve wanted.”

Your eyes stung. You leaned into her hand, nodding once. “I just wish she could see how hard we’re trying.”

“She sees it,” she said, her voice certain. “I believe that.”

You exhaled shakily, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m so lucky to have you as my mom.”

Her lips curved into a sad but gentle smile. “And I’m lucky to have you.”

She pulled you into her arms then, her chin resting on top of your head as she stroked your hair. For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just held on.

And for the first time since the fight, the air felt just a little lighter.

Friday carried a different kind of weight. The days between Tuesday and now blurred together—school filled with whispers, tense meetings with Bolan, and late-night calls with Scott where he tried to distract you with dumb firefighter jokes until you fell asleep. But by the time the last bell rang, something sharper settled into place: direction.

The November wind cut across the Liberty High parking lot, whipping your jacket against your arms. Students streamed out in clusters, buzzing with weekend plans, while you stood off to the side, waiting.

Jess appeared first, clutching a folded map under her arm, her expression taut with purpose. Sheri trailed behind, hair pulled back against the gusts, and Clay showed up last, coffee clutched in his hand like it was a lifeline.

Then came Scott. His silver Audi slid into the lot like it was auditioning for a car commercial, bass rattling the air from his speakers. He stepped out wearing his favorite gray hoodie, sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair, grin already tugging at his mouth.

“Alright,” Scott announced, spreading his arms. “Disaster club, assemble.”

Jess groaned, rolling her eyes. “We’re going to look for a missing friend, not audition for The Fast and the Furious.”

“Speak for yourself,” Scott shot back, slamming his car door shut. “I’m always auditioning.”

You smirked. “Yeah, for most dramatic entrance.”

Scott shot you a wink. “And proud of it.”

Sheri shook her head, brushing windblown strands of hair from her face. “Any updates? Anything new from the postcard?”

Jess unfolded the map, tapping the Oakland postmark circle she’d drawn. “Just this. The area it came from. It’s not much, but it’s a place to start.”

Clay took a sip of his coffee, his eyes serious behind his glasses. “If we leave now, we’ll get there before dark. Ask around, maybe catch someone who saw him.”

Scott swung the passenger side door open and bowed dramatically in your direction. “Your carriage awaits, sir.”

You laughed, sliding into the seat. “Wow, chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

Jess, Clay, and Sheri piled into the back, already bickering about who got the middle.

“Why do the flirty duo get the front again?” Sheri muttered.

“Because I’m driving,” Scott said smugly, “and my co-pilot is the only one who knows how to stroke my… ego.”

You leaned over, whispering just loud enough for the backseat to hear: “Among other things.”

Jess threw her head back. “Oh my GOD, please, spare us.”

Clay sighed, pressing his forehead to the window. “I’m pretending really hard not to hear this.”

The car roared to life, Scott grinning like a maniac behind the wheel. The group’s laughter filled the space, loosening the tight knot in your chest.

For the first time in days, it didn’t feel like smoke was suffocating you. It felt like a mission. A direction. A team.

The drive down the freeway stretched just over an hour, but with Scott at the wheel, it felt like less. Music blasted through the car—half chaotic rap, half Scott’s shameless throwback playlist. At one point, he leaned over the console, eyes flicking to you instead of the road.

“You know what this car’s missing?” he asked.

You raised a brow. “A driver who actually watches the road?”

“A make-out session,” he corrected smugly.

Jess groaned from the backseat. “I swear, if you two start—”

You cut in, smirking. “Careful, Reed. You’re one bad joke away from us pulling over on the freeway.”

Scott grinned, turning the volume up. “Promises, promises.”

Clay muttered, “I need new friends.”

By the time you rolled into Oakland, the November sun was already sinking lower, throwing long shadows across the streets. The neighborhood around the postmark wasn’t fancy—bodega shops, laundromats with flickering neon signs, small restaurants with chalkboard menus leaning outside their doors. The sidewalks were busy, people moving fast against the cold.

Jess unfolded the map again. “Okay, the postcard was stamped around here. If Justin’s sticking close to the post office, he might’ve passed through the shops nearby.”

“We split up,” Clay suggested. “Cover more ground.”

Sheri nodded. “Two and two. Safer that way.”

It ended up being you and Scott on one block, Jess and Clay on another. Sheri volunteered to bounce between both.

The first few stops turned up nothing. A corner-store cashier shook her head at the photo Jess had printed. A food truck vendor squinted but shrugged. A barber said maybe he’d seen someone like that a week ago, but he wasn’t sure.

The weight in your stomach grew heavier with each no.

By the time you and Scott reached the community shelter, your nerves were frayed. The lobby smelled faintly of soup and cleaning solution, the walls lined with faded posters about job training and food programs.

A tired-looking woman sat at the desk, sorting through a clipboard. She looked up when Scott slid the photo across the counter.

“Excuse me,” he said, softer than you expected. “Have you seen this kid?”

The woman squinted. Her brow furrowed. Then she gave a slow nod.

“I think he came through here,” she said. “Quiet. Wore a baseball cap low. Didn’t give his name. Looked like he hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your breath caught. “Is he still here?”

She shook her head. “No. Moved on a few days ago. We don’t ask questions. Sorry.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Thank you. That helps more than you know.”

Outside, the sky had already begun fading into dusky orange. Scott slid his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth.

“See?” he murmured. “We’re closer than we were yesterday.”

“It still feels so far,” you admitted.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Then we keep going. That’s all we can do. It’s what he’d do for us.”

You leaned against him, letting the street sounds blur. For the first time all week, you felt a spark of something fragile but real.

Hope.

By the time the group reconvened, the Oakland air had turned sharp and cold. The neon sign of a corner diner buzzed faintly above the door, casting the sidewalk in pale pink. Inside, the warmth hit immediately—greasy air, the clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation.

You slid into a booth with Scott at your side. Jess, Clay, and Sheri crammed into the opposite bench, all looking equally worn out. A tired waitress poured water into glasses without asking, leaving menus behind.

Jess rubbed her temples. “Nothing solid. Just vague maybes. A guy at the laundromat swore he saw someone who looked like Justin, but I think he was just bored and wanted to talk.”

“We got closer,” you said, voice steady. “The shelter lady said she saw him. Baseball cap, quiet. She was sure.”

Jess’s eyes lit up, just a fraction. “So he’s here. Or at least he was.”

Clay leaned forward, elbows on the table. “When?”

“A few days ago,” you answered. “He moved on.”

Clay sighed, dragging his hands through his hair. “So he could be anywhere now.”

“But he’s alive,” Sheri said, her voice soft but firm. “And that’s what matters.”

The table fell into silence for a beat, the weight of her words landing on all of you.

Scott reached under the table, squeezing your thigh gently. His voice broke the quiet. “We’re closer than we’ve ever been. That’s not nothing.”

Jess leaned back, staring at the condensation on her glass. “I hate that he thinks he can’t come back. That he thinks we wouldn’t want him.”

“He thinks he doesn’t deserve it,” Clay murmured. “That’s different.”

Sheri’s eyes filled, but she blinked hard and looked away. “Then we just have to show him he does. No matter how long it takes.”

The waitress came back, dropping plates of fries and coffee none of you had ordered but all of you needed.

For a while, you ate in silence. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty—just full of exhaustion, of the unspoken things none of you could fix yet.

When Scott finally spoke, it was quiet, almost to himself. “We’re going to find him. No matter what.”

You turned to look at him, and he met your gaze with something fierce and steady.

And even though nothing was solved, even though the world outside still felt impossibly heavy, in that moment—sitting shoulder to shoulder with the people who refused to give up—you believed him.

The house was dark when you came back, the only light spilling from the kitchen where your mom sat at the table with a half-empty mug of tea. She looked up when you walked in, her face softening immediately.

“You’re late,” she said gently. Not accusing—just noticing.

You dropped your bag by the stairs and walked in. “We went to Oakland. We thought maybe… maybe we could find Justin.”

Her eyes flickered. Concern. Sadness. Hope, maybe. “And?”

You shook your head. “No luck. But he was there. We know that much.”

She nodded slowly, then reached out her hand, wordless. You sat across from her and let her fingers curl around yours.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the quiet tick of the kitchen clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint sound of cars passing outside.

Finally, she whispered, “I miss her too.”

Your throat tightened instantly. “Every day.”

“It never goes away,” she said, her eyes shining now. “It changes. It softens. But it doesn’t disappear. Sometimes it hits me out of nowhere—like I can still smell her shampoo, or hear her humming in the bathroom. And for a second, it’s like she’s still here.”

Your chest burned. “Sometimes I feel like I didn’t do enough. Like I let her down.”

Her grip on your hand tightened. “You loved her. That was enough. And now you’re fighting for what’s right, for yourself, for her, for all of us. That’s what she would’ve wanted.”

You looked down, your voice low. “I just wish she could see how hard we’re trying.”

“She sees it,” your mom said firmly. “I believe that.”

You leaned your head against her shoulder, and she pressed a kiss into your hair. For a long while, you just sat there like that—no words, just warmth, grief, and love braided together.

When you finally pulled back, she gave you a small smile. “You should sleep. Tomorrow will need your strength.”

You nodded, hugging her once more before heading upstairs.

In your room, the silence was heavier, but it didn’t crush you. Not tonight.

Because somewhere in the ache, there was also strength.

Your room was dark except for the faint glow of your phone on the nightstand. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying to slow your racing thoughts. Oakland. Justin. Hannah. The lawsuit. All of it churned like stormwater in your chest.

The screen lit up suddenly. Scott Reed – Video Call.

You swiped instantly.

His face appeared, hair a mess, hoodie pulled up like he’d just rolled out of bed. He gave you a small, lopsided grin. “Miss me yet?”

You couldn’t help it—you smiled. “It’s been three hours.”

“Exactly. Longest three hours of my life.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart warmed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

“Unfortunately,” you teased.

He leaned closer to the camera. “You okay?”

The question hung heavier than it sounded. You sighed, shifting so your cheek pressed into your pillow. “Define okay.”

“Still the bravest guy I know,” he said softly. “Still managing to make me stupidly in love with you, even when you don’t try.”

Your throat tightened, but this time, not from grief. “Scotty…”

“I mean it,” he said, eyes steady now. “You carry so much, and I don’t always know how to help. But I swear, I’d carry the whole damn world if it meant you could rest.”

You bit your lip. “You already do more than you realize.”

He smiled faintly. “Good. Then let me do one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

He leaned back in his bed, turning the camera so you could see him patting the space beside him. “Pretend you’re here. Right next to me. Close your eyes and imagine it.”

You chuckled. “What, you’re gonna spoon me through FaceTime?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he smirked. Then softer, “Just… close your eyes. I’ll talk until you fall asleep.”

So you did. You let your eyes fall shut as his voice filled the quiet. Dumb jokes at first—something about how Clay would definitely fail as a vampire, how Jess could probably take down Bryce with just eyeliner and attitude.

But then his tone shifted, lower, softer. “I love you. I love you in ways I don’t even know how to explain. And I’m not going anywhere. No matter how messy this gets, I’ll be right here. Every fight, every night.”

You whispered, eyes still closed, “I love you too, Scotty. Always.”

“Good,” he said. You could hear the smile in his voice. “Now sleep. Sweet dreams, Baker.”

The last thing you felt before drifting off was his steady voice in your ear, grounding you like an anchor.

And for the first time all week, you slept without nightmares.

Chapter Text

Words~3039

—-

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the sunlight—it was the sound. Cars rushing past on the freeway beyond the parking lot, the low hum of the ice machine in the hallway, and Scott’s soft snore in your ear.

He was sprawled half across you, his weight pinning the blanket awkwardly so you couldn’t move without waking him. His hand rested warm and loose against your chest, and every time he breathed, it lifted and fell in rhythm with yours.

You tilted your head to look at him. His hair was sticking up in wild angles, his mouth slightly open, completely unbothered by the cheap motel mattress or the fact that his leg was half dangling off the bed.

“Ridiculous,” you whispered, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead.

His eyes cracked open. “Talking about yourself again?”

You rolled your eyes. “You drool in your sleep.”

Scott stretched with a groan. “That’s passion leaking out. Can’t help it.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Wow. That’s your excuse?”

He grinned, still half-asleep. “Worked on you, didn’t it?”

Before you could answer, there was a loud thump on the wall from the next room.

“Keep it down in there!” Jess’s voice carried through, annoyed but amused.

You groaned. “She’s never going to let us live this down.”

Scott leaned closer, his grin turning mischievous. “Then we might as well make it worth her complaint.”

You shoved him lightly with a laugh, but his arms pulled you right back in.

“Fine,” you said, settling into his chest. “Five more minutes.”

“Deal,” he murmured, already closing his eyes again.

And for five minutes, the world outside—the missing friend, the fight with Bryce, the lawsuit—didn’t exist. It was just warmth, tangled sheets, and the steady beat of Scott’s heart under your cheek.

The motel lobby smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cleaning spray, but the mismatched round tables gave you just enough space to spread out. A half-crushed box of donuts sat in the middle, next to Styrofoam cups filled with watery orange juice.

Jess already had the map unfolded, hair pulled into a messy bun, pen in hand like she was preparing for battle. Sheri sat beside her, quietly tearing a donut into tiny pieces but not eating them. Clay slouched on the opposite side of the table, his phone buzzing every few minutes.

Scott strolled in last, sunglasses perched on his head, carrying two cups of coffee like some kind of motel superhero. He slid one to you. “Fuel for my co-pilot.”

“Finally,” Jess muttered. “I was about to declare you officially useless.”

“Useless?” Scott dropped into the seat next to you. “Excuse you, I’m the only reason we didn’t end up stranded outside Oakland last night.”

Clay sighed. “Because you missed an exit.”

Scott smirked. “Details.”

You nudged him under the table. “Focus.”

Jess circled a section on the map. “Okay. Yesterday we had two hits: the shelter and the diner. Both pointed to the docks area. If Justin’s looking for work, it makes sense he’d drift near warehouses.”

Sheri finally spoke. “But it also means he’s surrounded by people who won’t ask questions. He could disappear there for weeks, and no one would notice.”

Silence stretched.

Clay leaned forward, voice low. “So what do we do? Just… keep chasing rumors until we trip over him?”

You glanced at the postcard still folded in Jess’s notebook. “No. We follow the patterns. He’s not writing to random strangers—he reached out to Jess for a reason. He wants to be found. He just doesn’t know how to ask.”

Scott reached for your hand under the table, squeezing once. “Then we make it easy for him. We get closer every day until he can’t ignore us.”

Jess scribbled something on the margin of the map. “Then today, we start at the docks.”

Sheri gave a small nod. “Together.”

Scott leaned back in his chair, flashing his usual grin to lighten the mood. “Look at us. A ragtag band of misfits on a rescue mission. Netflix would eat this up.”

Jess didn’t even look up. “If they cast Zac Efron as you, I’m quitting.”

Scott pressed a hand to his chest, fake offended. “As if he could capture my charm.”

You hid your smile behind your coffee. For all the tension, for all the fear, there was something grounding about this—your group, your fight, your cause.

And when you stood to head out, you caught Scott’s eye. He winked, and suddenly, the day ahead didn’t feel impossible.

The Oakland waterfront wasn’t pretty. The air was heavy with salt and diesel, seagulls screeched overhead, and the warehouses stretched in endless rows of gray corrugated steel. Trucks rumbled by, their engines drowning out almost every other sound.

Jess led the way, clutching the folded map like a compass. Clay carried a copy of Justin’s photo, tucked into his jacket pocket. Sheri kept close to Jess, her eyes darting around at every passerby. Scott walked at your side, his shoulder brushing yours just enough to keep you steady.

“Place smells like fish and lost dreams,” Scott muttered.

“Scott,” you warned, though you were already fighting a smile.

“I’m just saying,” he continued. “If Justin’s hiding here, he needs a raise. And a shower.”

Jess shot him a look over her shoulder. “Can you go five minutes without a joke?”

“Can you go five minutes without glaring?” he fired back.

“Scott,” you said again, this time softer. He glanced at you, saw the flicker of worry in your eyes, and quieted.

The group split up in pairs, weaving through the crowded area. You and Scott approached a food truck parked near the docks. The man inside looked worn, his apron stained with grease.

“Excuse me,” you said, holding out the photo. “Have you seen him around? Maybe in the last week?”

The man squinted at the picture, then shrugged. “Kid that looked like that came by. Bought fries, paid in coins. Looked hungry.”

Your heart kicked. “When?”

“Couple nights ago. He was hanging around with some other teens. Didn’t stick around long.”

Scott leaned in. “Which way did he go?”

The man pointed toward the warehouses near the east end of the docks. “That way. But lots of kids drift through here. Could’ve kept moving.”

“Thank you,” you said quickly, handing him a few bills for his time.

As you stepped back, Scott slipped his arm around your shoulders. “See? We’re close.”

You exhaled slowly. “Yeah. But close isn’t the same as finding him.”

Meanwhile, across the docks, Jess, Clay, and Sheri were asking at a small convenience store. When the group reconvened at the edge of the lot, Jess looked hopeful.

“The clerk remembered him too,” she said. “Said he looked nervous. Bought a bottled water and asked about day jobs.”

“That’s two,” Clay said. “Two people who saw him.”

Sheri hugged her jacket tighter. “So he’s circling this area. That means we’re in the right place.”

Scott tipped his head toward you, a rare seriousness in his tone. “He’s here. I can feel it.”

You looked out across the endless rows of warehouses and shipping crates, the vast space swallowing your hope and feeding it all at once.

“Then we keep searching,” you said.

And together, you stepped deeper into the docks.

The group decided to cover more ground by splitting again. Jess, Clay, and Sheri veered left toward the older warehouses, their voices fading under the noise of clattering forklifts. You and Scott took the right path, a row of shipping containers stacked like giant toy blocks leading you toward the water.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the crunch of gravel under your shoes and the sharp cries of gulls overhead.

Then Scott broke the silence.
“Y’know… this feels like a movie. Two scrappy detectives on the docks, hunting for their runaway friend.”

You gave him a look. “Except neither of us knows how to fight crime.”

He smirked. “Speak for yourself. I’ve got firefighter thighs of steel. That’s a weapon.”

You rolled your eyes. “That joke’s on its last legs.”

Scott nudged you with his elbow, grinning. “Aren’t you tired of always saying that?”

You shook your head, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Fine. But one day I’m gonna start charging you every time you call yourself a firefighter or mention your thighs.”

Scott leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “Worth it.”

You laughed, but then the quiet returned—different this time, heavier. You both slowed your steps without meaning to.

“Hey,” Scott said softly, his voice losing its edge of play. “You’re holding it together better than I am.”

You frowned. “I’m not. I’m just… pretending better.”

He looked at you for a long beat, then reached out, his fingers brushing yours until you laced them together. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Your throat tightened. “I know. I just—if I stop, I don’t know if I can start again.”

Scott squeezed your hand gently. “Then don’t stop. Just lean. On me. I’ll carry some of it for you.”

For a second, you wanted to believe him completely. His blue eyes, softer now, made it almost easy.

You exhaled slowly. “Okay. But only because you promised not to make another firefighter joke.”

He smirked again. “Can’t promise that. But I can promise you’re not alone in this.”

The weight between you shifted—lighter, but still there. As you walked on, his hand stayed in yours, a quiet tether against the vast, empty docks.

And for the first time that day, the search didn’t feel quite as impossible.

By late afternoon, the gray light had started to sink lower, shadows stretching long between the shipping containers. Your feet ached, your throat was dry, and part of you wanted to give up. That’s when Jess’s voice cut through the distance.

“Over here!”

You and Scott exchanged a quick glance before jogging back down the gravel path. Clay and Sheri were already there, standing near a dented metal door that led into a run-down warehouse office.

Jess was talking to a man in a grease-stained work jacket, his weathered hands still clutching a wrench. He eyed all of you like you were intruding.

“He came by this morning,” the man said gruffly. “Tall, scrappy kid. Baseball cap pulled low. Kept asking if there was work unloading shipments. Looked like he hadn’t slept in a while.”

Your pulse spiked. “Did he give you his name?”

“No,” the man shook his head. “But he reminded me of someone running. Kept glancing at the door like he was afraid of getting caught.”

“Which way did he go?” Scott asked quickly.

The man pointed down the block, toward a strip of cheap motels and fast-food joints hugging the edge of the freeway. “Said he’d try his luck over there.”

For a moment, none of you breathed. The world tilted—because suddenly, Justin wasn’t just a ghost in a postcard. He was here. Somewhere close.

Jess pulled the map from her bag, smoothing it against the wall. Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady. “That’s the third sighting in this area. We’re circling in. He’s not gone. He’s still here.”

Clay’s eyes burned with determination. “We’ll check every motel, every diner, every corner if we have to.”

Scott slid his arm lightly across your shoulders, his voice lower, more grounded. “We’re not stopping. Not until we find him.”

Silence fell over the group for a beat, the weight of the choice pressing in.

You swallowed hard, looking at the faces around you—the anger in Clay’s jaw, the fire in Jess’s eyes, the quiet ache in Sheri’s, and Scott’s steady hand on your shoulder.

“Then tonight,” you said. “We don’t wait anymore.”

The others nodded.

And just like that, hope burned in the cold November air.

The motel lobby smelled like stale coffee and bleach. A flickering neon “Vacancy” sign buzzed faintly outside the window. Jess leaned against the counter, arguing with the clerk about getting two adjoining rooms. Sheri sat on a cracked vinyl chair nearby, rubbing her temples.

You and Scott stood together while Clay paced by the vending machine, his jaw tight. He’d been quiet since the warehouse lead, but not calm—his silence buzzed like a storm waiting to break.

When the clerk finally slid two room keys across the counter, Jess sighed in relief. “Alright. We’re good. Two rooms, side by side. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

Clay turned sharply, voice sharp. “Regroup? That kid is out there, scared and alone, and we’re checking into motels like this is a road trip?”

Scott’s head whipped toward him. “We’ve been on our feet all day, Jensen. We need sleep if we’re gonna find him tomorrow.”

Clay barked a bitter laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’re too busy flirting and making jokes like this is a vacation. You think Justin has the luxury of sleeping in a warm bed tonight?”

Scott stepped forward, shoulders tense. “Don’t you dare act like I don’t care. I’ve been driving us all over the city, asking strangers about him, doing everything I can. Just because I don’t walk around brooding doesn’t mean I’m not fighting for him.”

Clay’s voice rose. “You fight with your fists, Scott. You snap at Bryce, you crack jokes, but when it comes down to being serious—you hide behind all of it. You think Justin needs a stand-up comedian, or someone who actually sees how much danger he’s in?”

Scott’s jaw clenched. “Don’t lecture me on danger. I’ve seen plenty. I’ve lived it. And I’m not hiding—I’m keeping us from falling apart. Someone has to.”

Clay stopped pacing, eyes blazing. “No. You’re distracting yourself. And maybe him too.” He nodded at you. “And if Justin’s out there because he thinks no one took this seriously enough? That’s on all of us. Including you.”

The air thickened. Jess stepped between them quickly. “Enough! Both of you!”

Sheri stood too, her voice sharp. “You’re fighting each other when we should be fighting for him.”

You stepped closer to Scott, placing a hand on his arm, feeling the tension thrumming under his skin. His chest was heaving, eyes locked on Clay like he wanted to throw a punch but couldn’t.

“Scotty,” you whispered, grounding him.

He finally tore his gaze away from Clay, jaw still tight, but he nodded. “Fine. Whatever.”

Clay turned, hands on his hips, pacing again. The anger in the room lingered like static, but the fight had burned itself out—for now.

Jess exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We need to sleep. Tomorrow, we try again. Together. No more tearing each other apart.”

No one argued. But no one relaxed either.

The group filed toward the rooms, heavy with unspoken words.

Scott brushed his hand against yours as you reached the door. Quietly, only for you, he muttered: “He doesn’t get it.”

And you squeezed his hand back, whispering, “Then prove him wrong tomorrow.”

The motel room had gone quiet. The only sound was the soft hum of the ancient air conditioner and Scott’s steady breathing beside you. His arm was draped across your waist, heavy with exhaustion, his face slack in sleep. Even in rest, there was a crease in his brow, like the fight with Clay still weighed on him.

You brushed your fingers through his hair once, gently, then slid out from under his arm. He stirred but didn’t wake. Pulling your hoodie tighter, you slipped out into the dimly lit hallway and tapped lightly on the door next door.

Jess opened it almost instantly, as if she’d been expecting you. “Couldn’t sleep either?” she whispered.

Sheri sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling her phone. She looked up with tired eyes. “Join the insomniac club.”

You stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind you. The room smelled faintly of nail polish remover and takeout fries. You sat down on the edge of the other bed, exhaling.

Jess leaned forward. “Rough night, huh?”

You nodded. “Scott passed out the second his head hit the pillow. But I… I can’t stop thinking.”

Sheri tilted her head. “About Justin?”

You swallowed. “About everything. Justin. Clay and Scott tearing each other apart. Hannah. It feels like… like we’re all just barely holding it together, and I don’t know how long before it cracks.”

Jess’s voice softened. “You’re not the only one who feels that way. But you’ve got to stop carrying the whole weight on your shoulders.”

“I can’t help it,” you admitted. “I keep thinking… if I’d done more, if I’d pushed harder sooner—Hannah might still be here. And now Justin’s out there, and what if—”

Sheri cut in, her tone firm but kind. “Stop. You loved Hannah. That was enough. And you’re loving Justin by not giving up on him. That’s enough too.”

You blinked hard, throat tightening. “You sound like my mom.”

Sheri gave a small, sad smile. “Good moms know best.”

Jess scooted closer, placing a hand on your knee. “And as your honorary big sister, I’ll add this: Scott’s trying in his way. Clay’s trying in his. You can’t control every part of it. But you can keep showing up. That’s all Justin needs from you. That’s all Hannah would’ve wanted.”

Your eyes burned. You looked down at your hands. “I just… I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Sheri reached over, tugging you into a side hug. “Then you won’t. Not if we keep holding each other like this.”

Jess rested her chin on your shoulder. “Consider yourself trapped in our sister gang. No takebacks.”

You chuckled wetly. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

Jess smirked. “Too bad. We’re family now. Deal with it.”

For the first time all day, the tension in your chest loosened. Not gone, but softer.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

“Always,” Sheri said.

“Now go back before lover boy wakes up and thinks we kidnapped you,” Jess teased.

You rolled your eyes but stood, smiling faintly. “He’d probably believe it.”

As you slipped back into your room, Scott stirred again, shifting onto his side. You slid under the covers quietly, and his arm immediately found its way back over your waist, like it had never left.

And this time, you finally let yourself close your eyes.

Chapter Text

Words~2645

—-

The motel room was still heavy with sleep when Scott’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was early—too early—and the weak morning light barely cut through the curtains. You rubbed at your eyes, still tangled in the scratchy motel sheets, while Scott slid off the bed with a groan and grabbed his phone.

“Hello?” His voice was gravelly.

A pause. Then his expression shifted—color draining from his face, jaw tightening. He turned, retreating toward the bathroom, leaving the door half-closed.

You couldn’t hear every word, just a low rumble of anger on the other end. Scott’s father.

Scott’s shoulders tensed with every sentence. He said almost nothing, just a muted “Yeah” and “I get it” here and there. By the end, his knuckles were white around the phone.

He hung up, lingered there for a moment, then stepped back into the room. His face was pale, rigid, like stone.

“We have to go,” he said.

You sat up, instantly alert. “What happened?”

Scott’s eyes flicked to you, then away. “They vandalized my locker. Again.”

Your stomach sank. “The slur again?”

“Worse,” he whispered. His voice cracked, the way it only did when he was holding too much inside. “This time it said: YOU’RE THE NEXT ONE. Big. Red marker.”

The silence that followed pressed down like a weight.

“Jesus, Scott…” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. “My dad thinks it’s all because I got… distracted.”

You didn’t need him to say it. You knew what he meant. His father’s voice still lingered in the way Scott said it—like the blame wasn’t just about the locker, but about you. About who he chose to love.

“He thinks you’re the reason I’m losing focus,” Scott said bitterly. “That all of this is happening because I stopped being who he wanted me to be.”

Anger flared hot in your chest. You wanted to throw something, to scream, to burn every wall that had ever closed Scott in. Instead, you slid off the bed and crossed to him.

Your hand found his arm, fingers curling gently into the sleeve of his hoodie. “Then we’ll face him,” you said quietly. “Together.”

Scott looked at you then, really looked, and for a moment the fury in his eyes softened—just enough for you to see the boy beneath it, scared and hurting.

He gave a single nod. “Together.”

The drive out of Oakland was quieter than any of you expected. The streets gave way to freeways, freeways to suburbs, but the silence inside Scott’s Audi was heavier than the morning fog.

Scott gripped the wheel tighter than usual, his jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead. The words YOU’RE THE NEXT ONE felt burned into the space between you.

Jess shifted in the backseat, voice low. “We should keep looking for Justin tomorrow. We can’t let this derail us.”

Scott didn’t answer.

You turned slightly in your seat. “Jess is right. We’ll keep going. But we need to handle this too.”

Clay leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “What exactly did your dad say, Scott?”

Scott’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “That I’m letting myself fall apart. That I’m wasting everything because I let myself get distracted.” His voice broke, bitter. “He meant because of Sam.”

The words landed hard. Jess hissed under her breath. Sheri looked away, her jaw tight.

“Scott—” you began, but he cut you off.

“I don’t regret it. I don’t regret us.” His voice was sharp, defensive, but when he glanced at you, the edges softened. “I just… I hate that he makes it sound like love is a weakness.”

No one spoke for a while after that. The hum of the highway filled the silence.

Sheri was the first to break it. “Drop me off first. My mom’s already blowing up my phone.”

“Yeah,” Jess added. “Us too.”

Scott nodded. One by one, he pulled into familiar streets and quiet cul-de-sacs, each goodbye quick, a little awkward. No one wanted to leave, but no one knew what to say either.

When it was just you and Scott again, the Audi felt cavernous.

He let out a breath, finally glancing at you. “You don’t have to come in when we get there. My dad’s… he’s worse when there’s an audience.”

You shook your head immediately. “Not a chance. If he’s going to tear into you, he can do it with me standing right there.”

Scott stared at you for a moment, eyes shining faintly. Then he turned back to the road. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

You smirked despite the tension. “Takes one to know one.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile, before the weight of what waited at home pulled it back down.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, but your hand found his on the center console. He didn’t let go once.

The Reed mansion was a museum—grand, pristine, and lifeless. You stepped inside behind Scott, your hand brushing his as though that small touch could protect him from the weight pressing down.

Richard Reed stood in the center of the hallway like a sentinel. His suit jacket was still on though the hour was late, tie knotted perfectly. His stare locked onto Scott, sharp and full of disdain.

“Finally,” Richard snapped. “Took you long enough.”

Scott kept his shoulders squared, but his voice was tight. “We came straight back.”

“You saw it?” Richard’s voice was a low snarl. “On your locker?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah. I saw it.”

The man’s jaw worked. “YOU’RE THE NEXT ONE. Written in red for the whole damn school to see. Do you understand how humiliating that is? For me? For this family? For your mother’s name?”

Scott’s fists twitched. “Don’t drag her into this.”

Richard’s glare sharpened. “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot say about my wife. She would’ve been embarrassed to see what you’ve become.” His hand flung out toward you like a dagger. “Throwing away your future for… this.”

Your stomach flipped, but before you could speak, Scott’s voice cut through the air, low but trembling with rage.

“No. She wouldn’t.”

Richard blinked. “Excuse me?”

Scott’s chest rose and fell, every word pulled up from somewhere raw.
“She would’ve supported me. Supported us. She wasn’t perfect, but she actually loved me. Not like you. Not once in my life have I ever felt like you gave a damn about me for anything other than a batting average or a scholarship.”

Richard’s nostrils flared. “Don’t twist this. Your mother expected discipline. She raised you to be better. She—”

Scott cut him off, his voice breaking. “She knew I wasn’t straight, Dad. She knew when I was thirteen. And you know what? She didn’t yell. She didn’t threaten. She hugged me. She told me she loved me no matter what. You remember that? Or does it not fit into the perfect story you tell yourself?”

Richard’s face went rigid.

“She would’ve been proud of me,” Scott said, tears burning at the edges of his eyes now. “Proud that I stopped pretending. Proud that I finally stopped hiding. Proud that I love someone who makes me feel whole. But you—” He jabbed a finger at Richard’s chest. “You’ve never been proud of me. Not once. Not for me. Only for what I could do for you.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed.

Richard’s face twisted, a mixture of fury and something uglier—shame. His arm jerked up, fist rising fast.

You flinched.

But Scott didn’t move. He stood tall, chin lifted, voice steady even as his father’s shadow loomed over him.

“Go ahead,” Scott spat. “Hit me. Just like you hit walls, doors, everything but the truth. Hit me, and then tell the world how Richard Reed, Liberty High’s golden dad, broke his son for being honest. For being loved.”

Richard’s fist hovered inches from Scott’s face, shaking, his knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, animalistic. For a moment, you thought he’d actually do it.

But then he froze. His jaw clenched so hard a vein stood out in his temple. With a guttural sound—half snarl, half growl—he lowered his arm and turned sharply, storming down the hall.

The slam of his office door echoed like a gunshot through the empty house.

The silence afterward felt suffocating.

Scott’s shoulders sagged, a trembling breath escaping him. He wiped at his eyes roughly, refusing to let the tears fall.
“I can’t stay here,” he muttered.

You slipped your hand into his, squeezing tight. “Then don’t. Come with me.”

Scott finally looked at you. For the first time since walking into the house, there was something alive in his eyes again—not fear, not anger, but defiance.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “With you.”

The Bakers’ front door opened before you even knocked a second time. Your mom stood there, apron still on, a dish towel clutched in her hand. Her eyes fell on Scott, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale and tight.

“Scott?” she said softly.

“Hi, Mrs. Baker,” Scott managed, his voice small. “Sorry for… showing up like this.”

Your dad appeared behind her, brows furrowed. “Come inside, both of you.”

You stepped in first, Scott right behind. The warmth of the house—the smell of coffee lingering in the air, the sound of the old clock ticking in the living room—was almost jarring after the cold, sharp silence of the Reed mansion.

Mr. Baker gestured to the dining table. “Sit.”

You slid into the chair, Scott next to you. His hands were clasped tight in his lap, knuckles white. For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the creak of the wooden chairs as everyone settled.

Your mom broke the silence. “What happened?”

You took a breath, then glanced at Scott. His jaw tightened, but he gave the smallest nod—permission.

You started. “Someone vandalized Scott’s locker again. This time… it wasn’t just a slur. It said YOU’RE THE NEXT ONE. In red marker, across the whole thing.”

Your mom’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Your dad’s eyes darkened. “And Bolan called Richard about it?”

Scott’s throat worked as he finally spoke. “Yeah. He… he said it was my fault. That I got distracted. That I ruined myself.”

“He didn’t stop there,” you added quickly, your anger spilling out. “He said Scott’s mom would’ve been embarrassed by him. That she wouldn’t have wanted him to be—” you faltered, looking at Scott.

“Queer,” Scott finished, bitter and flat. “That’s the word he couldn’t even say. He thinks I’m ruining the family name. Ruining baseball. Ruining… everything.”

Your mom shook her head fiercely. “No. Absolutely not.”

Scott’s voice wavered, but he forced himself to keep talking. “I told him he was wrong. That she knew. My mom—” His breath hitched. “She knew when I was thirteen. She hugged me and told me she loved me anyway. She… she would’ve been proud.”

Your mom reached across the table, resting her hand over his. “She would’ve. I can see it.”

Scott swallowed hard, his shoulders shaking now. “I told him that. I told him she loved me. And that he never did. He almost hit me.”

The room froze.

“He raised his fist,” Scott continued, voice cracking, “and for a second I thought… I thought he would. But he stopped. He slammed his office door instead. I can’t go back there. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.”

Your dad’s jaw was set, but his voice was calm, firm. “Then you won’t. Not while I have a roof over my head. You stay here. No arguments.”

Scott’s lip trembled. He looked down, muttering, “Thank you.”

Your mom squeezed his hand tighter. “You’re family now. We’ll keep you safe.”

You sat back, your chest tight, watching Scott breathe shakily. His whole body seemed smaller, deflated. You wanted to wrap him in every blanket in the house, keep him from ever stepping back into the cold mansion where Richard’s voice still echoed.

Mr. Baker leaned forward. “Scott, you need to know—what he said about you, about your mom—it’s not the truth. The truth is sitting right here. With us. With my son. And with the love you two share. That’s real. That’s worth something.”

Scott’s eyes filled, but this time he didn’t wipe the tears away. He let them fall, slow and unguarded.

Your room felt different with Scott in it. Not because it hadn’t happened before—he’d been here a dozen times, sprawled across your bed making dumb jokes—but tonight, it carried a weight neither of you could laugh away. His duffel bag sat in the corner, half-zipped, like it was proof this wasn’t temporary.

Scott sat on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His hoodie sleeves were pulled down over his fists, hiding the red marks left from clenching too hard at his dad’s words.

You shut the door gently and crossed over. “Scoot,” you said softly.

He looked up at you, eyes rimmed red, and managed the smallest smile. “Bossy.”

“Always,” you replied, sliding next to him. Your knee brushed his, and without hesitation, he leaned into you. His head found your shoulder like it had been waiting all day for somewhere safe to land.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You just sat in the dim glow of your desk lamp, the air thick with everything unsaid. Finally, you reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his hair.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Define okay.”

“You’re alive. You’re here. You’re with me.”

“That’s three definitions,” he muttered, but his voice cracked at the end.

You shifted, turning so you faced him fully. He tried to keep his head down, but you gently hooked a finger under his chin, lifting it until his eyes met yours.

“They don’t get to decide who you are,” you said. “Not your dad. Not the assholes who think a locker marker makes them powerful. Not anyone.”

His throat bobbed. “Feels like they already did. Like I’ve been… defined my whole life. By baseball. By being Reed’s son. By the clubhouse.”

“Then let’s redefine you,” you said simply. “With us. With this.” You pointed between you and him. “With what you’re building now.”

For a moment, he just stared. Then his hand reached for yours, threading your fingers together, holding on like it was the only thing tethering him.

“My mom would’ve liked you,” he said suddenly. His voice was raw, but steady. “She… she always said I needed someone who wouldn’t let me get away with my own bullshit.” He let out a shaky laugh. “That’s definitely you.”

You smiled softly, though your chest ached. “What else did she say?”

Scott leaned back a little, eyes distant, like he was pulling pieces of her out of memory. “That being kind was the only thing that really mattered. That it’s harder than being tough, but worth more.” His grip tightened on your hand. “She would’ve been proud of me for this. For us.”

“She is proud,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “And so am I.”

His breath hitched. He leaned in, slow, hesitant, until his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was soft. Like a blanket. Like safety.

You pulled the covers back, and the two of you lay down, facing each other in the low lamplight. His hand stayed tangled in yours, resting between you. You brushed your thumb over his knuckles, and he finally—finally—closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders unwinding as sleep tugged at him.

You stayed awake a little longer, just watching. Memorizing the way his chest rose and fell, the way his mouth softened when he wasn’t forcing himself to be strong.

Chapter Text

Words~2813

—-

The air was sharp with the kind of cold that clung to your hoodie even after you pulled it tighter. The Bakers’ porch swing creaked softly as it swayed, and there was Scott—hood up, hair sticking out in messy strands, a steaming mug of coffee cupped between his hands.

He looked up when you stepped outside. His eyes were tired, ringed with a faint shadow of sleeplessness, but the corner of his mouth still lifted when he saw you.

“Morning, pretty boy,” he rasped, voice scratchy with sleep.

You rolled your eyes and sat beside him, your knee brushing his. “Still flirting before breakfast?”

He shrugged. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

The swing groaned under your combined weight. For a moment you just listened—to the faint chirp of birds, the muffled hum of cars a few streets over, the warmth of Scott pressed into your side.

“How are you?” you asked quietly.

Scott stared down at his coffee like it had answers. “Haven’t punched a wall yet, so… I guess that’s a win.”

You didn’t laugh. Not really. But you didn’t pull away either. You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting the silence stretch.

“Did you sleep?” you pressed after a beat.

“A little.” He exhaled, fogging the rim of his cup. “Just the usual dreams. Locker words. My dad’s voice. You in that skeleton hoodie.”

“That last one’s a nightmare?” you teased.

“It’s a blessing and a curse.”

You smiled faintly. The swing rocked with a lazy rhythm, carrying the weight of both of you for a little while. And for a few minutes, the world didn’t feel so heavy.

Then your mom’s voice called from inside, warm and practical: “Breakfast!”

Scott nudged you with his shoulder. “Guess we should go fuel up. Can’t fight high school drama on an empty stomach.”

You let him pull you up, fingers brushing his briefly before you stepped back inside together.

By mid-morning, the sky was washed in a pale gray that threatened rain but never quite delivered. The diner sat on the corner of Main and Fifth, its chipped neon sign buzzing faintly over the parking lot. It had become the unofficial meeting spot for your group, the kind of place where no one asked questions if you lingered too long over bottomless coffee.

When you pulled up with Scott, Jess and Sheri were already waiting by the hood of Jess’s car. Clay leaned against the bumper, arms folded, his eyes downcast as though he was carrying more than just his backpack.

But it was the fourth figure that made you stop.

Tony.

He stood by his Mustang, arms crossed over his chest, cap pulled low. It felt like years since you’d seen him last, though it had only been weeks. His presence shifted the air, heavy and careful, like a storm rolling in slow.

Jess noticed your surprise. “He texted this morning,” she explained. “Said he wanted to come.”

Scott stiffened at your side, but he didn’t move away. His hand lingered near yours, hesitant but present.

You stepped forward first. “Hey.”

Tony’s eyes met yours. They were darker than you remembered, tired in a way no teenager’s should be. Still, his voice was steady when he said, “Hey.”

Jess tilted her head. “We weren’t sure you’d actually show up.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” Tony admitted. His gaze flicked over all of you—Jess, Sheri, Clay, Scott, and finally back to you. “But I should’ve been here before. I know that.”

Clay’s voice was sharper than he intended. “We needed you.”

Tony didn’t flinch. “I know,” he said again, softer this time.

You glanced between them, heart thudding. “Then… talk to us, Tony. What’s going on?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. The sound of a car pulling out of the lot filled the silence. Then Tony exhaled, the words coming low and clipped:

“My family… they got deported.”

The air cracked.

Jess’s mouth fell open. Sheri’s hand shot to her chest. Even Clay blinked hard, as though the weight of the confession knocked the air out of him.

Tony kept going, like if he stopped, he’d break. “I’ve been working every job I can. Trying to scrape enough together to get them back. Paperwork, lawyers—everything. I didn’t want anyone to know. Didn’t want you to look at me different. So I kept my distance. Even when it cost me people I care about.”

Scott’s jaw tightened, his fists curling. You could tell he wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat.

Sheri was the first to speak, her voice soft. “Tony… you could’ve told us. You don’t have to carry that alone.”

“I didn’t want to be another problem,” he whispered. “Another weight dragging you all down.”

You stepped closer, your voice firm despite the ache in your chest. “You’re not a problem. You’re our friend. Always.”

Tony’s eyes glistened, but he nodded.

Finally, Scott found his voice. “You’re still one of us. Even if you don’t feel like it right now.”

Tony swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

The group stood there, wrapped in silence that wasn’t comfortable but wasn’t empty either. The kind of silence that meant something was shifting, even if you didn’t know where it would land.

Later that day, everyone gathered at Monét‘s, The diner smelled like burnt coffee and fried eggs, the kind of place that clung to your clothes long after you left. The six of you crowded into the corner booth, the same one you always seemed to end up in, like gravity pulled you there.

Jess spread out the map she’d been carrying, flattening the creases against the sticky table. A few napkins and half-empty salt shakers kept the edges from curling.

“We left off here,” she said, pointing at the block near the train yard. “The shelter swears they saw someone matching Justin’s description asking about warehouse jobs.”

Clay leaned forward, dark circles under his eyes. “And the diner owner from Saturday—he said Justin paid in coins, looked hungry. That can’t be coincidence.”

Sheri nodded. “So he’s still around. We’re close.”

Scott slid in beside you, his thigh pressing against yours under the table. He tapped the map with the end of a spoon. “Then that’s where we start Friday. Back through the shelter, sweep the yard, talk to anyone new who’s been around.”

You noticed Tony sitting across from him, quiet, his cap shadowing his face. He hadn’t ordered anything—just a glass of water, untouched.

Jess glanced at him. “You good?”

Tony nodded once. “Yeah. Just… catching up.”

The tension settled, fragile but present. It was Clay who finally broke it.

“We’ve been doing this in pieces,” he said. “Like we’re afraid to admit what we’re really doing. We’re not just looking. We’re trying to save him. And we can’t half-ass that.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying we haven’t been serious?”

“I’m saying,” Clay replied evenly, “you joke around too much. Like this is some road trip instead of someone’s life.”

The words hit sharp.

Scott stiffened. “You think I don’t care? That I’m not here because I love him?” His hand brushed yours under the table, grounding himself. “If I stop joking, I’ll drown. That’s how I keep going.”

The booth went silent.

Sheri, ever the peacemaker, leaned in. “You’re both right. We need focus. But we also need to breathe. If Justin is out there, he’s scared and alone. We can’t tear each other apart before we even find him.”

Jess folded her arms, nodding. “She’s right. Disaster Club only works if we’re a club. Not six people waiting to implode.”

You added softly, “We’re all carrying something. But if we let that divide us, Justin doesn’t stand a chance.”

Clay looked away, tension still in his shoulders. Scott leaned back, crossing his arms, but he didn’t snap back.

Finally, Tony broke the silence. “I missed this. Even when it’s messy.”

That earned a faint smile from Jess. “Messy is kind of our brand.”

Sheri laughed lightly. “Team Disaster.”

Scott smirked, nudging you under the table. “Back in action.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “Stop flirting with me in front of the coffee.”

Jess groaned. “Gross.”

For a moment—just a moment—the booth felt lighter. Not healed. Not safe. But together.

By the time you and Scott made it back to the Bakers’ house, the November sky had darkened into a heavy indigo. The porch light buzzed faintly overhead as you stepped inside, the warmth of home wrapping around you like a blanket you didn’t know you’d needed.

Your parents were waiting in the living room, mugs of tea on the coffee table. They looked tired, but the kind of tired that came with worry—not apathy.

“Long day?” your dad asked as you set your bag down.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “We’ve been going over leads. Justin might still be in Oakland. We’re not sure.”

Scott lingered at the doorway, hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the wallpaper, but your mom’s soft smile pulled him in.

“Scott,” she said. “Come sit.”

He obeyed, lowering himself into the chair across from them. His shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the tea steam swirling in front of him.

Your mom reached forward, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to say anything. But if you want to, we’re listening.”

Scott hesitated. Then he let out a long breath. “It’s been a day. Since… my dad.” His voice faltered, but he pushed through. “I can’t go back there. I won’t.”

Your dad’s brow furrowed. “Did he hurt you?”

Scott shook his head. “Not physically. Not this time. But he would have. If I hadn’t stopped him. If—” He broke off, rubbing his eyes.

You reached over, placing your hand on his knee. “You don’t have to relive it right now.”

Scott looked at you, then at your parents. “I just… I need you to know I’m not staying here because it’s easy. I’m staying because it’s safe. And because I don’t have anywhere else.”

Silence filled the room.

Your dad leaned forward, his voice firm. “You have here. You’ll always have here. That’s not up for debate.”

Your mom nodded. “We meant what we said, Scott. You’re family now. We’ll fight for you like we fight for our own.”

Scott blinked hard, his jaw trembling. “Thank you.”

You sat closer, brushing your shoulder against his. “See? Told you they’d mean it.”

Your mom smiled softly, then turned to you. “And you. Are you holding up?”

You wanted to say yes. To pretend you weren’t breaking into a thousand sharp pieces every night before sleep. But instead, you said, “I’m trying.”

And for once, that felt honest enough.

Your dad stood, squeezing both your shoulders. “Trying is enough. For now.”

Later, upstairs in your room, Scott lay on his side while you brushed your teeth in the bathroom. When you came back, he was staring at the ceiling, eyes distant.

You crawled into bed beside him, resting your head on his chest.

“What’re you thinking?” you asked.

He kissed the top of your hair before answering. “That this feels like what a real family should be.”

You tightened your hold around him. “It is.”

The house had gone quiet for the night. The hum of the heater filled the silence, steady and low, like a heartbeat in the walls. You and Scott lay tangled on your bed, the faint glow of your desk lamp painting the room in soft amber.

Scott hadn’t said much since you’d come upstairs. He’d laughed at one of your dumb jokes, let you kiss the corner of his jaw, but his eyes kept drifting—off to some place you couldn’t follow.

Finally, you broke the silence. “You’re too quiet. What’s going on in that head?”

He exhaled slowly, his chest rising under your cheek. “I keep thinking about your parents. The way they… welcomed me. No questions. No judgment. Just warmth.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “Because that’s what family does.”

Scott shook his head. “Not mine. Not Richard. Not… after my mom died.” His voice cracked slightly. “She was the only one who made me feel like I didn’t have to earn love by performing. And when she was gone, it was just… rules and punishments and expectations. No softness. No space for mistakes.”

You reached up, brushing a strand of messy hair from his forehead. “She loved you. That’s real. And so do I.”

He blinked, his throat bobbing. “Do you think… do you think she’d be proud of me? Of us?”

Your heart squeezed. “I think she’d be over the moon that you found someone who sees you, really sees you. And she’d be furious at your dad for ever making you think you weren’t enough.”

Scott let out a shaky laugh. “That sounds like her. Protective, stubborn.”

“Sound familiar?” you teased gently.

He smiled for real this time, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “Yeah. You’ve got a little of her in you.”

You kissed him softly, lingering. When you pulled back, you whispered, “You don’t have to be scared of love, Scotty. Not here. Not with me. Not with my parents. You’re safe.”

He nodded, blinking fast, like he was fighting back tears. “I’m starting to believe that. Because every time I think I’m gonna fall apart… you catch me. They catch me.”

You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “And we always will.”

For the first time in days, his body seemed to let go of its tension. He pulled you closer, wrapping himself around you like he couldn’t stand an inch of space.

“Love you,” he murmured into your hair.

“Love you too,” you whispered back.

The night stretched quiet after Scott drifted off. His arm had fallen heavy across your waist, his breathing even, the rise and fall like an anchor keeping you steady. You carefully untangled yourself and slipped out of bed, padding softly into the hallway.

The house was dim, only the light above the kitchen sink left on. Mrs. Baker was sitting at the table with a cup of chamomile tea, hands wrapped around the mug like she was holding onto the warmth. She glanced up when you came down.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked gently.

You shook your head. “Not really. Thought maybe tea would help.”

She nodded toward the kettle. “It’s still warm.”

You poured yourself a mug and slid into the chair across from her. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then she broke the silence.

“You’ve been carrying a lot,” she said softly. “And not just since… Hannah. Even more now, with Scott here.”

Your throat tightened. “He needs me. And I need him. That’s… it.”

She smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed sharp. “I know that. I see how you look at him. It’s not just teenage infatuation. It’s something steadier. Scarier, maybe. But real.”

You looked down at your tea. “Sometimes it feels like too much. Like I’m not strong enough for both of us.”

Mrs. Baker reached across the table, laying her hand over yours. “You are. But you don’t have to be alone in it. That’s what family’s for. You’ve always had us—and now, so does Scott.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “I just… I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Her grip tightened. “Then don’t push yourself away from the people who are still here. Hold tighter. Even when it’s messy. Especially then.”

You nodded, a shaky breath leaving your chest. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too.”

The moment held, warm and grounding. Then—of course—your phone buzzed on the table.

You didn’t even think before turning it over, screen lighting up. The message preview glared at you in bold letters:

Scott: can’t stop thinking about riding you again rn ;)

Your eyes went wide.

Mrs. Baker leaned in just enough to read it. Her eyebrow shot up. “Charming.”

You nearly choked on your tea. “He—he’s kidding. He—he just… okay, no, he’s not kidding.”

Mrs. Baker’s smirk softened into something between amusement and warning. “You know, I’m choosing to believe you’re both responsible. But if he thinks flirting through emojis makes him irresistible, he’s wrong. He’s just… lucky you love him.”

Face burning, you groaned and buried your head in your arms. “Kill me now.”

She chuckled, standing up to squeeze your shoulder. “Go on. Text your boy back. But keep it PG while I’m still in the house.”

You peeked up, mortified. “Yes, ma’am.”

When she headed upstairs, you unlocked your phone, half laughing, half dying inside. You typed back quickly:

You: you’re gonna get me grounded, Reed. behave.

The dots appeared instantly.

Scott: never ;)

You sighed, smiling despite yourself.

Mrs. Baker’s words echoed in your mind: Hold tighter. Even when it’s messy.

And maybe that’s exactly what you were doing.

Chapter Text

Words~2044

—-

Friday morning hit like a hammer.
The whispers from yesterday hadn’t faded—they’d multiplied. As you and Scott walked into Liberty High together, side by side, you could feel the shift in the air. Heads turned. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Some students didn’t even try to hide their looks anymore.

It wasn’t just whispers now. It was comments.
“Lawsuit boy,” someone muttered under their breath as you passed.
“Guess his family wants a payout,” another snickered.
You ignored it, gripping the strap of your backpack tighter. Scott’s hand brushed yours once—his silent way of telling you not to bite, not to stop walking.

At his locker, the stares burned hotter. The words YOU’RE THE NEXT ONE still lingered in memory, even if the janitors had scrubbed it clean. He stood there a long moment before opening the door. Inside, taped sloppily to the back wall, was another note.

Scott pulled it out, eyes narrowing.
It read: “Lawyers won’t save you.”

Jess appeared at your side, breathless. “What is it now?”
Scott crumpled the note in his fist. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”
But his jaw was tight, his knuckles pale.

Clay leaned against the lockers, watching. “They’re getting bolder. They know the lawsuit makes them look bad, so they’re trying to scare us into shutting up.”

“Then we don’t shut up,” you said firmly, louder than you meant to. A few kids glanced over, but you didn’t care.

Scott slipped the note into his pocket, turning to face you. “You realize you just painted an even bigger target on yourself, right?”
You smirked despite the knot in your chest. “Guess we’ll be matching then.”

For a second, something softened in his eyes. Then he leaned in close enough so only you could hear.
“Damn it, Sam. You’re gonna make me fall for you all over again.”

Jess groaned. “Can you two not flirt in the middle of a crisis?”
You grinned. “Pretty sure that’s the only time we flirt.”

Scott chuckled, and for the first time that morning, the ice in your stomach thawed.

The office smelled faintly of burnt coffee and disinfectant. The blinds were half-closed, streaks of gray light cutting across Principal Bolan’s desk. You walked in with your parents at your side, Scott waiting in the hallway just outside like he’d promised.

Inside, Bolan sat stiffly behind his desk. Across from him stood Ms. Carlisle—the district’s lawyer—with her sleek black folder already open, as if she’d been waiting to pounce.

“Mr. and Mrs. Baker,” Bolan began, standing to shake their hands. “Thank you for coming in again. Please, sit.”

Your father didn’t move at first. “We’ve already said what we needed to say.”
Your mom placed a calming hand on his arm, and the three of you sat.

Ms. Carlisle clasped her hands on the folder, her voice clipped. “We want to avoid unnecessary escalation. Lawsuits are messy. Costly. They drag everyone through the mud, including you.”

Your mom’s voice was steady but sharp. “We’ve already been dragged through the mud. My daughter is dead. My son is harassed daily. What more do you think can be taken from us?”

Bolan interjected quickly, “What happened to Hannah was a tragedy—”

You cut him off, your chest tight. “Stop calling it a tragedy like it was an accident. It wasn’t. It happened because no one here listened.”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the ticking of Bolan’s desk clock.

Your father leaned forward. “You keep saying you want to ‘work with us.’ What does that even mean?”

Ms. Carlisle flipped open her folder, revealing a stack of documents. “We can establish a formal committee. New anti-bullying measures. Sensitivity training. Listening sessions with parents and students. Real reforms.”

Your mom narrowed her eyes. “And what about accountability? For the students who are still making this school a living hell? For the teachers and administrators who looked the other way?”

Bolan’s voice softened. “We’re dealing with those cases as they come up. Suspending Bryce from sports was one step. More will follow.”

You couldn’t help it—you scoffed. “And meanwhile, Scott’s locker gets vandalized with death threats, and Jess can’t even walk to her car without someone keying it. But sure, let’s talk about ‘sensitivity training.’”

Your dad slammed his hand down on the armrest of his chair. “We’re not backing down. Not this time. You can offer us all the committees and posters you want, but we’re not here for cosmetic changes. We’re here because silence killed my daughter. And it will kill more if we let it.”

Ms. Carlisle’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked at Bolan, then back at you all. “Then I suppose we’ll see you in court.”

Your mom stood first. “You will.”

The three of you walked out together, and the heavy door clicked shut behind you.

Scott was leaning against the lockers across the hall, anxiety written all over his face. When he saw you, he straightened immediately.
“Well?” he asked.

Your father answered for you. “They want us quiet. We said no.”

Scott’s hand brushed yours, steadying you. For the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe.

The school day had mostly emptied by the time you made it outside. The clouds hung low and heavy, rain threatening to break, the courtyard nearly deserted except for your group. Jess, Sheri, and Clay were already waiting under the old oak by the parking lot—your unofficial meeting spot since the whispers had started.

Scott walked beside you, his hand brushing yours, quiet until you reached them.

Jess took one look at your face. “Didn’t go well.”

You let out a sharp laugh. “They brought in the district lawyer. Tried to scare my parents into dropping it.”

Sheri frowned. “And?”

“And my dad basically told them to shove it.” You smirked faintly. “So yeah, we’re moving forward.”

Clay rubbed at his jaw, thoughtful. “That means things are going to get worse here. People will pick sides.”

“People already have,” you muttered. “They just whisper instead of shouting.”

The silence stretched until Scott finally broke it, glancing down at you with that spark in his eyes he always used when he was about to say something inappropriate.

“You know what’s funny?” he said. “How you always look like you’re about to explode when you get fired up like that. Tiny but nuclear.”

You turned sharply, glaring up at him. “Excuse me?”

Scott grinned. “I mean, I always have to look down at you. It’s like nature’s reminder that I’m the tall, broody one.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re literally seven centimeters taller than me. Congratulations. You won the genetic lottery by the length of a pencil.”

Clay snorted despite himself. Jess arched a brow. “Oh my God, is this what flirting looks like when you two are stressed?”

Scott smirked down at you. “Seven centimeters is a lot when you think about it.”

You groaned. “Aren’t you tired of always dropping the same sentences? Like, get a new bit, Reed.”

Sheri chuckled, shaking her head. “This is peak you two—turning trauma into foreplay.”

Jess added, “Honestly, I hate how it’s working. I feel less like crying now and more like gagging.”

Scott slipped his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer. “Mission accomplished.”

For a moment, the heaviness eased. The fight with the school wasn’t over. The whispers weren’t done. But under that tree, with Scott’s ridiculous grin and your friends close, you remembered what you were still fighting for.

The rain finally broke, a thin drizzle misting down through the branches of the oak. Clay tugged his hood up, pulling his backpack closer. Jess muttered something about her hair getting ruined, but she didn’t move. None of you did.

Because leaving meant going back to pretending everything was normal. And none of you wanted that right now.

“So what’s the plan?” Sheri asked finally, her voice soft but steady. “We can’t just… sit here waiting for the school to implode. We still have Justin out there.”

Jess pulled her phone out of her pocket, screen glowing faintly in the gray light. “I’ve been tracking shelters and food pantries near the train yard where that woman thought she saw him. If he’s still around, he’ll need to eat.”

Clay nodded. “I’ve already mapped out bus routes from Oakland. If he’s moving, it’ll be on foot or by bus.”

Scott shifted beside you, his arm still slung over your shoulders. “Then we start knocking on doors again this weekend. Diner, shelter, bus stops. Someone’s gotta remember him. He doesn’t exactly blend in.”

“Yeah, but we can’t keep burning out either,” Jess countered. “We’re no good to him if we collapse halfway through.”

“Speak for yourself,” Scott said, smirking. “I’m basically fueled by sarcasm and your boyfriend’s coffee stash.”

You elbowed him lightly, but your voice was serious. “Jess is right. We have to be smart about this. Justin wouldn’t want us falling apart trying to save him.”

Sheri looked down at the ground, tracing her sneaker against the wet pavement. “I just… I don’t want him to feel like we gave up on him. Like we’re just another group of people who left.”

You reached out and squeezed her hand. “We’re not leaving. Not him. Not each other.”

The drizzle picked up, pattering harder against leaves and pavement. Clay checked his watch. “We should head out before Bolan sends someone looking for us. He’s already on edge with the Bakers pushing the lawsuit.”

“Let him look,” Scott muttered. “We’re not the problem here.”

You tightened your arm around his waist, grounding him before his temper ran too far.

Jess slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Alright. Friday after school. We head back to Oakland. Together.”

Everyone nodded. No one argued.

And as you all split off into the rain, the weight of it settled in your chest. The school. The lawsuit. Bryce. Monty. The search for Justin.

So many battles at once.

But you weren’t fighting them alone.

By the time Scott dropped you both at the Bakers’ house, the rain had thickened into a steady sheet. The two of you darted from the car to the porch, shoes splashing in puddles, laughing breathlessly by the time the door shut behind you.

Inside, the house was warm, carrying the faint smell of tomato soup and grilled cheese. Mrs. Baker peeked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

“You’re soaked,” she said, though there was more fondness than scolding in her tone. “Go change before you catch something.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Scott said automatically, flashing a boyish grin. You could tell it earned him points.

Upstairs in your room, you tossed your wet hoodie into the hamper. Scott pulled his damp shirt off, tossing it onto your desk chair, then flopped backward onto your bed with a sigh.

Scott turned his head toward you. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes soft in the dim lamplight. “Sometimes I still hear my dad’s voice when I’m around them. Telling me I’m weak. Telling me I ruined everything. Makes me wonder if they’re right.”

You reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes. “They’re not right. You’re still here. Still fighting. Still showing up for the people who need you. That’s strength, Scotty.”

He swallowed hard. “You really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The rain against the window filled the silence, steady and calming. Then Scott sat up slowly, leaning forward until your foreheads touched.

“You know what I think?” he murmured.

“What?”

“I think if your mom had her way, she’d adopt me. She’d probably put me on a chore chart next to you.”

You laughed, the tension loosening in your chest. “Honestly, you’re not wrong. She likes you more than me.”

“Impossible,” he whispered, kissing the tip of your nose. “But good to know I’ve got backup.”

You smiled, pulling him close until the world shrank to the sound of his heartbeat. For the first time all week, the weight on your chest felt lighter.

Downstairs, you could hear dishes clinking and your father’s low voice. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Words~2278

___

The Bakers’ house felt different now. Not just because Scott had been living there for a little while, but because the walls themselves seemed to hold more warmth, more laughter, even in the quiet moments. The faint smell of cinnamon tea drifted from the kitchen, and a couple of candles flickered lazily on the coffee table downstairs—your mom’s way of pretending everything was normal.

Upstairs, your room didn’t carry the same heaviness it once did. Music hummed softly from the speaker—indie and acoustic, lyrics blurred into background noise. The world outside could have been burning, but here, inside these four walls, time had slowed down.

Scott was sprawled across your bed, hoodie discarded, hair messy in the way that made him look effortlessly good. His arm was hooked lazily around your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel his chest rising and falling against your back.

“You know,” Scott mumbled, voice still thick from a nap he’d half taken earlier, “your bed is a dangerous place.”

You turned your head toward him, smirking. “Dangerous how?”

“Dangerous like… I lay down for five minutes, and suddenly three hours are gone, and I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

You snorted. “Wow. That’s corny even for you.”

Scott grinned, leaning forward until the tip of his nose brushed your cheek. “Corny and irresistible. It’s my brand.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he teased, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you still let me sleep here, eat here, exist here.”

“You’re not exactly a stray cat I picked up,” you said, brushing a thumb against his jaw. “You’re… you.”

For once, Scott didn’t have a comeback. He just looked at you for a long moment, his blue eyes softer than usual, almost shy. Then, with a lopsided grin, he pulled you into a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t needy. It was the kind of kiss that made the outside world fade—warm, lazy, his hand cupping your cheek as if to say you’re safe with me, even here, even now.

You melted into it, letting your fingers curl in the fabric of his t-shirt, letting yourself forget about the lawsuit, about Bolan, about Monty’s sneer. Just Scott. Just you. Just this.

“You kiss like you’re trying to start a fire,” Scott whispered when he finally pulled back.

“Well,” you murmured against his lips, “I like it hot.”

Scott mock-gasped. “You’ve been hanging out with me too long. My bad jokes are contagious.”

You laughed, but before you could kiss him again, the faint creak of footsteps on the stairs broke the moment. You froze, listening. The sound passed, faded, and then disappeared.

Scott leaned his forehead against yours, smirking. “See? Even the house knows we’re up to no good.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

And he did.

The music kept humming, soft and steady, as you and Scott tangled closer on the bed. The blanket was twisted somewhere around your legs, shirts tossed carelessly to the floor. It wasn’t anything more than kissing—heated, yes, but still just two people clutching at each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Scott’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting you up into another kiss that stole the breath from your chest. He pulled back just enough to smirk. “You’re way too distracting.”

“You’re blaming me?” you whispered, laughing against his lips.

“Obviously.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, his fingers slipping into your hair. “You’re always the problem.”

You were too busy laughing into another kiss to notice the sound of footsteps. Too busy to hear the faint creak of the floorboards outside your door.

And then—

The doorknob turned.

The door swung open.

“Hey, boys, just wanted to let you know the others—”

Your dad’s voice stopped dead.

Scott jerked upright so fast he nearly fell off the bed, scrambling for the hoodie on the floor. You yanked the blanket up to your chin like it was armor.

Mr. Baker stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth half-open as though the rest of his sentence had fled the scene.

For a long second, no one moved.

Then Scott, halfway through tugging the hoodie over his head, croaked, “Uh—Mr. Baker. Sir. Good… afternoon?”

You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

Your dad blinked twice, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Right. I’ll just… pretend that didn’t happen.”

And with all the grace of a man fleeing a burning building, he shut the door behind him.

Silence.

You stared at Scott. Scott stared at you.

And then, almost at the same time, you both collapsed into horrified laughter.

“He’s going to banish me,” Scott groaned, flopping back onto the bed with one hand over his face. “I’m going to get exiled to, like, Alaska.”

“I’m going to have to make eye contact with him at dinner,” you said, muffled behind your hands.

“He’s never going to forgive me.”

“You’ll live,” you said, poking his chest. “Probably.”

“I should’ve locked the door,” Scott moaned.

“You should’ve,” you agreed. “But nooo, someone was too busy being charming.”

Scott peeked at you from between his fingers, smirking despite himself. “What can I say? I’m naturally distracting.”

You threw a pillow at his face.

He caught it, grinning. “Worth it.”

Downstairs, the kitchen was warm, the faint smell of cinnamon drifting from a candle Mrs. Baker had lit earlier. Mr. Baker stood at the counter, both hands braced against the cool granite, staring like he’d just walked through a warzone. His face was pale, and he muttered something under his breath you couldn’t quite make out.

Mrs. Baker turned from the oven, raising a brow. “Well?”

He blinked. “They were… engaged.”

“Engaged?” she repeated, lips twitching with amusement.

“You know what I mean,” he said, waving his hands vaguely toward the ceiling. “There were shirts on the floor. Blankets moving. Giggling. And limbs. A lot of limbs.”

Mrs. Baker covered her mouth to stifle the smile creeping across her face. “They’re teenagers, dear.”

“They’re shirtless teenagers,” he corrected, like the word carried legal weight. He dragged a hand down his face. “Do you have any idea how unprepared I was for that?”

“Probably about as unprepared as they were for you opening the door,” she replied lightly.

He groaned. “I think I saw Scott’s soul leave his body.”

Now she was openly laughing. “Well, I imagine yours almost did too.”

He slumped into one of the barstools, burying his head in his hands. “It’s just—he’s our son. Our son. And then there’s Scott, who—don’t get me wrong, I like him, he’s grown on me—but still. It’s—”

“Awkward?” she supplied.

“Painfully awkward,” he admitted. “Like, put-me-in-witness-protection awkward.”

Mrs. Baker walked over, set down the dish towel she’d been holding, and squeezed his shoulder gently. “They’re also two people in love. Would you rather your son not have that at all?”

He looked up at her, brow furrowed. “Of course not. I just didn’t need… visual confirmation.”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You weren’t exactly a saint at his age, if I recall.”

He groaned again, louder this time. “Don’t remind me.”

She leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Then let’s give them space. I’ll text Sam and let them know we’re grabbing dinner out. That way, we can all breathe.”

He hesitated, then nodded, the fight leaving him. “Bless you.”

Mrs. Baker slipped on her coat and grabbed her purse. “Besides,” she said gently, “you saw it too. The way Scott looks at him. Like he’s finally found something steady in the middle of all this chaos. After Hannah…” She trailed off, her voice softening.

Mr. Baker straightened, his expression shifting from embarrassment to something heavier. He swallowed hard. “I know. It’s a good thing. Him finding someone who makes him laugh again. And… who helps him carry this.”

She smiled, bittersweet. “Exactly.”

As they moved toward the door, he added in a mutter, “Still doesn’t mean I’m making eye contact at breakfast.”

Mrs. Baker laughed. “That’s fine. Coffee first, eye contact later.”

The front door clicked shut behind them, leaving the house to you and Scott—and the mountain of secondhand embarrassment they had just tried, and failed, to climb out from under.

By the time the doorbell rang, you and Scott had scrambled to make yourselves look halfway decent. Shirts back on, hair frantically finger-combed, blanket smoothed out on the bed like nothing had happened. Neither of you said it, but both knew you were still vibrating with the awkwardness of your dad catching you.

You opened the door. Jess was standing there with a smirk already cocked and ready, arms crossed. “Wow. You look flushed. Do we even wanna know why?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, stepping aside to let her in.

Scott trailed after, stretching like nothing was wrong. “Yeah, we were just… exercising. Very cardio-intensive.”

Jess snorted. “Gross. Try harder.”

Sheri arrived next, tossing her bag onto the couch. The moment she took one look at your red face and Scott’s smug grin, her jaw dropped. “No way. Did somebody’s dad—”

Scott, unable to resist, cut her off. “Yup. Full walk-in. No warning. I’ve never seen a man retreat so fast in my life.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Can we not?”

But it was too late. Jess was doubled over laughing, Sheri smacking her arm as if to keep herself from squealing.

“I swear to God,” Jess gasped between laughs, “this is the best thing I’ve heard all week. He literally caught you—like—mid-scene?”

“Not a scene,” you protested weakly. “Just—shut up.”

Sheri dropped onto the couch beside you, eyes gleaming. “Oh my God, I’m going to die for you. This is officially going into our permanent blackmail file.”

Scott leaned casually against the armrest, clearly basking in your pain. “Honestly, I’m honored. Not everyone gets to traumatize their boyfriend’s dad before dinner.”

“Stop enjoying this,” you hissed at him.

Jess wiped tears from her eyes, trying to breathe again. “Nope. This is canon now. Any time you get too cocky, I’m bringing this up.”

Clay finally walked in, late as usual, carrying a soda. He looked at all of you—Jess and Sheri wheezing with laughter, you looking like you wanted to sink into the floor, Scott grinning like a devil—and frowned. “What… what did I miss?”

Scott grinned wider. “Oh, nothing. Just me and Sam getting caught shirtless by Mr. Baker.”

Clay froze, eyes wide. Then he made a strangled noise, turned on his heel, and muttered, “I don’t need this information,” before heading for the kitchen.

That sent Jess and Sheri into another round of cackling.

You buried your face in a pillow. “I actually hate all of you.”

Jess patted your back. “No you don’t. Deep down, you’re thrilled we’ll never let you live this down.”

Sheri added, smirking, “Besides, the way Scott looked just now? Totally worth it.”

Scott blew you a kiss. You threw the pillow at his face.

Eventually, the laughter burned itself out. Jess wiped her eyes, still hiccupping every few seconds, while Sheri shook her head like she was trying to physically push the giggles out of her system.

Scott was still smirking, lounging with one arm draped over the back of the couch like he hadn’t just been roasted within an inch of his life. You, on the other hand, were still red, glaring at the floor as if it had personally betrayed you.

That’s when Jess clapped her hands together, tone shifting. “Okay, as fun as traumatizing X has been, we do have bigger things to deal with.”

Sheri leaned forward. “Yeah. We can’t forget why we’re here.”

Clay reemerged from the kitchen with his soda, muttering, “Thank God.” He slid into the armchair and pulled a folded-up map from his backpack. “I marked everywhere we’ve already checked in Oakland. If Justin’s still there, we must’ve missed him.”

The room settled. The joking atmosphere dimmed into something heavier but more focused.

Jess spread the map across the coffee table. “This is where the shelter worker swore they saw him. And this is the diner that said he looked hungry.” She tapped two spots circled in red ink. “He’s floating between places, probably avoiding anyone who might ask questions.”

Sheri added, “If he’s avoiding shelters now, he’s probably sleeping rough. Warehouses, abandoned houses, somewhere people won’t look twice.”

Scott shifted closer to you on the couch, his knee pressing into yours, his voice steady even though you could feel the tension in his body. “So we start again this weekend. Same plan. We divide the blocks and check every corner.”

Clay nodded. “We’ll need to be smarter this time. Justin doesn’t want to be found, which means if he sees us coming, he’s gone before we even blink.”

Jess sighed, raking a hand through her hair. “Then we make him see that we’re not here to drag him back. Just to keep him alive.”

The silence stretched. Everyone stared at the map, the weight of it pressing down.

You finally spoke, your voice quiet but certain. “We’re not giving up. Not until we know he’s safe.”

Scott squeezed your hand under the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Damn right.”

Jess leaned back, exhaling. “Okay. Disaster club, back in session.”

That earned a faint smile from everyone—even Clay.

For a moment, in the flickering candlelight your mom had lit earlier, it felt like more than just a meeting. It felt like resolve. Like no matter how messy, how exhausting, how terrifying—none of you were in this alone.

Chapter Text

Words~2885
___

You almost ignored it.
Unknown number. No voicemail transcription. And lately, nothing good had come from strangers.

But the timestamp caught you—Friday afternoon, just past lunch. Something about it made you swipe play.

The voice was soft, a little unsure.
“Hi, um… I hope this is still the right number. My name’s Kendra. I work at a youth homelessness center in Oakland called Bridge House. One of our regulars saw a flyer you posted—about Justin Foley. I’m not totally sure it was him, but the kid who came in looked scared. Thin. Had a small cross tattoo on his wrist. He didn’t stay long, but he left behind a hoodie with the name ‘Jensen’ written inside. If this means anything to you… I thought you should know. Call me back.”

Your stomach dropped. By the time the message ended, your hands were already shaking, your thumb fumbling for the dial-back button.

It rang once. Twice. Then—
“Bridge House, this is Kendra.”

You swallowed. “This is—uh—about the message you left. Justin Foley. The hoodie.”

“Oh. You got it,” she said, sounding both relieved and tired. “Yeah, I don’t want to get your hopes up too high, but… it really did seem like him. He was here Tuesday night. Left before morning. Didn’t want to talk much.”

“Where is he now?” Your voice cracked.

Her pause was heavy. “I don’t know. But I think he’s still nearby.”

Your free hand curled tight against your knee. “Thank you. For calling. For not just letting it go.”

“Of course,” she said. “If you want to come by, I’ll be here all weekend. You can see for yourself.”

When the call ended, you sat frozen for a second. Then you were on your feet, already reaching for your phone again.

Scott picked up on the second ring. “Hey, pretty boy. You miss me already?”

“Scott.” Your voice was sharp, breathless. “It’s Justin. Someone saw him.”

The joke died on his end instantly.

“What? Where?”

“Oakland. A place called Bridge House. He left behind Clay’s old hoodie. With his name in it.”

Silence. Then Scott’s voice came back, low but steady. “Text the others. Meet at the bleachers in ten. We’re not wasting time.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’ll be there.”

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, the weight in your chest shifted—still heavy, but moving forward.

The sky had already started bruising into gray by the time you got there. The infamous Liberty High bleachers—the place that had become your unofficial war room—looked the same as always: cold metal, chipped paint, half-hearted graffiti. But today, they carried a different weight.

Jess was already pacing in the gravel, her arms folded tight across her chest. Sheri sat on the bottom row, legs bouncing, breath quick like she’d sprinted to get there. Clay stood off to the side, hands buried in his pockets, staring at the ground.

Scott leaned against the railing, jaw tight, eyes flicking to you the moment you arrived.

You didn’t bother with preamble. You pressed play on your phone, the voicemail speaker crackling into the air.

Kendra’s voice filled the silence. Each word seemed to echo louder than the last: thin…left behind a hoodie with the name “Jensen” inside…

No one spoke until the message ended.

Jess stopped pacing. Her eyes were wide, unblinking. “Holy shit.”

Clay turned sharply, his hand raking down his face. “That’s him. It has to be him. The hoodie—there’s no way it’s not.”

Sheri’s voice trembled. “He left behind Clay’s hoodie. That’s… he wanted someone to find it. There’s no other reason.”

You nodded, throat tight. “She said it was Tuesday. That’s three days ago. He could still be there.”

Scott pulled his keys from his jacket like the decision was already made. “Then we don’t waste another second. We go now.”

“Wait,” Sheri said, lifting a hand. “You want us to skip out of school and just drive straight to Oakland?”

“You’d come too,” Scott shot back. “We all would.”

“I’m not saying no,” she muttered quickly. “I’m saying we need a plan. He’s scared. If we corner him—”

“We’re not cornering him,” Scott said. His eyes met yours. “We’re bringing him home.”

Jess stepped forward, voice steadier than you expected. “If there’s even a chance… we have to try. We owe him that.”

Clay stayed quiet a moment, his thumb pressed hard into his palm. Then he looked up, face pale but certain. “If he’s hurting this bad, he doesn’t have time for us to debate it. We go.”

The wind cut sharp between the bleachers, rattling the metal like bones.

Scott looked around at each of you, his voice quieter now but firm. “Team Disaster. One more road trip.”

You met his gaze. “Always.”

And just like that, it was decided.

By 4:15, Scott’s Audi was loaded up like a clown car of nerves and caffeine. You slid into the passenger seat, Scott behind the wheel, his hand brushing your thigh just once before gripping the gearshift. Jess and Clay squeezed into the backseat, immediately starting some kind of silent snack war with a half-crushed bag of pretzels.

Tony’s Mustang pulled in behind you, Sheri waving from the passenger side. The two cars idled at the edge of the Liberty High lot like soldiers before a mission.

Scott revved the engine, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Disaster Club, Oakland edition. Everyone got their emotional support snacks?”

Jess leaned forward between the seats, deadpan. “We’re going to find a missing person, not audition for The Fast and the Furious.”

“Speak for yourself,” Scott shot back, flashing you a grin. “I’m always auditioning.”

You smirked. “Yeah. For ‘Most Dramatic Entrance.’”

Clay muttered, “You win that award daily.”

Jess groaned. “I can’t believe I’m stuck in this car with a married couple.”

Scott clutched his chest dramatically. “Married? Babe, we skipped, like, four rom-com plot points. At least let me propose with a vending machine ring first.”

“Focus, Reed,” Jess snapped.

The laughter faded into a more comfortable quiet. Rain began pelting the windshield in steady sheets, and the squeak of the wipers filled the silence. The road stretched long and gray ahead, Oakland an hour away, but the drive felt endless.

Fifteen minutes in, Jess broke the quiet. “So we just show up? Ask around?”

You pulled the folded voicemail transcript from your pocket. “Kendra said she’d meet us at Bridge House. It’s a drop-in center. She’ll point us in the right direction.”

“And if he’s already gone?” Clay asked, voice flat.

“Then we keep looking,” Scott said without hesitation, eyes fixed on the road. “Same as we’ve been doing.”

No one argued.

The hum of tires on wet asphalt filled the car. For a while, that was enough.

Then Scott cleared his throat. “Do you think he’ll still be brunette ?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Justin. You remember? That stupid shampoo-commercial hair. Maybe he went gritty and dyed it.”

You snorted. “Bleach tips. Very 2007.”

Scott nodded solemnly. “I’m just saying—if he shows up with frosted hair and a leather jacket, we act cool.”

Jess groaned. “Can you two not flirt through every crisis?”

You leaned your head back, smirking. “We’re multi-talented.”

Clay muttered, “I’m pretending I don’t hear this.”

Scott shot you a sideways glance, softer now. “Jokes aside… I’d hug him anyway. However he looks. However he smells.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

The Audi surged forward, wipers squeaking, Oakland drawing closer with every mile.

By the time you hit Oakland city limits, the sky had gone from gray to bruised purple, the kind of dusk that made every streetlight buzz like a warning. Rain slicked the pavement, casting long reflections of neon signs and blurred brake lights.

Tony’s Mustang led the way now, guiding Scott down a narrow side street lined with payday loan offices, shuttered laundromats, and corner bodegas still glowing faintly against the dark. He slowed in front of a squat brick building with a flickering bulb above the door.

A paper sign, taped lopsided to the window, read: Bridge House Drop-In — All Are Welcome.

“This is it,” you said quietly.

Scott cut the engine. The sudden silence pressed heavy against the rain. You all climbed out, Jess pulling her hood up, Sheri clutching her jacket tighter.

Under the crooked awning stood a woman in her late twenties, rain beading on her jacket. Tired eyes, but kind.

“You must be the ones looking for Justin,” she said.

“That’s us,” you said. “Kendra?”

She nodded, ushering you all inside. The door groaned shut behind you, blocking out the rain.

The space smelled faintly of coffee, damp wool, and too much cleaning solution. Rows of battered couches lined the walls. A vending machine hummed in the corner, beside a table stacked with folded blankets, donated coats, and bins of socks.

“He came in Tuesday night,” Kendra said, gesturing toward a threadbare chair in the corner. “Didn’t say much. Ate two granola bars, sat there for an hour, then left before morning.”

Scott stepped closer. “Was he… okay?”

Kendra hesitated. “He looked thin. Scared. Like someone who hasn’t felt safe in a long time. Wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Said he didn’t want to be found. That people got hurt when he stayed too long.”

Your chest twisted.

“He left this behind,” she added, pulling a ziplock bag from behind the counter. Inside was a worn Liberty High hoodie. Faded letters. Frayed cuffs. A name scrawled inside the tag: Jensen.

Clay froze. His hand trembled as he reached for it. “This was mine,” he whispered.

Kendra’s voice softened. “Then it’s him. I’m sure of it. One of our volunteers said they saw someone who looked like him near 45th and Broadway yesterday morning. I can’t promise he’s still there, but… it’s the best lead I can give.”

Jess spoke first. “That’s something. That’s more than we’ve had in weeks.”

Scott nodded firmly. “We’ll take it.”

Kendra gave you a long look. “I know you want to help him. Just… be careful. Kids who come through here, they’re hurting in ways you don’t always see. Sometimes even love feels dangerous to them.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Thank you. For calling. For not letting this go.”

She smiled faintly. “Not everyone’s willing to come looking. That matters.”

Outside, the rain had eased to a drizzle. You all huddled under the awning, Clay still clutching the hoodie like a lifeline.

Scott’s jaw was set. “He’s here. Somewhere close. We’re not leaving until we find him.”

And for the first time in weeks, you believed him.

The rain had turned into a mist, the kind that clung to your hair and jacket without you even noticing until it was already soaking through. Oakland at night felt alive in a way Liberty never did—neon signs buzzing, cars growling down wet streets, strangers moving fast with their heads ducked against the cold.

You all stood outside Bridge House under the awning, the hoodie still folded in Clay’s hands. The group huddled close, breath visible in the damp air.

“So,” Jess said, pulling her hood tighter. “We don’t just… go home after that, right?”

“Hell no,” Scott said immediately. “If he was seen near Broadway yesterday, he’s still around. We start now.”

“Start what?” Clay asked. “Walking the city until we trip over him?”

“Split up,” Sheri suggested. “Cover more ground. Ask shopkeepers, bus drivers, anyone. We’ll meet back here in two hours.”

Tony nodded. “I’ll take Clay. We can check along Broadway, the shelters closer to the station.”

Jess pointed between you and Scott. “Then you two go east, toward the gas stations and that old transit stop. Sheri and I can sweep the smaller streets.”

Scott grinned faintly. “As long as I get to keep my favorite co-pilot.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

“Keep your phones on,” Sheri said, serious now. “If anyone sees anything, we call right away. No wandering off alone.”

Everyone nodded.

As the group scattered into the night, Scott adjusted his hood and slipped his hand into yours. His palm was warm despite the chill.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“No,” you admitted. “But I’d rather do this than sit back at home pretending he isn’t out here.”

“Exactly,” Scott said. His eyes caught the streetlight, a flicker of determination burning there. “Let’s go find him.”

The two of you stepped off the curb and into the wet streets of Oakland, the city humming around you like a maze waiting to be searched.

The streets east of Bridge House were a mix of old brick storefronts and half-closed convenience stores, neon signs glowing faint against the drizzle. You and Scott walked side by side, your shoes scuffing wet pavement. The rain had slowed, but puddles reflected headlights and passing taillights like fractured mirrors.

The first stop was a gas station, the kind with flickering lights and a single bored cashier behind bulletproof glass. Scott held the door for you, his hood pulled low. The warmth inside was stale, heavy with coffee grounds and motor oil.

“Hey,” Scott started, pulling out his phone to show the clerk a photo of Justin. “We’re looking for someone. Might’ve come by—skinny kid, kind of rough, brownish hair. Small cross tattoo on his wrist.”

The man squinted at the screen, then at you two. “Lots of kids come through. Can’t say for sure. Sorry.”

“Thanks anyway,” you said, heart sinking a little.

Back outside, Scott shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. “It’s like we’re chasing a ghost.”

“He’s not a ghost,” you said firmly. “He’s out here. We just have to be in the right place at the right time.”

Scott glanced at you, lips twitching into the faintest smile. “You sound like you actually believe that.”

“I do. Because I have to.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, softly: “That’s why I love you.”

The next stop was an old transit shelter. Its glass panels were smeared with graffiti, one of the benches missing entirely. A man in a raincoat sat slumped near the edge, muttering to himself. Scott approached carefully, keeping his voice low.

“Hey, sorry to bother you. We’re looking for someone—” He pulled out the photo again.

The man blinked, then nodded slowly. “Saw him. Couple nights back. Sat right where you’re standing. Didn’t talk to nobody. Left when the cops rolled through.”

Your chest tightened. “Where’d he go?”

The man shrugged. “North, maybe. Toward the train tracks.”

You thanked him and stepped back into the night. Scott immediately grabbed your hand again. “That’s something. That’s the first real lead we’ve had in days.”

You nodded, though your throat felt tight. “North. Train tracks. He’s close.”

Scott looked down at you, rain clinging to his lashes. “We’re gonna find him, Sam. Even if it takes all night.”

For a moment, you just stood there, listening to the hum of the city, the rumble of a passing train, and Scott’s steady voice grounding you in the storm.

By the time you and Scott made it back to Bridge House, the streetlights were buzzing overhead and the rain had started again in fine, slanting sheets. Your hoodie was damp, your shoes squelching with every step. But your chest was alive with something you hadn’t felt in a while: direction.

Inside, the others were already waiting. Jess sat cross-legged on one of the couches, tapping her nails against a soda can. Sheri leaned against the vending machine, arms folded. Clay was at the table with Tony, Justin’s old hoodie still cradled in his lap like it might vanish if he let it go.

Scott shook out his jacket and dropped into the chair beside you. “We got something.”

Jess perked up immediately. “Yeah?”

“A guy at the transit shelter said he saw Justin a couple nights ago. Alone. He left when cops showed up and headed north, toward the train tracks.”

Sheri’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s huge. That’s the best lead we’ve had.”

Tony nodded slowly. “We checked the diner on 45th. The waitress swore she saw someone matching him come in Wednesday night. Paid with coins. Didn’t look anyone in the eye.”

Clay looked down at the hoodie. “It’s him. It has to be.”

Silence stretched for a moment, heavy but charged.

Jess finally spoke, softer than usual. “So we’ve got a trail. Shelter Tuesday. Diner Wednesday. Tracks maybe after that. He’s moving, but he’s still here.”

Scott leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Then we split up tomorrow. Half hit the tracks. Half check shelters further north. He can’t disappear if we cover both.”

Sheri frowned. “We’ve already been chasing ghosts for weeks. What if we’re too late?”

You reached across the table, covering her hand with yours. “Then we keep going anyway. Until we know for sure. He deserves at least that much.”

Clay’s voice cracked when he finally spoke again. “He deserves more than that. He deserves a chance.”

Everyone went quiet, because you all knew he was right.

Scott broke the silence by pulling the map toward him and uncapping a marker. “Then tomorrow we hunt. And this time, we don’t stop.”

No one argued.

Outside, the rain hammered harder, but inside the room, for the first time in a long while, there was a plan.

Chapter Text

Words~2542

—-

You’d been staring out the passenger window of Scott’s grey Audi for the last ten minutes, watching Oakland’s skyline dissolve into streets that felt like another world. The drizzle made everything blur—the neon signs, the cracked sidewalks, the hollow-eyed figures huddled under bus stops. This wasn’t the Oakland people posted on Instagram. This was the part no one claimed.

Scott’s hand was on the wheel, knuckles pale. “This is it,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His expensive car looked absurd rolling down streets lined with boarded-up storefronts and rusted chain-link fences, but he drove like he was threading a needle.

Ahead of you, Tony’s Mustang slowed, its taillights glowing through the mist. He pulled over in front of an abandoned liquor store, plywood covering the windows like scar tissue. Scott parked just behind, the Audi’s engine humming with quiet defiance against the silence of the block.

Everyone climbed out at once—doors slamming, rain tapping down harder now. Jess pulled her hood up, Clay shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and Sheri wrapped her arms tight around herself as though bracing for something worse than cold.

Tony leaned against the Mustang, arms crossed. “This is the block,” he said.

Scott glanced up at the warehouse across the street, its windows shattered, its paint peeling into flakes that looked like ash. “Looks like hope comes here to die,” he muttered.

“Scott,” you warned.

He sighed. “Sorry. Just… it’s bad.”

Sheri shifted uneasily. “Kendra said he was spotted going into that building three nights in a row. No shelters. No clinics. Just here.”

The drizzle thickened, drops glinting in the flickering streetlight. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, glass broke.

Jess tightened her jaw. “Then let’s not waste time.”

You glanced around the group. Six of you. Tired, scared, but here. Always here.

Scott stepped closer, his arm brushing yours. His voice dropped low. “You ready?”

You swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

He nodded once. “Good. Means you’re walking in honest.”

Tony pushed off the Mustang, leading the way. “We go together. Nobody splits.”

The warehouse door loomed ahead, warped and rusted.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you crossed the cracked pavement with the others, Scott’s presence steady at your side.

And when Tony pushed the door open, it groaned like it was warning all of you not to step inside.

The warehouse groaned with the sound of wind pushing through broken windows. Flashlight beams quivered against graffiti-tagged walls, cutting across rusted machinery and broken glass. The air was foul—smoke, piss, mildew—but it was the sight in the corner that hollowed your chest.

A mattress.

A mound of threadbare blankets.

And beneath them, a boy you all knew.

“Justin,” Clay breathed.

The figure stirred, jerking upright. Pale. Gaunt. Hair matted, hoodie hanging off his frame like it belonged to someone else. His eyes—wide, bloodshot—flinched against the light. He scrambled backward until his spine slammed the wall.

“Get away!” he rasped, hands raised. “Don’t touch me!”

You froze, palms out. “Justin—it’s me. It’s us.”

His eyes darted wildly, like he was trapped. “You’re not real. You’re just—you’re ghosts.”

“It’s Clay,” Clay said gently, his voice shaking. “It’s me. You know me.”

Justin’s chest heaved. His gaze flicked, then broke away in shame.

Jess crouched low, steady but trembling. “Justin. It’s Jess.”

His whole body seized at her name. He dropped his head into his hands. “Don’t—don’t say it like that. Don’t… don’t pretend like I deserve that.”

Scott crouched beside you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “You’re safe now. No one’s here but us.”

Justin let out a jagged laugh. Bitter. Empty. “Safe? I haven’t been safe since her party. Since I stood in that hallway and heard her scream—and I didn’t stop him.” His voice broke, raw and splintered. “I let Bryce hurt her. I knew. I fucking knew—and I froze.”

Jess’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. Her knuckles turned white against her jeans.

“I ran,” Justin whispered, voice dissolving. “And then I kept running. Because I don’t deserve to stop. Not after that. Not after what I saw.”

The silence swelled until it felt unbearable.

Then Jess moved.

“Justin,” she said, her voice both fragile and hard as steel. “Look at me.”

He shook his head, trembling.

“Look at me,” she repeated, louder this time.

His eyes lifted slowly. Haunted. Ashamed.

“You’re right,” she said, tears streaming. “You didn’t stop him. And I hated you for it. For so long, I hated you so much it ate me alive.”

Justin’s face crumpled.

“But I also remember the morning after,” Jess said, her voice shaking but clear. “You showed up at my house, and you cried harder than I did. You broke up with Bryce in front of everyone. You were the only one who even tried to carry what he did. You thought you could make it right—even when nothing could.”

Justin let out a strangled sob. He pressed his fists against his temples like he could beat the guilt out of his own skull.

“You think I don’t still hurt?” Jess whispered. “I do. Every single day. But I’m still here. And if I can still be here, then so can you.”

“I don’t deserve to come back,” Justin croaked. “I’m still that coward.”

“No,” Jess said firmly, wiping her face. “You’re not.”

The air in the warehouse felt heavy, like it pressed down on all of you the longer Justin shook and muttered against the wall. His eyes darted everywhere but yours, frantic, ashamed.

“I don’t deserve—” he started, voice hoarse, “—to be here. To have you even looking at me. I let him. I let Bryce. And I didn’t stop it. I’m not—” His voice cracked. “I’m not one of you.”

The silence after those words felt unbearable.

Scott finally shifted beside you. He crouched low, leveling himself with Justin, his face tense but his voice steady.

“You think you’re not one of us?” Scott said quietly. “You’ve been one of us longer than anyone. You just forgot.”

Justin’s bloodshot eyes flickered up, confused.

Scott drew in a shaky breath. “Do you remember when people first found out? About me. About me and him.” He tilted his chin toward you, and your chest squeezed.

Justin blinked but didn’t answer.

“The team didn’t care that much that I wasn’t straight,” Scott said. “Oh, they joked. They whispered. But the second they found out who I was with? That’s when it got bad. Not because I was dating a guy. But because it was Hannah Baker’s little brother.”

Justin’s throat bobbed. His eyes glistened.

“They called it pathetic. They called me desperate. They said I’d ruined myself chasing after the ‘freak’s brother.’” Scott’s jaw tightened. “They didn’t just treat me like I was less—they treated him like he was invisible. Or worse.”

Your own fists clenched. You remembered. Those stares in the hallways. Those muttered words. Freak. Shadow. Dead weight.

Scott’s voice wavered, but he didn’t stop. “They said Hannah was crazy, that his sister was drama, and they thought me dating him made me just as bad. Do you know how many people told me to cut it off? To save face? Everyone.”

Justin’s breath came unsteady now.

“Everyone except you,” Scott said. His voice cracked then, raw. “You didn’t laugh. You didn’t push me away. You didn’t make me feel like I was betraying the team. You were the only one who didn’t make me feel ashamed of loving him. The only one who told us we weren’t crazy. That what we had was real.”

Justin’s face crumpled.

Scott leaned closer, his tone urgent now. “You told him—” he nodded at you—“that it wasn’t wrong. That it wasn’t disgusting. You told him not to waste it. Do you even remember that?”

You did. The memory burned bright in your chest. Justin’s smirk, the way he’d said, ‘Wait—you mean Reed? That guy? The one who called your music trash last week? Damn. Okay. Don’t waste it.’ The first time you’d felt like maybe it wasn’t something to hide.

Tears blurred your vision as Scott’s voice broke again. “You didn’t just support me. You supported us. When everyone else treated us like a joke, you made us feel like we weren’t. You were our biggest supporter, Justin. You made me believe I wasn’t an idiot for choosing him. And you made him believe he was worth choosing.”

Justin’s entire body shook. His hands covered his face, but his sobs broke through the cracks of his fingers.

Scott didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Justin and pulling him in hard against his chest. Justin resisted for half a second—then collapsed into him, shaking, crying into Scott’s shoulder.

You moved in too, pressing close, wrapping your arms around both of them until you were a knot of shaking, breathing bodies on the warehouse floor.

“You’re family,” Scott whispered fiercely into Justin’s hair. “Not because you’re perfect. Not because you never messed up. But because when no one else stood with us, you did. And that still matters. It matters more than you think.”

Justin’s voice broke through the sobs, muffled against Scott’s chest. “I don’t deserve you saying that. I don’t deserve any of this.”

“Yes, you do,” you whispered, tears burning down your cheeks. “Because you gave it to us first. You made us believe we weren’t wrong to love each other. That’s something we can never forget.”

Justin clutched at both of you, as if terrified you’d disappear if he let go.

And in that ruined warehouse, surrounded by shadows and broken glass, the truth cut sharper than anything else:

He wasn’t gone.
He wasn’t alone.
He was still yours.

Justin was still folded into Scott’s chest, his whole body trembling, when you finally shifted forward. You placed a hand gently on Scott’s shoulder, then looked at Justin, who barely managed to glance up at you through bloodshot eyes.

“Justin,” you said softly.

He shook his head immediately. “Don’t. Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m worth—”

“Like you matter?” you interrupted, your voice cracking. “Because you do. You always did.”

He tried to look away, but you reached out, catching his wrist and holding it with a kind of desperate tenderness.

“Do you know what it felt like,” you said, your throat tight, “to be the joke of the entire school? To walk the halls every day and hear people whisper ‘freak’s brother,’ or worse? Hannah was still alive back then, and they already treated her like garbage. Like she was disposable. And to them, I was just her shadow. A punchline. Someone who didn’t belong.”

Your voice trembled, but you pushed on.

“Sheri and Jess—they were there for me. They were my lifelines. But outside of them? It was you, Justin. You were one of the only people who didn’t make me feel like I was some kind of mistake. You didn’t just support me and Scott—you believed in us. When the entire school thought it was the weirdest, dumbest thing in the world, you were the one who told me not to hide. Not to give up.”

Justin blinked at you, tears streaking down his dirt-stained cheeks.

“You have no idea how much that mattered,” you whispered. “You have no idea how many nights I held onto those words when I thought I couldn’t do it anymore. When I thought maybe they were right—that maybe I was nothing.”

Scott’s hand found yours, squeezing tight.

“You gave me a reason to believe I could be loved,” you said. “You told me I wasn’t crazy for falling for him. That I wasn’t wrong. And I’ve carried that with me every single day since. You think you don’t matter, Justin? You mattered to me. You still do.”

The room went quiet, except for the sound of Justin’s uneven breaths. His lips parted, like he wanted to argue, but no words came.

Jess sniffed from the corner, wiping at her eyes. “He’s right, Justin. You always had more of a heart than you gave yourself credit for. Even when you messed up, it was still there.”

Sheri nodded, her own voice soft. “You were one of the first people who made space for him to be himself. That’s not nothing. That’s everything.”

Justin covered his face with both hands, his voice breaking into the dark. “Why are you all still here? Why are you even—after everything—why are you still fighting for me?”

You leaned in, not letting him hide.

“Because you fought for us when no one else would.”

The silence in the warehouse stretched long and heavy. Justin’s breath rattled through his chest as if every inhale cost him something. His hands were still over his face, but you could see the damp trails of tears seeping between his fingers.

Scott stayed crouched beside him, solid and unmovable, like he was ready to hold Justin up as long as it took. You stayed close too, your hand still lightly gripping Justin’s wrist. Jess and Sheri hovered nearby, their eyes never leaving him.

Finally, Justin lowered his hands. His eyes were red, his face blotchy, but there was something softer in them now. Something cracked open.

“I can’t…” His voice faltered. “I can’t keep running. I thought… I thought maybe if I disappeared, none of you would have to deal with me anymore. That maybe it’d be better.”

Jess knelt down on his other side, her voice steady but gentle. “It’s not better, Justin. You disappearing was worse. Every day, wondering if you were even alive—it was hell. You don’t get to erase yourself from us.”

Sheri nodded firmly. “You’re not a ghost. You’re here. Right here. And that means we don’t give up.”

Justin’s lip trembled. “But where do I even go? I don’t… I don’t have a place.”

The group went quiet for a beat. Everyone’s eyes flickered to one another, uncertain. And then, Clay stepped forward.

He cleared his throat, his voice a little shaky but resolute. “You come with me.”

Justin looked up, startled. “What?”

Clay’s eyes didn’t waver. “You stay at my place. My parents… they’ll understand. They’ll want to help. You don’t need to figure it all out right now. You just need somewhere safe. So—stay with me.”

Justin blinked at him, completely thrown. “Clay… after everything I did to you…”

“You’re my friend,” Clay said simply. “That never went away. Not even when I wanted it to.”

Scott let out a shaky laugh through his own tears. “Damn, Jensen. Way to swoop in with the hero move.”

Jess smiled through her crying. “That’s Clay. He doesn’t know how not to care.”

Justin’s hands shook, but when you extended yours again, he took it this time. His grip was weak, but it was there.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll go. Just… don’t let go, okay? Not this time.”

Scott’s arm was already steady around him. “We won’t. Not ever.”

Slowly, with Scott and Clay on either side, Justin let himself be pulled to his feet. His legs wobbled, but he stayed standing, leaning heavily into both of them.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t running.

And for the first time, he wasn’t alone

Chapter Text

Words~2737

—-

The spring sun stretched long shadows across Liberty High’s baseball field, the last glow of daylight catching on the chain-link fences. Practice was done; bags zipped, bats clattered, voices drifted off toward the parking lot.

Scott stayed behind, dragging his cleats against the dirt like he could grind down the nerves eating at him. He’d been carrying this weight for months — the secret pressed against his ribs, begging to get out. He wasn’t sure if today was the day. But then he heard Monty’s voice.

“Yo,” Monty snickered from his perch against the fence, “Reed’s sister’s at it again. Posted another Swiss princess pic. Ski lodge, fireplace, fancy wine glass she’s not even old enough to hold.”

Bryce smirked, leaning against the rail beside him. “Switzerland’s treating her good, huh? How old is she now?”

“Sixteen,” Monty said, grinning like it was the punchline of a joke. “But you wouldn’t know it from those legs. She’s built like she skipped two grades.”

Scott’s grip on his glove tightened until the leather creaked.

Bryce gave a low whistle. “Damn. Summer’s coming up too. She’ll be back in town soon, right?”

“Yeah,” Monty laughed darkly. “Bet she’ll be bored out of her mind. Rich girls always are. Probably aching for some fun.”

Scott’s stomach turned.

Monty leaned closer to Bryce, grinning. “Bet she’s already practiced—fancy school, Euro boys. Think she’s a freak like Hannah was?”

Bryce chuckled, meaner now. “Maybe she’s easier. With that family? Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Scott’s fists curled, breath sharp.

Monty pushed it further, smirking like he was untouchable. “Yo, what if she ends up like Hannah? We could find out. I’ll take her first, you can clean up after.”

Bryce’s smirk grew wider. “Or we swap. Turn it into a team exercise.”

Their laughter scraped across the field, mean and hollow.

Scott’s vision went hot. His chest thundered. Every muscle in his body screamed to move. Before he even realized, he was walking—no, storming—toward them.

“Hey.”

His voice cracked the air like a bat hitting a ball.

They stopped laughing, caught, though Monty’s smirk never fully fell.

“Captain,” Monty said lazily. “You good?”

Scott’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “I need to tell you something.”

Bryce raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering with interest. “Go on.”

Scott’s heart pounded so loud he could barely hear himself, but the words came anyway.

“I’ve been seeing someone.”

Monty’s grin sharpened. “Ooooh, who’s the lucky girl?”

Scott shook his head, steady now. “It’s not a girl.”

The silence cracked like a whip.

Bryce frowned, leaning forward. “Then who?”

Scott swallowed, chest heaving. “I’m dating someone. And it’s Hannah Baker’s brother.”

The words hit the ground like thunder.

For a beat, both Monty and Bryce just stared, frozen. Then Monty broke first, cackling. “Wait—no way. You’re serious? You’re screwing Baker’s little brother? The freak? The shadow of the girl who—”

“Yeah,” Scott snapped, voice sharp as steel. “I’m serious.”

Bryce scoffed, shaking his head slowly. “You’re throwing away your whole future for that? For him?”

Monty barked out another laugh, cruel and loud. “Our captain’s lost his damn mind. No wonder you’re distracted. No wonder you’ve been soft lately. You’re playing house with the kid everyone clowns on.”

Scott’s face burned. His hands shook with rage. But instead of shrinking, he stood taller.

“Believe whatever the hell you want,” he said. “But I’m done lying.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving their poisoned laughter echoing across the diamond behind him.

The hallways inside Liberty High smelled faintly of sweat and metal polish, the quiet hum of evening settling in after practice. Most of the team had already cleared out; only the thud of a stray locker door echoed somewhere down the row.

Scott leaned against his own locker, chest heaving, palms pressed flat to the cool metal like it might steady him. His mind replayed Monty’s laughter, Bryce’s scoff, the words about Zoey still cutting deeper than anything they’d said about him. His stomach churned like he’d swallowed fire.

“Scott?”

Your voice came soft, cautious.

He looked up and saw you standing at the end of the row. For a second, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His throat felt raw.

You stepped closer, slow like approaching a spooked animal. “What happened?”

Scott dropped his head against the locker with a dull thunk. “I told them.”

Your heart stopped. “Told them… about us?”

He nodded once, still not looking at you. “About you. About me. About everything.”

You swallowed, nerves buzzing. “And…?”

He gave a bitter laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Monty laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Bryce called me insane. Said I’m throwing away my future. Said scouts don’t want a distraction. That being with you—” his voice cracked, low and sharp, “—makes me weak.”

You felt your chest twist. Slowly, you reached for his arm. “Scott, look at me.”

It took him a moment, but he finally lifted his eyes. They were raw, blue and storm-bright.

“You told the truth,” you said firmly. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you the strongest person I know.”

His jaw trembled. “It doesn’t feel strong. It feels like I just lit myself on fire in front of everyone.”

You stepped closer, close enough to touch, but gentle. “No. You just put out their lies. That’s what they can’t handle.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, caught between breaking apart and holding himself together by sheer force. Then, finally, he let go. He dropped his forehead against yours, his breath shaking.

“What if this ruins everything?” he whispered.

“Then we face it together,” you whispered back.

His hand found yours, squeezing like he was terrified to let go.

For the first time since walking off the field, Scott let out a real breath. Heavy. Shaky. But real.

And in the silence of the locker hall, just the two of you, the weight didn’t feel like his alone anymore.

Two days passed. Two days of side-eyes in the locker room, hushed laughter on the field, Coach avoiding Scott’s gaze when talking about “focus.” Two days of Scott keeping his head down, going through drills with his jaw tight and his chest burning.

When practice finally ended on Wednesday, he didn’t head for the showers. Instead, he slipped out the back door and walked to the far corner behind the weight room—the one spot where no one bothered to follow. He sat down on the concrete, back against the wall, bag at his feet, pulling at the hem of his hoodie with restless hands.

He didn’t even notice Justin until the sound of sneakers crunching gravel broke the silence.

“Took you long enough,” Justin said.

Scott’s head jerked up. “What?”

Justin leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, his trademark smirk in place—but his eyes softer than usual. “To tell them. To stop pretending.”

Scott blinked. “You… you know?”

Justin chuckled under his breath. “Dude, I’ve known for weeks.”

Scott groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Guess I wasn’t very subtle.”

“Not even a little,” Justin teased, but then his voice softened. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is you did it.”

Scott shook his head. “Monty laughed. Bryce said I’m throwing my future away. Coach barely looked at me.” His fists tightened. “It’s like I lost everything in five minutes.”

Justin pushed off the wall, crouching beside him. “You didn’t lose everything. You told the truth. That’s worth more than their approval.”

Scott looked up, eyes stinging. “Then why does it feel like I’m standing here alone?”

“You’re not,” Justin said simply.

Scott’s throat closed.

“You’re still my captain. Still my friend. Still… you. And if they can’t see that, screw ‘em.” Justin smirked, bumping his shoulder against Scott’s. “Just… don’t start making out with Baker on first base. That’s all I ask.”

A laugh broke out of Scott before he could stop it—loud, real, almost painful from how much he’d been holding in.

“Thanks, man,” Scott said quietly. “It means a lot.”

Justin clapped him on the back. “Hey. As far as I’m concerned? I’m team Reed-Baker.”

For the first time since confessing, Scott’s chest didn’t feel like it was on fire. He wasn’t alone. Not really.

Friday afternoon, Coach called a team meeting. No explanation, just “everyone in the locker room after practice.”

The air inside was thick the moment Scott walked in. Gloves slapped against benches, cleats scuffed against the floor, teammates whispering just loud enough for him to hear. Every eye followed him, like he was suddenly a stranger in his own space.

Coach stood at the front, arms folded. His voice was calm, but loaded.
“I assume you’re all aware of recent… developments.”

A few guys chuckled under their breath. Monty’s smirk stretched like he’d been waiting for this moment. Bryce lounged back, all casual poison.

Scott set his bag down and stood straighter. “If you’re talking about me, then yeah. I’m not hiding it. I’m dating him. Hannah Baker’s brother.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through. “And I’m still the same player. Same captain.”

A heavy pause.

Bryce was the first to break it. “You’re inviting attention we don’t need. Scouts don’t want this kind of circus. They want players who look like winners, not… distractions.”

Monty leaned forward, eyes glittering. “You think people will take you seriously now? You’re supposed to lead us. Not turn this team into some soap opera about you and Baker’s freak-show family.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter ran through the room.

Scott’s jaw clenched. “So honesty makes me unfit to lead?”

Monty smirked wider. “No. Being weak does.”

Scott turned to Coach. “You’ve got something to say?”

Coach sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “Scott… you’re talented. Nobody’s questioning that. But scouts are watching. They’re looking for discipline, focus, no distractions. This… revelation… could complicate things.”

Scott’s voice rose, trembling with anger. “So you want me to lie? Pretend I’m someone I’m not, just so the team looks cleaner for recruiters?”

Coach didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

And that’s when Justin stood.

His voice cut through the tension like a blade.
“He’s stronger than any of you.”

Every head turned.

“You act like honesty’s weakness,” Justin continued, steady and calm. “Like being happy makes him less of a leader. But let me tell you something—he’s the only guy on this team who’s ever had the guts to be real. To stand up and say who he is, knowing exactly how you’d all treat him for it.”

Monty’s jaw tightened. “Shut the hell up, Foley.”

Justin didn’t flinch. “No. Not this time. He’s like a brother to me. And if anyone has a problem with him—” his eyes locked on Monty, then Bryce—“you’ve got a problem with me.”

The room went still.

Bryce scoffed, clearly bored, but he looked away. Monty muttered under his breath but didn’t push further. The rest of the team stayed silent, shifting uncomfortably, unwilling to pick a side out loud.

Scott swallowed hard, heart hammering. For the first time since coming out, he felt like he could breathe again. Not because the team had his back—most of them didn’t. But because Justin did.

And in that moment, that was enough.

The fallout didn’t come like thunder. It came quietly.

Coach never benched Scott outright. He never said a word about the meeting again. But the favoritism Scott had always counted on disappeared overnight.

No more extra reps after practice.
No more private drills with Coach.
No more introductions to the scouts who came to watch scrimmages.

Scott still played. He still wore the captain’s “C.” But suddenly, Monty got the starting reps during showcases. Bryce was the one Coach pointed out to recruiters. Whenever Scott hit the field, it felt like a test he wasn’t supposed to pass.

The message was clear:
You’re here. But you’re not his star anymore.

The team followed suit.
Some guys drifted, offering nothing but awkward nods in the locker room.
Others kept the whispers alive—mutters of “freak” or “weak” when they thought he couldn’t hear. Monty didn’t even bother hiding it. Bryce’s smirk said more than his words ever could.

Scott carried it. Every insult, every silent shift away on the bench.
It weighed heavy.

Until Justin.

Justin never moved.
At practice, he cracked jokes loud enough to drown out Monty’s whispers.
On the bus rides, he sat with Scott like nothing had changed.
After games, when scouts ignored Scott completely, Justin nudged him and muttered, “Their loss, man. You still hit harder than all of them.”

One night after a brutal loss, Scott sat alone in the parking lot, helmet dangling from his hands, staring at the asphalt. He felt the walls closing in—the whispers, the scouts, his dad’s voice in the back of his mind telling him this was proof he’d thrown it all away.

Justin showed up, dropping onto the curb beside him with two sodas from a vending machine. He handed one over without a word.

Scott cracked it open but didn’t drink. “Feels like I burned everything down.”

Justin leaned back, sipping his own. “Maybe. But you didn’t burn down the wrong things.”

Scott glanced at him.

“You torched the bullshit,” Justin said. “The lies, the hiding, the pretending. You lit it up and walked through the fire, man. That’s not weakness. That’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Scott blinked hard, jaw tight.

“You’re not alone,” Justin added quietly. “Not as long as I’m here.”

And in that moment, with the neon buzz of the vending machine behind them and the whole world tilted against him, Scott believed it.

Because no matter what he lost—his coach’s faith, his teammates’ respect, his easy future—he still had this:
Justin’s loyalty.
Your love.

And that was enough to keep standing.

Now, months later, Scott didn’t remember every insult.
Not every face that turned away.
Not every practice where Coach looked through him like he wasn’t even there.

What stayed—what branded itself into his chest—were voices.

Justin’s voice in the locker room:
“He’s like a brother to me.”

Your voice after the first time he told you what happened:
“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

That was what survived the fire.

Sitting now on your bed, Scott leaned against the headboard, your head resting on his shoulder. The two of you had been scrolling absently through your phones, but his mind wasn’t in the glowing blue light of the screen. It was back there—in the dugouts, in the locker room, on the curb with Justin.

“Hey,” you murmured, noticing the far-off look in his eyes.

“Hmm?”

“You’re quiet.”

Scott blinked, grounding himself in the warmth of you pressed against his side. “Just… thinking about how different things could’ve gone.”

You tilted your head. “Different how?”

“If Justin hadn’t stood up for me. If you hadn’t… believed in me when I couldn’t even look at myself. If I’d listened to Bryce. Or Monty. Or my dad.” His voice dipped. “I don’t think I’d be here. Not like this.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “But you are here. Because you didn’t listen. Because you chose.”

Scott exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing a little. “It’s just… I keep replaying it. All of it. And then I see Justin, broken and hiding in that warehouse, and I wonder if I did enough for him back then.”

“You did,” you whispered. “You gave him the same thing he gave you. Loyalty. Family. Even when everything else turned.”

Scott finally turned, meeting your eyes. His expression was raw, open in a way it rarely was. “I’m not perfect. God, I’m so far from it. But I know one thing. I wouldn’t trade what I have—for the team, for scouts, for the league, for anything.”

You smiled softly, leaning closer. “Good. Because I’m not trading you either.”

He kissed you then. Not like he was trying to prove something. Not like he was drowning. Just soft. Sure.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “You and Justin saved me. Different ways. Different times. But you both did.”

You kissed him again, whispering against his lips, “And now it’s our turn to save him.”

Scott closed his eyes, nodding. “Together.”

And for the first time in days, the weight in his chest didn’t feel so heavy.

Because he wasn’t carrying it alone. Words~2737

—-

The spring sun stretched long shadows across Liberty High’s baseball field, the last glow of daylight catching on the chain-link fences. Practice was done; bags zipped, bats clattered, voices drifted off toward the parking lot.

Scott stayed behind, dragging his cleats against the dirt like he could grind down the nerves eating at him. He’d been carrying this weight for months — the secret pressed against his ribs, begging to get out. He wasn’t sure if today was the day. But then he heard Monty’s voice.

“Yo,” Monty snickered from his perch against the fence, “Reed’s sister’s at it again. Posted another Swiss princess pic. Ski lodge, fireplace, fancy wine glass she’s not even old enough to hold.”

Bryce smirked, leaning against the rail beside him. “Switzerland’s treating her good, huh? How old is she now?”

“Sixteen,” Monty said, grinning like it was the punchline of a joke. “But you wouldn’t know it from those legs. She’s built like she skipped two grades.”

Scott’s grip on his glove tightened until the leather creaked.

Bryce gave a low whistle. “Damn. Summer’s coming up too. She’ll be back in town soon, right?”

“Yeah,” Monty laughed darkly. “Bet she’ll be bored out of her mind. Rich girls always are. Probably aching for some fun.”

Scott’s stomach turned.

Monty leaned closer to Bryce, grinning. “Bet she’s already practiced—fancy school, Euro boys. Think she’s a freak like Hannah was?”

Bryce chuckled, meaner now. “Maybe she’s easier. With that family? Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Scott’s fists curled, breath sharp.

Monty pushed it further, smirking like he was untouchable. “Yo, what if she ends up like Hannah? We could find out. I’ll take her first, you can clean up after.”

Bryce’s smirk grew wider. “Or we swap. Turn it into a team exercise.”

Their laughter scraped across the field, mean and hollow.

Scott’s vision went hot. His chest thundered. Every muscle in his body screamed to move. Before he even realized, he was walking—no, storming—toward them.

“Hey.”

His voice cracked the air like a bat hitting a ball.

They stopped laughing, caught, though Monty’s smirk never fully fell.

“Captain,” Monty said lazily. “You good?”

Scott’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “I need to tell you something.”

Bryce raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering with interest. “Go on.”

Scott’s heart pounded so loud he could barely hear himself, but the words came anyway.

“I’ve been seeing someone.”

Monty’s grin sharpened. “Ooooh, who’s the lucky girl?”

Scott shook his head, steady now. “It’s not a girl.”

The silence cracked like a whip.

Bryce frowned, leaning forward. “Then who?”

Scott swallowed, chest heaving. “I’m dating someone. And it’s Hannah Baker’s brother.”

The words hit the ground like thunder.

For a beat, both Monty and Bryce just stared, frozen. Then Monty broke first, cackling. “Wait—no way. You’re serious? You’re screwing Baker’s little brother? The freak? The shadow of the girl who—”

“Yeah,” Scott snapped, voice sharp as steel. “I’m serious.”

Bryce scoffed, shaking his head slowly. “You’re throwing away your whole future for that? For him?”

Monty barked out another laugh, cruel and loud. “Our captain’s lost his damn mind. No wonder you’re distracted. No wonder you’ve been soft lately. You’re playing house with the kid everyone clowns on.”

Scott’s face burned. His hands shook with rage. But instead of shrinking, he stood taller.

“Believe whatever the hell you want,” he said. “But I’m done lying.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving their poisoned laughter echoing across the diamond behind him.

The hallways inside Liberty High smelled faintly of sweat and metal polish, the quiet hum of evening settling in after practice. Most of the team had already cleared out; only the thud of a stray locker door echoed somewhere down the row.

Scott leaned against his own locker, chest heaving, palms pressed flat to the cool metal like it might steady him. His mind replayed Monty’s laughter, Bryce’s scoff, the words about Zoey still cutting deeper than anything they’d said about him. His stomach churned like he’d swallowed fire.

“Scott?”

Your voice came soft, cautious.

He looked up and saw you standing at the end of the row. For a second, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His throat felt raw.

You stepped closer, slow like approaching a spooked animal. “What happened?”

Scott dropped his head against the locker with a dull thunk. “I told them.”

Your heart stopped. “Told them… about us?”

He nodded once, still not looking at you. “About you. About me. About everything.”

You swallowed, nerves buzzing. “And…?”

He gave a bitter laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Monty laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Bryce called me insane. Said I’m throwing away my future. Said scouts don’t want a distraction. That being with you—” his voice cracked, low and sharp, “—makes me weak.”

You felt your chest twist. Slowly, you reached for his arm. “Scott, look at me.”

It took him a moment, but he finally lifted his eyes. They were raw, blue and storm-bright.

“You told the truth,” you said firmly. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you the strongest person I know.”

His jaw trembled. “It doesn’t feel strong. It feels like I just lit myself on fire in front of everyone.”

You stepped closer, close enough to touch, but gentle. “No. You just put out their lies. That’s what they can’t handle.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, caught between breaking apart and holding himself together by sheer force. Then, finally, he let go. He dropped his forehead against yours, his breath shaking.

“What if this ruins everything?” he whispered.

“Then we face it together,” you whispered back.

His hand found yours, squeezing like he was terrified to let go.

For the first time since walking off the field, Scott let out a real breath. Heavy. Shaky. But real.

And in the silence of the locker hall, just the two of you, the weight didn’t feel like his alone anymore.

Two days passed. Two days of side-eyes in the locker room, hushed laughter on the field, Coach avoiding Scott’s gaze when talking about “focus.” Two days of Scott keeping his head down, going through drills with his jaw tight and his chest burning.

When practice finally ended on Wednesday, he didn’t head for the showers. Instead, he slipped out the back door and walked to the far corner behind the weight room—the one spot where no one bothered to follow. He sat down on the concrete, back against the wall, bag at his feet, pulling at the hem of his hoodie with restless hands.

He didn’t even notice Justin until the sound of sneakers crunching gravel broke the silence.

“Took you long enough,” Justin said.

Scott’s head jerked up. “What?”

Justin leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, his trademark smirk in place—but his eyes softer than usual. “To tell them. To stop pretending.”

Scott blinked. “You… you know?”

Justin chuckled under his breath. “Dude, I’ve known for weeks.”

Scott groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Guess I wasn’t very subtle.”

“Not even a little,” Justin teased, but then his voice softened. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is you did it.”

Scott shook his head. “Monty laughed. Bryce said I’m throwing my future away. Coach barely looked at me.” His fists tightened. “It’s like I lost everything in five minutes.”

Justin pushed off the wall, crouching beside him. “You didn’t lose everything. You told the truth. That’s worth more than their approval.”

Scott looked up, eyes stinging. “Then why does it feel like I’m standing here alone?”

“You’re not,” Justin said simply.

Scott’s throat closed.

“You’re still my captain. Still my friend. Still… you. And if they can’t see that, screw ‘em.” Justin smirked, bumping his shoulder against Scott’s. “Just… don’t start making out with Baker on first base. That’s all I ask.”

A laugh broke out of Scott before he could stop it—loud, real, almost painful from how much he’d been holding in.

“Thanks, man,” Scott said quietly. “It means a lot.”

Justin clapped him on the back. “Hey. As far as I’m concerned? I’m team Reed-Baker.”

For the first time since confessing, Scott’s chest didn’t feel like it was on fire. He wasn’t alone. Not really.

Friday afternoon, Coach called a team meeting. No explanation, just “everyone in the locker room after practice.”

The air inside was thick the moment Scott walked in. Gloves slapped against benches, cleats scuffed against the floor, teammates whispering just loud enough for him to hear. Every eye followed him, like he was suddenly a stranger in his own space.

Coach stood at the front, arms folded. His voice was calm, but loaded.
“I assume you’re all aware of recent… developments.”

A few guys chuckled under their breath. Monty’s smirk stretched like he’d been waiting for this moment. Bryce lounged back, all casual poison.

Scott set his bag down and stood straighter. “If you’re talking about me, then yeah. I’m not hiding it. I’m dating him. Hannah Baker’s brother.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through. “And I’m still the same player. Same captain.”

A heavy pause.

Bryce was the first to break it. “You’re inviting attention we don’t need. Scouts don’t want this kind of circus. They want players who look like winners, not… distractions.”

Monty leaned forward, eyes glittering. “You think people will take you seriously now? You’re supposed to lead us. Not turn this team into some soap opera about you and Baker’s freak-show family.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter ran through the room.

Scott’s jaw clenched. “So honesty makes me unfit to lead?”

Monty smirked wider. “No. Being weak does.”

Scott turned to Coach. “You’ve got something to say?”

Coach sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “Scott… you’re talented. Nobody’s questioning that. But scouts are watching. They’re looking for discipline, focus, no distractions. This… revelation… could complicate things.”

Scott’s voice rose, trembling with anger. “So you want me to lie? Pretend I’m someone I’m not, just so the team looks cleaner for recruiters?”

Coach didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

And that’s when Justin stood.

His voice cut through the tension like a blade.
“He’s stronger than any of you.”

Every head turned.

“You act like honesty’s weakness,” Justin continued, steady and calm. “Like being happy makes him less of a leader. But let me tell you something—he’s the only guy on this team who’s ever had the guts to be real. To stand up and say who he is, knowing exactly how you’d all treat him for it.”

Monty’s jaw tightened. “Shut the hell up, Foley.”

Justin didn’t flinch. “No. Not this time. He’s like a brother to me. And if anyone has a problem with him—” his eyes locked on Monty, then Bryce—“you’ve got a problem with me.”

The room went still.

Bryce scoffed, clearly bored, but he looked away. Monty muttered under his breath but didn’t push further. The rest of the team stayed silent, shifting uncomfortably, unwilling to pick a side out loud.

Scott swallowed hard, heart hammering. For the first time since coming out, he felt like he could breathe again. Not because the team had his back—most of them didn’t. But because Justin did.

And in that moment, that was enough.

The fallout didn’t come like thunder. It came quietly.

Coach never benched Scott outright. He never said a word about the meeting again. But the favoritism Scott had always counted on disappeared overnight.

No more extra reps after practice.
No more private drills with Coach.
No more introductions to the scouts who came to watch scrimmages.

Scott still played. He still wore the captain’s “C.” But suddenly, Monty got the starting reps during showcases. Bryce was the one Coach pointed out to recruiters. Whenever Scott hit the field, it felt like a test he wasn’t supposed to pass.

The message was clear:
You’re here. But you’re not his star anymore.

The team followed suit.
Some guys drifted, offering nothing but awkward nods in the locker room.
Others kept the whispers alive—mutters of “freak” or “weak” when they thought he couldn’t hear. Monty didn’t even bother hiding it. Bryce’s smirk said more than his words ever could.

Scott carried it. Every insult, every silent shift away on the bench.
It weighed heavy.

Until Justin.

Justin never moved.
At practice, he cracked jokes loud enough to drown out Monty’s whispers.
On the bus rides, he sat with Scott like nothing had changed.
After games, when scouts ignored Scott completely, Justin nudged him and muttered, “Their loss, man. You still hit harder than all of them.”

One night after a brutal loss, Scott sat alone in the parking lot, helmet dangling from his hands, staring at the asphalt. He felt the walls closing in—the whispers, the scouts, his dad’s voice in the back of his mind telling him this was proof he’d thrown it all away.

Justin showed up, dropping onto the curb beside him with two sodas from a vending machine. He handed one over without a word.

Scott cracked it open but didn’t drink. “Feels like I burned everything down.”

Justin leaned back, sipping his own. “Maybe. But you didn’t burn down the wrong things.”

Scott glanced at him.

“You torched the bullshit,” Justin said. “The lies, the hiding, the pretending. You lit it up and walked through the fire, man. That’s not weakness. That’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Scott blinked hard, jaw tight.

“You’re not alone,” Justin added quietly. “Not as long as I’m here.”

And in that moment, with the neon buzz of the vending machine behind them and the whole world tilted against him, Scott believed it.

Because no matter what he lost—his coach’s faith, his teammates’ respect, his easy future—he still had this:
Justin’s loyalty.
Your love.

And that was enough to keep standing.

Now, months later, Scott didn’t remember every insult.
Not every face that turned away.
Not every practice where Coach looked through him like he wasn’t even there.

What stayed—what branded itself into his chest—were voices.

Justin’s voice in the locker room:
“He’s like a brother to me.”

Your voice after the first time he told you what happened:
“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

That was what survived the fire.

Sitting now on your bed, Scott leaned against the headboard, your head resting on his shoulder. The two of you had been scrolling absently through your phones, but his mind wasn’t in the glowing blue light of the screen. It was back there—in the dugouts, in the locker room, on the curb with Justin.

“Hey,” you murmured, noticing the far-off look in his eyes.

“Hmm?”

“You’re quiet.”

Scott blinked, grounding himself in the warmth of you pressed against his side. “Just… thinking about how different things could’ve gone.”

You tilted your head. “Different how?”

“If Justin hadn’t stood up for me. If you hadn’t… believed in me when I couldn’t even look at myself. If I’d listened to Bryce. Or Monty. Or my dad.” His voice dipped. “I don’t think I’d be here. Not like this.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “But you are here. Because you didn’t listen. Because you chose.”

Scott exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing a little. “It’s just… I keep replaying it. All of it. And then I see Justin, broken and hiding in that warehouse, and I wonder if I did enough for him back then.”

“You did,” you whispered. “You gave him the same thing he gave you. Loyalty. Family. Even when everything else turned.”

Scott finally turned, meeting your eyes. His expression was raw, open in a way it rarely was. “I’m not perfect. God, I’m so far from it. But I know one thing. I wouldn’t trade what I have—for the team, for scouts, for the league, for anything.”

You smiled softly, leaning closer. “Good. Because I’m not trading you either.”

He kissed you then. Not like he was trying to prove something. Not like he was drowning. Just soft. Sure.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “You and Justin saved me. Different ways. Different times. But you both did.”

You kissed him again, whispering against his lips, “And now it’s our turn to save him.”

Scott closed his eyes, nodding. “Together.”

And for the first time in days, the weight in his chest didn’t feel so heavy.

Because he wasn’t carrying it alone.

Chapter Text

Words~2019

—-

Sunday night was quiet. The TV hummed in the background, the two of you curled up together on Scott’s couch. For a moment, it almost felt normal. Almost.

Scott’s phone buzzed against the coffee table, shattering the calm. Dad.

You felt Scott tense instantly. He stared at the screen for a long second, then picked it up. Without warning, he tapped speaker, then slid your phone toward you. “Call Justin,” he whispered.

Your heart kicked, but you obeyed. Within seconds, Justin’s voice crackled into the room: “Yo, what’s up?”

Before you could answer, Richard Reed’s voice cut through. Cold. Sharp. Unshakable.
“Scott. I’ve made arrangements.”

Scott’s knuckles whitened around the phone. “Arrangements?”

“Zoey is coming back. She’ll be enrolling at Liberty High this week.”

Justin’s voice came faintly through your phone. “Wait—what?”

Scott swallowed hard. “She was fine at the academy.”

Richard didn’t hesitate. “It’s time she’s home with family. And frankly, I believe this will help you refocus. Things have spiraled here. This will stabilize everything. Family unity sends the right message.”

Scott’s jaw tightened. “You mean for the scouts.”

“For your future,” Richard corrected, as if the words were gospel. “The family name matters, Scott. You’ve jeopardized enough already.”

A silence followed. Scott’s throat bobbed as he fought the words burning behind his teeth. Finally, he just lowered the phone from his ear and pressed end. The call cut off, leaving the room painfully still.

Scott placed the phone on the table like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Zoey’s coming home,” he said, voice hollow.

“Because of him,” you murmured.

Scott nodded, still staring at nothing. “He thinks she’ll fix me.”

Justin’s voice broke the silence, rougher than usual but steady. “Fix you? Man, you don’t need fixing. You never did.”

You reached for Scott’s arm gently. “He doesn’t get to rewrite your story. Zoey coming back doesn’t change who you are.”

Scott finally looked up at you, his eyes raw and tired. “I just… I don’t want her dragged into this mess.”

“She’s not walking into it alone,” you whispered.

Justin jumped in again, firm. “Damn right. She’s got you, she’s got Sam, she’s got the rest of us. Don’t let Richard sell you this as some kind of punishment or solution. It’s bullshit.”

Scott let out a sharp exhale, shaky but relieved. His shoulders eased just a little as he looked between you and your phone. The faintest, tired smile tugged at his lips.

“I don’t deserve either of you,” he admitted.

You smiled softly. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Justin added, his voice gentler now: “You’re family, man. You’ve always had us. And Zoey’s about to see that too.”

Scott leaned back into the couch, finally letting himself breathe. For the first time since the call, he didn’t look cornered. He looked—if only barely—like he wasn’t standing alone.

Monday morning at Liberty buzzed like a hornet’s nest. Whispers darted between lockers, slipping under classroom doors, clinging to every group huddled in the halls.

“Zoey Reed’s back.”
“Why now?”
“Guess the Swiss boarding school didn’t want her anymore.”
“Or maybe Daddy’s pulling the strings again.”

Scott heard every word but kept walking, hood up, earbuds in, trying to tune it all out. None of it mattered until he saw it with his own eyes.

When the sleek black town car rolled into Liberty’s parking lot, time slowed. Heads turned. Conversations stopped.

The driver stepped out, opened the back door.

And there she was.

Zoey Reed.

Dark waves of hair, oversized sunglasses, a quiet kind of confidence that could’ve been mistaken for arrogance if you didn’t know her. She looked like someone who’d grown up too fast, like someone who’d learned to walk through storms without flinching.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, then landed on Scott.

And her face broke into a smile.

“Big brother!” she shouted, striding forward, her voice clear over the whispers.

Scott froze for a second, then broke into a grin he hadn’t felt in months. He caught her in a hug so tight it nearly knocked her off her feet. For a moment, he didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care what anyone thought.

“You look taller,” he muttered against her hair.

“You look exhausted,” Zoey teased, pulling back to study him. “Rough year?”

Scott gave a hollow laugh. “You have no idea.”

“I do,” Zoey said softly, slipping her sunglasses up to the top of her head. “Dad made sure I got the full download.”

His chest tightened. “And you still came back.”

Her smile softened, eyes steady. “I didn’t come back for Dad.”

Scott let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. For the first time in a long while, his sister was home.

The first bell hadn’t rung yet, but Liberty’s hallways were already alive with whispers. Scott walked ahead, trying to ignore the stares, with Zoey trailing at his side like she’d never left. She still carried herself with that Reed confidence, but there was something softer underneath now — steadier.

When they reached Scott’s locker, you were already there, leaning back against the cool metal with your usual quiet half-smile.

Zoey spotted you instantly, her brows arching.
“Oh my God,” she said, tilting her head. “The silent, nondescript guy I really didn’t like before… is dating my big brother now?”

Scott groaned. “Zoey—”

But you smirked, pushing off the locker. “Yeah, that’d be me.”

Zoey crossed her arms, studying you up and down. “Wow. I’ll admit, I didn’t see this coming. But you’ve changed.”

You raised a brow. “So have you.”

Zoey grinned, dramatic as always. “Fair. Switzerland has this way of beating the arrogance out of you. Turns out, a school full of trust-fund kids with bigger egos than mine taught me to be more grounded. More respectful. Dare I even say… loveable.”

Scott snorted, swapping books at his locker. “Debatable.”

“Excuse me?” Zoey gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Did you hear that, Sam? He doesn’t think I’m loveable.”

You grinned immediately, sensing the game. “Wow. That’s cold. Honestly, I’m starting to rethink this relationship. Maybe you and I should just team up.”

Zoey’s face lit up. “Yes! Exactly. We’d be unstoppable. Reed-Baker 2.0.”

Scott spun around, exasperated. “You two literally just met!”

“And yet,” Zoey said, linking her arm through yours like you were old friends, “already a stronger team than you and I ever were.”

You added smoothly, “He’s losing his status as the favorite Reed in real time.”

Scott pointed at both of you with his history book. “I already hate this alliance.”

Zoey smirked, leaning closer to you with a mock whisper. “See what I mean? He’s so easy to roast. This is going to be fun.”

Scott groaned into his locker, muttering, “This was a mistake. Huge mistake.”

But when he glanced over his shoulder and saw the two of you grinning at him like you’d been partners-in-crime for years, a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. For the first time that morning, the knot in his chest loosened.

By the time the lunch bell rang, the rumors about Zoey’s return had spread like wildfire. Walking into the cafeteria with Scott and you at her sides was like stepping onto a stage. Heads turned. Whispers trailed behind. Monty’s voice carried louder than necessary from across the room, and Bryce smirked knowingly in his corner.

But Zoey didn’t flinch. If anything, she walked taller.

Scott led you both to the usual table, where Jess and Sheri were already seated, Clay trailing behind with a tray balanced awkwardly in his hands.

Jess spotted Zoey first. Her eyes lit up. “Well, look who’s back from European exile.”

“Exile?” Zoey smirked, sliding into the seat across from her. “Please. Switzerland was a glow-up. I’m basically a reformed Disney villain now.”

Sheri laughed, pulling Zoey into a quick hug over the table. “I missed your chaos.”

“You mean my charm,” Zoey corrected with a wink.

Scott sat down heavily beside you, already rubbing his temples. “This is going to be unbearable.”

“Correction,” you said smoothly. “This is going to be amazing.”

Zoey leaned in, stage-whispering across the table: “See? Sam gets it. We’re a team now.”

Jess’s eyes widened. “Oh God. You’ve created a monster.”

“I didn’t create anything,” Scott muttered. “It happened naturally. Like a virus.”

Clay finally sat, watching the whole exchange like he’d missed the first ten minutes of a movie. “Uh… so, Zoey. How was Switzerland?”

Zoey shrugged with mock modesty. “Beautiful. Pretentious. Life-changing. I learned how to ski, I learned how to cook fondue without setting my hair on fire, and most importantly—” she flicked her hair over her shoulder dramatically— “I learned how not to be an arrogant brat.”

Jess raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because I’m still seeing traces.”

Zoey smirked. “Grounded doesn’t mean boring, Jess. It just means I’m selective with my chaos now.”

Sheri giggled. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Scott groaned louder, burying his face in his hands. “Why is everyone enabling this?”

“Because we like her,” you said, bumping his shoulder.

“More than you, apparently,” Jess teased.

Zoey grinned, pointing at Jess. “Exactly. She gets it too. See, Scott? This is the family you signed up for.”

Scott sat back, exasperated, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. He’d never admit it out loud, but watching his sister slide so easily into your circle — his circle — gave him a kind of comfort he hadn’t felt in weeks.

The cafeteria was humming with noise — trays clattering, conversations overlapping, the occasional shriek of laughter from a distant table. For a moment, it felt almost normal.

Until Bryce and Monty got up.

They swaggered over like they owned the place, Monty smirking, Bryce’s lazy confidence oozing with every step. The air around your table tightened. Scott’s shoulders went rigid beside you, and you could practically hear him grinding his teeth.

“Well, well,” Bryce drawled, leaning a hand on the table near Zoey. “The Reed family reunion. Welcome back, Zoey. Boarding school looks good on you.”

Zoey didn’t flinch. She simply took a slow sip of her water, set it down, and leveled him with a cool stare. “And public school still looks like it’s rotting you from the inside out. Bryce.”

Sheri stifled a laugh. Jess outright grinned.

Monty chuckled, sliding in closer on Zoey’s other side. “Feisty. I like that. You know, we were just saying the other day — Switzerland must’ve been lonely. Bet you missed some… American company.”

Scott half-rose from his seat, but you pressed a hand to his arm. Not yet.

Zoey turned toward Monty, tilting her head. “American company? You mean the kind that ends up in court transcripts? Or the kind that can’t seem to stop talking about other guys’ love lives because they’re too terrified to admit anything about their own?”

Monty’s smirk faltered.

Jess let out a sharp, “Oh damn,” under her breath.

Bryce tried to recover, flashing his trademark smirk. “Don’t be so harsh. We’re just welcoming you home. Maybe we could… catch up sometime. Dinner? Party? You’re even hotter than last year.”

Zoey leaned forward, her voice dropping into steel. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not when I know exactly what you did to my friend.”

The cafeteria around you seemed to hush all at once. Even Monty froze.

Zoey didn’t stop. “You think everyone’s forgotten? They haven’t. And I’m not scared of you, Bryce. Not even a little.”

Bryce’s smirk slipped — not much, but enough.

Monty shifted, about to snap back, but Zoey’s glare cut him off. “And you? You can keep making your little jokes about my brother and Sam. Everyone already knows you’re just projecting. You’re boring, Monty. Predictable.”

The silence was heavy, loaded.

Finally, Jess broke it with a slow clap. “And that’s how it’s done.”

Sheri smirked. “Welcome back, Zoey Reed.”

Scott exhaled, finally sitting back, though his fists were still clenched. He glanced at his sister with a mix of pride and exasperation. “You just painted a target on your back.”

Zoey shrugged, cool as ever. “Good. Let them aim. I don’t miss.”

Chapter Text

Words~1701

—-

The halls of Liberty felt colder that morning, though the heat still rattled in the vents above. Maybe it wasn’t the air at all — maybe it was the date.

Scott glanced down at his phone as you walked beside him, the screen glowing with numbers that seemed heavier than they should.

November 20th.

He whispered it like it was a curse. “November 20th already.”

You noticed the way his grip on your hand tightened — not enough to hurt, but enough to tell you the pressure was clawing at him again. The way it always did when the calendar inched toward something he couldn’t control.

“Not like you’re keeping track or anything,” you teased softly, bumping your shoulder into his.

Scott’s mouth twitched into a smile, but it was tired, stretched thin, like it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course not.”

You studied him for a beat, the faint shadows under his eyes, the restless set of his jaw. “Feels longer though,” you said quietly. “Everything does.”

He let out a breath through his nose, the kind that sounded more like frustration than relief. “It’s like waiting for something to snap.”

You gave his hand a firm squeeze, grounding him the way you always tried to. “Then we’ll face it when it does. Together.”

Scott finally looked at you then, really looked, and the sharpness in his expression softened for just a second. “You always know what to say.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, leaning in closer, “it’s a gift. Comes with the whole dating-a-Reed-package.”

For the first time that morning, Scott laughed — low, rough, but real. And you held onto it like it mattered, because it did.

Zoey was already at Scott’s locker, leaning against the metal like she owned the whole hallway. Phone in one hand, sunglasses perched on her head, she looked every bit the Reed sibling — calm, collected, untouchable.

But you knew better. You could see it in the way her eyes flicked too quickly between faces, the way her jaw tensed when the whispers rose a little too loud. She was pretending not to hear them, but she heard everything.

Scott’s hand twitched in yours. His whole body felt like a live wire beside you.

And then — right on cue — Monty and Bryce emerged from their corner like vultures.

“Morning, Zoey,” Monty drawled, his grin sharp and fake. “Looking good today.”

Zoey didn’t even blink. Didn’t shift. Just slipped her phone into her pocket and deadpanned, “Montgomery. You must be exhausted from working so hard at staying relevant.”

A few heads nearby turned. A muffled laugh rippled through the hall.

Bryce stepped up beside Monty, his smirk lazy and practiced. “Relax, princess. We’re just being polite.”

“That’s funny,” Zoey shot back, tilting her head, “because it sounded a lot like harassment.”

The smirk twitched. Bryce leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice but making sure Scott could hear every word. “Come on, we figured you’d want to loosen up eventually. Switzerland can’t have been that exciting.”

Scott’s fists curled so tight you heard the faint pop of his knuckles. You slid a hand over his arm, grounding him before he exploded.

Zoey’s eyes narrowed, but her tone never wavered. “Actually, I loved Switzerland. You know what the best part was? Being far away from small-town losers desperate for attention.”

Monty’s smirk faltered. “You act all high and mighty, but you’re no better than the rest of us.”

Zoey stepped forward now, her voice icy calm. “See, Monty, that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need to act like I’m better than you. I just am.”

The hallway went still.

Bryce’s smile cracked first, but Zoey wasn’t done. She pivoted to him, her words like a scalpel. “Bryce, your dad’s money is the only reason anyone pretends to respect you. You’ll spend your whole life chasing his shadow, and you’ll never catch up. Everyone knows it — even you.”

His jaw tightened, but Zoey turned back to Monty before he could recover.

“And you,” she said, voice dropping to a blade-thin whisper, “don’t even have the luxury of money. You cling to Bryce because you’re terrified of being left with nothing. You’re not his equal, Monty. You’re his puppet.”

Monty’s face flushed crimson, rage trembling through his fists.

Zoey didn’t blink. “You know why you hate my brother so much? Because Scott had the courage you never will. Because he loves who he loves, and he doesn’t apologize for it. And because you’re too scared to admit who you really are.”

Monty froze. For a second, his mask cracked — wide-eyed, vulnerable, exposed.

Bryce grabbed his arm, panic flashing through his carefully smug expression. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Monty’s jaw flexed like he wanted to lunge, but Bryce yanked him back. They stormed down the hall, Monty’s hands still shaking.

The silence that followed was deafening. Students stared, whispering louder than before — but this time, none of it was laughter at Zoey’s expense.

Scott finally exhaled, shoulders dropping, fists slowly unclenching.

Zoey brushed invisible dust off her jacket and smirked. “Told you I’ve got this.”

Scott’s voice cracked, low and tight. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Her eyes softened, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. “Neither should you.”

The Baker household always felt quieter when the blinds were drawn, the soft afternoon light muted into something that felt safe. The trial-prep sessions had become almost ritual: a pot of tea on the coffee table, legal pads spread out, and Olivia Baker sitting across from you and Scott with the same steady determination she’d worn since the day she first said, “We’re suing the school.”

This time, though, the silence stretched longer before she spoke. She studied the two of you like she could see the storm still clinging to your skin.

“You’re both doing incredibly well,” Olivia said finally, her voice calm but firm. “But the defense will be even more aggressive in the coming weeks. I need you prepared for that.”

Scott shifted in his seat, his hand finding yours under the table. His knuckles were still red from how tightly he’d clenched them earlier in the hallway.

“They’ll try to discredit you both,” Olivia continued. “They’ll bring up your relationship. They’ll bring up Hannah. They’ll twist your personal lives into something ugly if they think it gives them an edge.”

Scott’s jaw tightened. “Because they don’t have anything real.”

Olivia nodded. “Exactly. Which means they’ll reach. And when they do, you cannot let them shake you. They’ll act like you’re the ones on trial. But you’re not. Liberty High is.”

You swallowed hard. “They’ll come for everything. Even the little things. Even me.”

Olivia’s expression softened, but her voice didn’t lose its edge. “Yes. And that’s why we do this together. Because they’re not just scared of the truth — they’re scared of both of you standing up and saying it out loud.”

Scott exhaled sharply, his grip on your hand tightening. “They’ll be scared because they’re going to lose.”

Olivia leaned forward, reaching across the table to rest her hand over both of yours. Her warmth was grounding, steadying. “Exactly. And you won’t face them alone. Not now. Not ever.”

The words landed heavy but comforting. For a moment, you let yourself breathe.

Scott, though, sat a little straighter, his eyes locked on Olivia’s. “Then let’s make them afraid.”

Dinner was long over, the house dipped into silence except for the faint hum of the heater. Upstairs, your room glowed faintly from the lamp on your desk, but you and Scott were tangled up beneath the blankets, cocooned in your own little world.

For once, Liberty High, Monty, Bryce, lawyers, and lawsuits felt far away. It was just the two of you, pressed so close together you could feel each other’s breaths.

Scott whispered into your ear, voice low and husky, “Do you ever think about Halloween?”

A grin tugged at your lips against his skin. “Constantly.”

His hands slid down your waist, fingertips pressing just enough to make your stomach flip. “The way you looked in that skeleton bodysuit…” His voice trailed off like it was dangerous just to remember.

You nipped lightly at his neck, murmuring, “You mean the way you looked like every firefighter fantasy I’ve ever had?”

Scott chuckled, though it came out breathless. “You were trying to kill me that night.”

You leaned closer, whispering hot against his ear, “I almost did. You were desperate to get me alone.”

His laugh broke into a groan as you shifted against him. “You weren’t exactly fighting me.”

You kissed him deeply then, your hand curling into his hoodie, pulling him closer. The kiss was hungry but soft, the kind that made your chest ache in the best way. When you pulled back just enough to breathe, your voice came out in a whisper. “I wanted you so badly that night. And every night since.”

Scott’s head fell back against the pillow, his breathing ragged, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“That’s the goal,” you teased, lips brushing his again.

Just as the moment threatened to blur into something deeper, the hallway floor creaked. A door down the hall opened. Both of you froze instantly, stifling your laughter into each other’s shoulders like kids caught sneaking cookies.

Scott groaned softly into your hair. “Your parents are worse than a guard dog sometimes.”

You stifled a giggle. “We are cursed.”

He pulled you closer until your foreheads touched, both of you shaking with suppressed laughter. For a long while, you stayed like that — two boys caught between chaos and quiet, stealing whatever safety you could in the small space between.

Later, when the house was silent again, Scott lay awake beside you, staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. A text from Justin.

Justin: Still breathing?

Scott smiled faintly, thumbs moving slowly across the screen.

Scott: Barely. But yeah.
Justin: You’re stronger than you think. Don’t let them break you.
Scott: Miss you, brother.
Justin: Miss you too.

Scott set the phone down, rolled onto his side, and kissed your temple. His arms curled around you like they could hold back the whole world.

For tonight, they did.

Chapter Text

Words~1996

—-

The air was colder than usual that morning, the kind of sharp November chill that carried the promise of winter without the comfort of snow. Clouds pressed low over Liberty High, heavy and unmoving, as if the whole sky was waiting to break.

Scott’s hand was tight in yours as you crossed the parking lot. Too tight. His grip wasn’t just about closeness; it was about holding something together before it fell apart. His phone buzzed once in his pocket, and when he pulled it out, the glowing date on the lock screen felt like a spotlight.

November 25th.
Exactly one month until Christmas.

You breathed it out before you could stop yourself. “One month.”

Scott glanced sideways at you. “Until what?”

You hesitated, then said quietly, “Christmas.”

He slowed, like the word itself weighed more than it should. “Yeah. Four weeks.”

Your throat tightened. “It’s gonna be weird this year.”

Scott stopped walking. The knot in his shoulders loosened instantly when he turned to you, like he already knew where you were going.

“My first Christmas without Hannah,” you admitted, your voice breaking on the name. “She used to start blasting Christmas music before Thanksgiving. Just to annoy me.”

Scott’s faint smile was heavy with grief. “Yeah… she was the worst DJ. Couldn’t even make a playlist without sneaking in at least three Mariah Carey songs. But… she always made it feel like Christmas started early.”

You blinked fast, fighting the sting in your eyes. “The house feels so empty without her.”

He pulled you into his chest right there between the cars, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him upright. His breath was warm against your hair. “I know, baby. We’ll get through it. Together.”

You tilted your head up, searching his face. “Promise?”

He whispered it back without hesitation, his voice low and steady. “Promise.”

The date still glowed on his phone when he slid it back into his pocket. But now, instead of November 25th staring back at you like a countdown, all you could focus on was the weight of his arms around you.

The storm was still coming. But for the moment, you weren’t facing it alone.

By the time you and Scott reached the courtyard, the world felt a little louder again. Students buzzed around, their voices carrying through the crisp November air. But you only had eyes for the group waiting at the benches.

Zoey sat perched on the backrest like a queen on her throne, scrolling on her phone with one hand and holding a steaming coffee in the other. Sheri and Jess flanked her on either side, laughing at something she had just said. Clay and Tony leaned against the table, mid-conversation.

Zoey looked up as soon as you two appeared. Her lips curled into a grin. “Look who finally made it. Thought maybe you got lost in the parking lot.”

You nudged Scott with your shoulder. “Had to convince him not to snap his steering wheel in half before we even parked.”

Zoey raised her brows dramatically. “Seriously, bro. Do you ever not stress?”

Scott groaned, already burying his face in one hand. “Why am I always the punchline?”

“Because you’re like a golden retriever with anxiety,” you shot back instantly.

Zoey clapped her hands together once. “Exactly! Adorable, loyal, but always five seconds from spiraling.”

Tony chuckled. “They’re not wrong, man.”

Sheri reached out and patted Scott’s knee. “We only roast you because we love you, Scotty.”

Scott spread his arms wide like he was appealing to the universe. “Why do I even let you two hang out? You’ve turned into a tag team against me.”

You and Zo exchanged a glance, then smirked in perfect sync. “Because you secretly love the attention.”

Scott groaned louder. “This is a nightmare.”

Clay smirked faintly. “You walked right into it.”

Jess sipped her coffee, her grin sharp. “This is why I love mornings.”

And for a brief, impossible moment, the heaviness of November lifted. The laughter felt real, warm, almost like Christmas mornings used to—messy, chaotic, but safe.

But the lightness didn’t last. Not when Monty and Bryce appeared at the far end of the courtyard, moving toward your group like predators who had found their prey.

Zoey noticed them first. She set her coffee cup down slowly, her expression hardening as her sunglasses slid into place.

The storm was back.

The shift in the air was instant. Conversations nearby hushed, students slowing their steps as Monty and Bryce made their way across the courtyard like they owned it.

“Zoey!” Bryce called out smoothly, his voice carrying. “Looking gorgeous as always. Switzerland did you good.”

Zoey didn’t even look fazed. She slid her phone into her jacket pocket and lifted her chin. “Still trying way too hard, Bryce. Tragic, really.”

A ripple of laughter flickered across the courtyard, but Monty only smirked wider as he stepped closer. “You’ve been playing hard to get all week, Zo. But we both know what you really want.”

Scott’s entire body tensed beside you, his hand crushing yours. You whispered sharply, “Stay with me, Scotty. Don’t give them what they want.”

But Bryce wasn’t finished. “Your brother’s too busy playing house to protect you anyway. I mean… someone’s gotta keep you company.”

The words sliced through Scott like glass. You felt the tremor in his grip. He was seconds from snapping.

Zoey, though, didn’t flinch. Her voice cut clean, icy. “If you think anyone here buys that fantasy, you’re even dumber than you look.”

Monty tilted his head, smirking nastily. “I bet you like it rough. Little rich girl pretending to be all pure. But we both know you’re just waiting for someone to show you how it’s done.”

The crowd around you gasped.

Zoey didn’t blink. “You sound like someone describing his own diary, Monty. Maybe you should keep that fantasy locked up where it belongs.”

A low murmur of approval swept through the students nearby. Monty’s smirk faltered.

Then Bryce leaned in, his voice darker. “Come on, Zo. Maybe you’d fit right in at one of my parties. Jess did.”

The world went still.

Jess’s voice sliced the silence. “Zo is not going to become your next rape victim.”

She said it loud. Clear. Unshakable.

Gasps erupted. Students froze mid-step. Whispers exploded like wildfire across the courtyard. Even the usual crowd around Bryce and Monty went pale, shifting back.

Monty’s face twisted with rage. Bryce looked momentarily rattled, his smirk cracking.

And that was the moment Scott tore free of your hand.

Scott didn’t even hear you yell his name. One second he was trembling beside you, the next he was across the courtyard with his fist colliding square into Bryce’s jaw.

The crack echoed. Bryce staggered back, crashing into a picnic table with a grunt. The courtyard erupted into screams, phones whipping into the air to record.

“SCOTTY!” you shouted, rushing forward, but he was already turning on Monty.

Monty swung first, sloppy and furious, catching Scott on the cheek. The crowd gasped — but Scott barely flinched. He grabbed Monty by the hoodie, yanking him forward and slamming him into the edge of the table.

“Say one more thing about my sister!” Scott roared, his voice breaking under the weight of everything he’d been holding in.

Monty shoved back, but Scott was relentless. Fists flew, wild and raw, years of rage pouring out all at once. Bryce tried to lunge back in, but Clay of all people threw himself between them, shouting, “Enough!”

Tony was there too, grabbing Scott around the chest from behind, straining to pull him off. “Scotty! Stop, man! You’ll ruin everything!”

But Scott’s eyes were wild, unfocused, locked only on Monty like the rest of the world had disappeared.

You pushed through the chaos, grabbing Scott’s face between your hands. “Scotty. Baby. Look at me.”

For a terrifying moment, he didn’t. His chest heaved, breath shallow, fists still clenched. Then his eyes found yours — wide, glossy, terrified.

“It’s over,” you whispered firmly, grounding him. “You did enough. You protected her.”

Zoey was suddenly at your side, steady and fierce. “We’ve got you, Scott. They’re not worth it.”

Security burst through the circle of students then, Mr. Porter booming, “ENOUGH! BACK UP! EVERYONE BACK!”

Guards yanked Bryce and Monty back, both of them cursing and thrashing. Scott sagged against Tony’s grip, still shaking, his knuckles raw.

Phones were still recording. Whispers still buzzing like static. But you could feel it in the air — the shift.

People weren’t whispering about Scott anymore. They were whispering about Monty and Bryce. About Jess’s words. About the truth.

And as Tony and Clay finally got Scott moving toward the office, you never let go of his hand. Not once.

The walls of Principal Bolan’s office felt tighter than usual, like the air itself was straining to hold in all the tension. The blinds were half-drawn, the hum of the fluorescent light above the only sound as you sat pressed close to Scott on the stiff leather chairs. His hand was still trembling in yours.

Jess, Sheri, Clay, and Zoey had been sent out into the hallway. It was just you, Scott, and the adults now.

Bolan stood near his desk, papers scattered everywhere like he’d already been preparing for the storm. Beside him sat Ms. Carlisle, the district’s lawyer, her pen tapping against a folder.

Then the door opened.

Richard Reed stepped in, tall, sharp-suited, carrying the weight of his name like a weapon. His jaw was set, his eyes cold, as if he had rehearsed the look of disappointment all the way here.

“Mr. Reed,” Bolan said, almost too eagerly. “Thank you for coming.”

Richard gave a curt nod, then turned his gaze on his son. “Scott.”

Scott flinched but forced his eyes up. “Dad.”

Bolan cleared his throat, stepping in quickly. “Scott, we understand you were… defending your sister. But this is the second violent incident in less than five weeks. There’s a pattern forming.”

Ms. Carlisle cut in, her voice sharp. “And the district cannot appear to condone that kind of behavior, especially given… your family’s ongoing actions against the school.” Her gaze flicked toward you.

Scott’s chest heaved. “They wouldn’t stop. They were going after Zoey. After Jess. I couldn’t—”

“You played right into their hands,” Richard interrupted, his tone razor-sharp. He stepped forward, looming over Scott. “Colleges won’t care who started it. They’ll see the fights. The headlines. The liability. You’re sabotaging yourself, your career, and this family’s name.”

Scott’s voice cracked, raw. “I don’t care about the name!”

The words sliced through the room. Everyone froze.

“I care about my sister. About my boyfriend. About my friends. Not about being your puppet.”

Richard’s jaw clenched. His hand twitched at his side like he was holding back more. “You’re throwing your future away for this.”

“No,” Scott said, finally sitting taller. His voice shook, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I’m saving myself from turning into you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Bolan quickly broke it, trying to sound controlled. “Given the circumstances, Scott, we’re assigning you one week of detention. You’ll remain eligible for baseball. But one more incident… there won’t be leniency.”

Scott nodded faintly. “Yes, sir.”

Richard exhaled sharply, like the decision itself was an insult. But he didn’t speak again. He simply turned, his footsteps echoing as he stormed out of the office without so much as a glance back at his son.

Scott sat there, hollow. You reached over, cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes were wet, glassy, but steady.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you whispered. “You protected Zoey. You spoke the truth.”

His lip trembled. “Then why does it feel like I just lost everything?”

You pressed your forehead against his. “Because you care. But you didn’t lose me. You’ll never lose me.”

He closed his eyes, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

Chapter Text

Words~2540

—-

The soft December light filtered through the curtains in thin streaks, pale and hesitant, as though the sun itself wasn’t sure it wanted to rise on this day. You stirred first, your cheek pressed into the warmth of Scotty’s shoulder. His arm was draped over your waist, heavy and protective, but even in sleep his grip was tight — like he was holding on to you against something bigger than either of you.

For a long moment, you let him rest. His breathing was shallow, uneven, the kind that betrayed how little rest he actually found anymore. Every night he drifted into dreams that weren’t really dreams — more like fractured echoes of locker slurs, courtroom questions, and his father’s sharp voice.

You brushed your fingers softly through his hair, trying to smooth out the knots of tension that never seemed to leave. “Scotty,” you whispered. “Time to wake up.”

His lashes fluttered open slowly. His eyes were already carrying the weight of what was ahead. “Morning,” he said, voice low and rough.

“Morning,” you whispered back, leaning in to kiss his forehead. You didn’t want to say the words, but they hung in the air anyway: It’s today.

Scotty swallowed. “Yeah. Trial prep.” His breath hitched, the reality crashing into him again. “Last one before… everything starts.”

You nodded, keeping your voice soft. “We’ll do it together.”

For a second, his mask cracked. His eyes closed, and his forehead rested against yours. “I’m scared I’ll screw up.”

“You won’t,” you whispered fiercely, your hand tightening on his chest. “And even if you stumble, we’ll catch you. You’re not alone in this.”

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it trembled. “Promise?”

“Promise,” you said, brushing your nose against his.

The quiet between you was heavy, but not empty. It was full of every unspoken fear, every ounce of love, every thread of strength you were trying to weave together to hold yourselves steady.

Finally, he sat up, raking a hand through his messy hair. “Okay,” he muttered, trying to ground himself. “Let’s do it.”

The walk downstairs felt different that morning. The familiar comfort of your house — the framed photos, the smell of coffee brewing, the muffled sound of your mom moving in the kitchen — all seemed muted, like the entire place was holding its breath right alongside you.

Scotty’s hand found yours again on the last step. His palm was warm but damp, his thumb moving nervously against your skin. You gave it one firm squeeze.

“We’re going to face it together,” you whispered again.

And though his jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff, and his eyes clouded with dread, he nodded. “Together.”

dining room had been transformed into something that felt more like a courtroom than a family space. Stacks of papers, binders, and legal pads covered the table, neatly organized into lines and categories only Dennis Vasquez could truly understand. A half-empty pot of coffee steamed quietly between the mess.

Your dad stood near the window, arms crossed, staring out like he could solve the case by sheer force of will. Your mom moved between the counter and table, placing mugs of coffee down like it was armor for the coming battle.

Dennis was already seated, flipping through his notes with that calm, sharp expression that always seemed to carry both reassurance and warning.

“Morning,” your mom greeted softly when you and Scotty stepped in. She pulled you both into hugs — lingering on Scotty just a second longer, her hand rubbing his back gently. “Eat something before we start. You’ll need the energy.”

“Morning,” Scotty murmured, his voice small.

Your dad turned from the window, his eyes heavy but steady. He gave Scotty a nod, the kind of nod that wasn’t casual at all but carried a weight of respect. “Good to see you, son.”

Scotty nodded back, jaw tight, his hand gripping yours under the table as you both sat down.

Dennis exhaled, setting his papers aside. “Alright. This is it — the final prep before we walk into court. Today, you’ll hear the worst of what they’re going to throw at you. And I need you to remember that none of it defines you.”

The room grew still, his words sinking into the walls.

“They’ll start with Hannah,” Dennis said, his tone clipped but gentle. “They’ll argue the school couldn’t have prevented her suicide. That she was unstable. That no one saw any warning signs.”

Your mom’s jaw clenched as she sat straighter, her hands curling tightly around her coffee cup.

“They’ll paint Liberty as blameless,” Dennis continued, his eyes now on your father. “They’ll suggest the Bakers are lashing out in grief. They’ll say this lawsuit is about blame, not justice.”

Your father’s voice was low but sharp. “We’re not blaming. We’re demanding accountability.”

Dennis nodded. “And that’s what we’ll make clear.”

His gaze shifted to you and Scotty. “But then they’ll come for you both.”

Scotty stiffened beside you. You gripped his hand tighter.

“They’ll frame your relationship as a liability,” Dennis said. “They’ll argue your testimonies are clouded by romance and bias. That you’re too emotionally attached to testify objectively.”

Scotty’s voice cracked faintly. “We tell the truth. That’s all.”

“And that’s all you need to do,” Dennis replied gently. “But the defense will twist it. They’ll imply things without saying them outright — that Scott’s struggles with his sexuality makes him unstable. That the two of you are attention-seekers.”

Your heart thudded painfully. Scotty blinked rapidly, but he kept his face forward, his breathing shallow.

“They’ll bring up the fights,” Dennis went on. “The locker room, the courtyard. Two public incidents in under two months. They’ll argue Scott has violent tendencies. That he’s reckless.”

Scotty finally spoke, his voice trembling. “I was protecting Zo.”

Your dad finally moved closer, planting his hand firmly on Scotty’s shoulder. “And we’ll remind them of that. You stood up for your sister. That doesn’t make you violent. It makes you decent.”

Scotty’s throat worked as he blinked hard, holding back tears.

Dennis softened his tone now. “But they will push. They will provoke. They’ll want you angry, Scott. They’ll want you to crack.”

Scotty whispered, “I don’t know if I can stay calm when they drag Hannah’s name through the dirt. Or… or his.” He glanced at you quickly.

You squeezed his hand fiercely. “Then you look at me. Every time. You focus on me, not them.”

Dennis gave a small nod. “Exactly. You two are each other’s anchor. Use that.”

The room felt suffocating with the weight of it all, but underneath it, there was something else — a thread of quiet determination weaving between you all, holding you together.

“Remember,” your mom whispered, her voice breaking but strong. “They’re afraid. That’s why they’re fighting so hard. They know we have the truth.”

Scotty let out a shaky breath, leaning slightly into your side, as though drawing strength from you. “Then let’s make them listen to it.”

The weight of the morning still clung to Scotty’s shoulders as he zipped up his jacket. He stood by the door, bag slung loosely over his arm, looking smaller than you’d seen him in weeks.

“I need to grab the last of my stuff,” he said quietly.

You reached for his hand. “I can come.”

He shook his head gently, eyes avoiding yours. “I’ll be quicker on my own. I’ll just… get in and get out.”

Your stomach twisted. “Scotty—”

“I’ll be fine,” he promised, though the crack in his voice betrayed him. He leaned down and kissed your temple, lingering just a second longer than usual. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

You watched him walk down the steps, every nerve in your body screaming not to let him go. But you stayed, trusting him to face this one last time.

⸻

The Reed house was quiet when Scotty pushed open the door. Too quiet.
He set his bag down just inside, his breath fogging faintly in the cold air of the living room. The silence pressed against his ears like static.

“Scott.”

His father’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp as a blade. Richard Reed stood in the doorway to his study, posture rigid, expression unreadable. He looked like he’d been waiting.

“I’m just here to grab my stuff,” Scotty said flatly, already heading toward the stairs.

Richard stepped forward. “You’ve made quite a spectacle of yourself these past weeks.”

Scotty froze halfway up. “I don’t care.”

“You should.” His father’s voice carried that practiced chill, the tone he used in boardrooms and booster club meetings. “This lawsuit. Those fights. That boy. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your name? To ours?”

Scotty turned slowly, his jaw tight. “My name is mine. Not yours.”

Richard’s face hardened. “Your future is mine to protect. And you’re throwing it away with every choice you make.”

Scotty’s voice cracked. “You mean because I’m with him.”

“Because you’re distracted. Undisciplined. Weak.”

The words landed like blows. Scotty’s fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving.

“I’m not weak,” he snapped. “You just don’t like that I’m not you.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like that you’re embarrassing yourself. Embarrassing this family.”

Scotty’s breath hitched, hot tears stinging his eyes. “You want to know what’s embarrassing? You. Pretending to be a father when all you’ve ever been is a critic.”

His father stepped closer, his voice dropping into something darker. “Watch yourself.”

“No,” Scotty barked, his voice breaking now. “I won’t. Not anymore.” He swallowed hard, the words spilling out raw. “You didn’t love me when Mom died. You don’t love me now. At least she would’ve been proud of me.”

Richard’s face twitched, his jaw tightening like he’d been struck. His hand flexed at his side — a flash of something dangerous — but he stopped himself.

Scotty’s voice dropped to a whisper, trembling but steady. “She loved me. Even when I wasn’t perfect. Even when I was just… me. That’s more than you ever did.”

The silence stretched, thick and poisonous.

Finally, Scotty grabbed his bag from the stairs. “I’m done here.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He pushed out the door, the cold air hitting his face like freedom, like grief, like everything at once.

⸻

By the time he stepped back into the Bakers’ house, his hands were still shaking, his face pale. You and Zoey rushed toward him instantly.

“Scotty?” Zo whispered, reaching for him.

His voice cracked as the tears finally spilled over. “I… I can’t go back there.”

You wrapped your arms around him from behind as Zoey clung to his front, both of you holding him up as he broke.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered fiercely into his shoulder. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

Scotty’s whole body trembled, but for the first time, he let himself collapse fully into your arms.

The house had settled into that winter hush, where the walls seemed to breathe with you. Dinner dishes sat rinsed in the sink. The lamps in the living room glowed warm against the early dark outside.

You, Scotty, and Zoey sat curled together on the couch under a pile of blankets. Scotty’s hair was damp from a too-long shower, his hoodie hanging loose on him. His eyes were still swollen, but his breathing had finally slowed.

Zoey leaned against his shoulder, her hand brushing his arm gently. “You know,” she said softly, “you don’t have to be the strong one all the time.”

Scotty let out a hollow laugh. “Feels like I’ve been playing that part forever.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Then retire. We’ve got you.”

Zoey nodded firmly. “Exactly. You’ve been carrying everything since Mom died. Baseball. Dad’s pressure. Protecting me. Protecting him.” She nodded at you with a faint smile. “It’s too much for one person.”

Scotty swallowed hard. “If I let go… I don’t know what happens. What if it all falls apart?”

You squeezed his hand tighter. “Then we build it back up. Together.”

Zoey shifted so she was facing him fully now, her voice steadier. “Scott, you’ve always thought you had to earn love. Be the best. The perfect player. The perfect son. But that’s Dad’s lie, not the truth.”

Scotty blinked quickly, his jaw trembling.

“You don’t have to earn us,” Zo whispered. “You already have us.”

Silence fell, heavy but healing. Scotty finally let out a shuddering breath, leaning his head against hers.

You rested your forehead against his shoulder, your voice quiet but fierce. “You’ll never carry this alone again.”

Zoey nodded, her hand rubbing his back gently. “We’re your team now.”

For the first time that day, a flicker of something softened in Scotty’s expression. Not joy — not yet. But peace. A fragile peace, like the first breath after drowning.

The three of you stayed like that for a long time, the world outside forgotten. Just warmth. Just presence. Just love.

The quiet stretched, heavy but no longer suffocating. Scotty sat between you and Zoey like a worn-out soldier finally laying down his armor.

Zoey broke it with a small grin tugging at her lips. “You know, Dad really thought bringing me back here was going to fix you. His little miracle cure.”

Scotty groaned softly. “Don’t remind me.”

Zoey nudged him in the ribs. “Well, jokes on him. I’m not the same brat he shipped off to Switzerland.” She leaned back, folding her arms with mock pride. “He was probably banking on me falling in line, being all obedient, telling you to ditch Sam and run back to the golden-boy circle with Bryce.”

You snorted. “Yeah, that plan would’ve gone over so well.”

Zoey smirked, her eyes glittering. “Please. The new me? I’d rather set myself on fire than push my brother back toward those idiots.”

Scotty shook his head, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile despite himself. “You’re insane.”

“I’m effective,” Zoey shot back. “Dad wanted me as a chess piece, but he got a queen instead. And I’m going to make sure he regrets every second of thinking he could control me.”

You raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Dangerous.”

Zoey winked at you. “You like it.”

Scotty groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Why do you two team up against me every chance you get?”

Zoey and you exchanged a mischievous glance over his head. In perfect unison, you both said:
“Because it’s fun.”

Scotty peeked through his fingers, finally letting out a broken laugh. For the first time that day, the sound wasn’t hollow. It was real.

Zoey softened then, her hand resting over his. “Seriously though, big brother… you don’t have to fight Dad alone. If he wants a war, he gets both of us. And trust me, I’ve got plenty of ammo.”

Scotty’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes shining. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Zoey whispered, squeezing his hand.

You leaned against his shoulder, whispering gently, “You deserve us. Always.”

The three of you sat there, cocooned in the warm living room light, knowing the storm outside wasn’t gone. But for tonight, you weren’t just surviving it — you were together, strong, and ready to fight back.

Chapter Text

Words~1470
—-

The pale December light seeped quietly through the curtains, softly brushing across the twisted sheets and flushed skin. The world outside was heavy, full of dread, but in this room, time hadn’t started yet. Not for you. Not for him.

The trial would begin today — a storm months in the making — but for now, only this moment existed. The warm weight of Scotty’s body draped over your chest, his arm clinging tightly around your waist, breathing steady but shallow as he slept.

Even in sleep, you could feel the tension inside him — coiled tight under the surface. His body instinctively pressed closer to yours, subconsciously seeking your warmth, your steadiness. His safety.

You gently combed your fingers through his messy dark hair, admiring how soft he always felt in these early hours. As your touch lingered, his lashes fluttered open, sleepy brown eyes meeting yours. That same small, breathless smile bloomed across his face like it always did whenever he saw you first thing in the morning.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice rough and hoarse from sleep.

“Hey, baby.” You kissed his forehead softly, your lips brushing over his heated skin. “You okay?”

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling against your neck. “Trying.”

Your hand slid across his back, fingertips tracing the dips of his spine. “We’ve got this,” you whispered. “But first… let me take care of you.”

The ghost of a grin flickered across his lips. “Always so convincing.”

“You’re not exactly hard to convince,” you teased, letting your hand roam lower, grazing his ass lightly under the sheets.

Instantly, his hips jerked slightly against your thigh, and you could feel him already growing hard between your bodies.

A breathy chuckle escaped you. “Look at you. Barely awake and already so desperate for me.”

“Don’t act like you’re not just as bad,” he whispered, smirking up at you.

You pressed your lips against his again, and the kiss deepened quickly. His hand slid to your face, pulling you closer as your tongues met, mouths hot and hungry. That slow-burning fire that always existed between you was already surging higher with every heartbeat.

The tension crackled. The need was instant.

You rolled him onto his back in one smooth motion, hovering above him now as his eyes widened, cheeks flushed with color.

“Let me be in control this morning,” you murmured darkly. “I want to take you apart.”

His breath hitched as he whispered, “Yes, please.”

You sat back on your knees, gripping the waistband of his sweats and pulling them off, revealing his already flushed, leaking cock. His head fell back as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking him slowly, savoring the whimpers that immediately spilled from his lips.

“Such a good boy for me,” you praised softly.

You leaned down, licking a long stripe up his shaft, swirling your tongue around the head as he moaned desperately, hips twitching into your mouth.

You didn’t stop there. You sucked him deep, feeling him hit the back of your throat as he gasped, his hands gripping your hair, but never forcing—just needing the contact.

“Fuck, baby—fuck,” he gasped. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pulled back with a loud pop, looking up at him while stroking him slowly. “You love when I ruin you.”

“Yeah—yeah, I do,” he whimpered, his voice already wrecked.

You crawled back up his body, kissing him deeply while your slicked hand kept working his cock, keeping him on edge.

“Turn over for me,” you whispered.

Scotty obeyed, flipping onto his stomach with practiced ease, arching his hips up, ass perfectly on display for you. You took a moment just to admire him, your own cock already painfully hard.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” you growled.

You slicked yourself up, your hands spreading him apart gently. You teased his hole with your fingers first, slowly easing two inside, carefully working him open as his whimpers filled the air.

“Fuck—more, baby—please,” he begged, pressing back into your hand.

Once you felt him ready, you lined yourself up and pushed inside, slowly, inch by inch, letting him feel every stretch as you filled him completely.

Both of you groaned as you bottomed out, fully sheathed inside him, his heat gripping you tightly.

“God… you feel incredible,” you whispered.

“Fill me up, baby,” he gasped, voice high and breathless.

You started to move, your pace deliberate at first — deep, slow strokes that had his body rocking forward with every thrust. He let out long, broken moans with every push.

As your rhythm picked up, you leaned over him, pressing your chest to his back, whispering filth into his ear between thrusts.

“You love getting fucked like this first thing in the morning, don’t you?” you growled softly.

“Y-yes,” he sobbed. “Fuck—yes. I’m yours.”

You slammed into him harder now, your hips snapping forward as your pace grew rougher. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, his moans growing louder and more desperate.

Then, you slowed again—pulling out nearly completely before slamming back in, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

But suddenly, as you rocked inside him, you paused—feeling him clench intentionally, grinding his hips backward with expert rhythm. Teasing you.

“Oh?” you chuckled darkly, loving his little act of rebellion beneath you. “You trying to make me lose control?”

Scotty looked over his shoulder, eyes sparkling, voice trembling. “Maybe I wanna see you fall apart too.”

Your pulse pounded harder at the challenge.

“You wanna play it like that?” you whispered darkly, pulling out of him slowly. “Fine.”

You flipped him onto his back again, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head as you straddled his hips, both of you breathless, fully hard, leaking, desperate.

“I’ll give you something to scream about,” you promised.

You lined yourself up once again, pushing back inside him while watching his face closely, his mouth falling open in a perfect gasp as you filled him all over again.

His body shuddered beneath you, his legs wrapping around your waist now, drawing you even deeper.

“Fuck—yes—fuck—” he sobbed, head thrown back as his whole body trembled.

You thrust harder, relentless now, pounding into him as your sweat-slicked bodies collided over and over again. The headboard rocked against the wall, the sound of your bodies echoing around the room.

Your hand moved down between his legs, stroking his cock firmly as your rhythm never faltered. His breath hitched, his voice cracking.

“I—I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cum—”

“Do it,” you growled into his ear. “Cum for me, baby. Show me how good I fuck you.”

With a broken cry of your name, Scotty came hard, his cum spilling across his chest and stomach in long, hot ropes as his body convulsed beneath you.

The way he pulsed around you as he came nearly unraveled you — but you weren’t finished yet.

You pulled out quickly, breathing hard. Scotty was still trembling, but when he saw you stroking yourself, fully flushed and desperate, he instinctively shifted, immediately dropping onto his knees at the edge of the bed.

His flushed face looked up at you, his tongue teasingly running along his lips.

“Please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Cum for me, baby. On my face.”

You groaned deeply at the sight — his wrecked, needy expression driving you over the edge.

Your hand pumped faster, muscles tightening, and with a deep, desperate moan, you exploded, thick ropes of cum spilling across his face — coating his lips, chin, and tongue as he eagerly took every drop he could, his eyes fluttering as he swallowed what landed on his tongue.

When your orgasm finally subsided, you let your hand drop, breathless and spent.

Scotty licked his lips slowly, his eyes still glazed with bliss.

“You look so fucking good like that,” you rasped, pulling him into a messy, deep kiss despite the mess between you.

You could taste yourself on his lips as your tongues tangled lazily, both of you riding the last waves of the high together.

Finally, you collapsed beside him on the bed, pulling him tightly into your arms, your bodies still slick and trembling.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice hoarse but tender.

You kissed his forehead gently. “I love you too, baby.”

Then, with a mischievous grin curling at your lips, you whispered softly into his ear:

“You know… there’s a trial happening out there today, but this morning? We just had a private trial right here. And I think your body knows exactly who won.”

Scotty flushed instantly, his laugh breathless as he buried his face in your neck. “Jesus… you’re insane.”

You chuckled. “Insatiable, actually.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around you, grounding himself once again before the weight of the outside world came crashing in.

And for those final precious minutes before the storm hit — it was just you. And him.

Safe. Together.

Chapter Text

Wprds~1790

—-

The room still smelled of sweat, heat, and something sweeter—safety. The sheets were tangled at your waists, your skin sticky where it pressed together. Scotty lay draped across your chest, his cheek flushed, his breaths uneven as though his body hadn’t fully caught up with what you’d just done.

Your hand moved lazily through his damp hair, combing through the messy strands. The world outside was sharp and demanding, but here, in this stolen hour, it was only the two of you.

“Mm,” Scotty murmured against your chest, his voice wrecked and soft. “We’re definitely going to hell.”

You smirked, lips brushing his temple. “Worth it.”

He let out a quiet laugh, though his fingers trembled slightly where they rested against your ribs. That tremor wasn’t from passion—it was nerves creeping back in. You felt it in him, the storm pressing at the door.

“We should get up,” he whispered, though neither of you moved.

“Yeah,” you said, kissing the top of his head. “But I like it better here.”

For a few more seconds, silence. Just breathing. Just warmth. Just the illusion that time had stopped.

When he finally lifted his head, you caught the sight of him—messy hair falling into his eyes, lips swollen, faint red marks still running down his back where your nails had dragged. He was utterly, devastatingly undone.

You grinned before you could stop yourself.

“What?” he asked, instantly flushing deeper.

“Nothing,” you teased, leaning closer. “Just thinking how completely unfair it is that you look this good ruined.”

His ears burned crimson. “Stop.”

“Stop what? Stating facts?”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed him.

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone. “And you love every impossible piece of me.”

“Unfortunately,” he said again, but softer this time, almost reverent.

You kissed him—slow this time, not hungry, but grounding. “We’ve got this,” you whispered.

His hazel eyes softened. “Together?”

“Always.”

And with that, you both finally pulled yourselves out of the cocoon you’d built, the warmth of the morning still clinging to your skin like armor against the day that waited.

By the time you and Scotty pulled on fresh clothes and padded downstairs, the air in the Bakers’ house had already shifted. Gone was the quiet warmth of the bedroom; the dining room felt more like a war room.

Dennis Vasquez sat at the head of the table, a neat stack of files opened in front of him like weapons arranged for battle. Your mom moved between the kitchen and the table with her usual controlled calm, refilling mugs of coffee and sliding legal pads into place. Your dad stood by the window, arms folded, pacing every few minutes like he was rehearsing arguments in his head.

The shift in atmosphere hit Scotty hardest. His hand brushed against yours as you crossed the threshold, his fingers trembling just slightly. You squeezed them, anchoring him before Mr. Baker’s voice broke the silence.

“You boys ready?”

The words landed heavier than they should.

You froze for half a second, and like clockwork, so did Scotty. The two of you exchanged one quick glance, both remembering what “ready” had looked like less than an hour ago—him kneeling between your legs, flushed and breathless, whispering your name.

Scotty bit down on his lip, a faint laugh almost escaping before he smothered it. You felt your own mouth twitching, dangerously close to giving away the memory.

“Yeah, Dad,” you said, clearing your throat, your voice just a little too steady. “We’re ready.”

Mrs. Baker’s head snapped up instantly, her eyes narrowing with the kind of suspicion only moms could weaponize.

“Everything okay?” she asked slowly.

“Yeah!” you both blurted at the same time. Too fast. Too loud.

Dennis didn’t lift his eyes from his notes, though you swore you saw the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips.

Scotty stumbled over an excuse. “We’re just… nervous. Trial nerves.”

“Mm-hm.” Mrs. Baker’s gaze lingered on the two of you a beat too long, sliding down to Scotty’s still-flushed cheeks and the faint marks on his neck. Her lips pressed into a thin line, then parted just enough to mutter, “Oh my god.”

Scotty’s eyes went wide. “O-Olivia—”

“Scott,” she cut him off, holding up a hand, “I do not need details. Not today.”

Your dad finally turned from the window, blissfully unaware. “Then let’s get started.”

Dennis cleared his throat, pulling everyone’s attention back to the files. “Today’s about worst-case scenarios. I’m going to walk you both through everything the defense will try to throw at you. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll prepare you for when they come for blood.”

The levity evaporated instantly.

You and Scotty slid into your seats side by side. His hand found yours beneath the table, gripping tight. You gave it one firm squeeze before facing forward.

“Let’s do this,” you said quietly.

The prep dragged until the walls of your dining room felt like they were closing in. By the time Dennis finally snapped his file shut, you felt wrung out — like you’d been through the trial already.

Scotty grabbed his jacket, his face pale, shoulders tight. He didn’t say much, just clutched your hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

Your mom hugged you both at the door, her voice steady even as her eyes shone. “Remember: they want to rattle you. Don’t let them.”

Your dad squeezed Scotty’s shoulder, strong and firm. “Head high, Scott. No shame in telling the truth.”

Dennis led the way out to the car, his briefcase swinging at his side like a weapon.

The ride to the courthouse was silent, heavy. Outside the windows, December skies were a washed-out gray. The streets blurred past, ordinary life continuing while yours was about to be dissected under a microscope.

Scotty’s knee bounced restlessly, his fingers trembling in your grasp. You leaned close, whispering, “Hey.”

His eyes darted to yours. Nervous. Wide.

“You’re still the strongest person I know,” you said softly.

That earned you the faintest curve of a smile — broken, but real. “Even now?”

“Especially now,” you whispered back.

The car slowed, turning into the courthouse lot. Already you could see them: reporters clustered near the steps, cameras slung over shoulders, notepads ready. The buzz of their voices carried even through the closed windows.

Scotty stiffened instantly. His grip on your hand grew almost painful.

You squeezed back just as tightly. “Together, remember?”

He nodded once, sharp, like he was forcing himself to believe it.

The doors opened. Cold air rushed in. Flashes popped the second Dennis stepped out, and then all eyes were on you and Scotty.

“Scott! Over here!”
“Scott, is it true you attacked Montgomery de la Cruz last week?”
“Are you and Hannah Baker’s brother testifying together?”
“Do you believe Liberty High is responsible for Hannah’s death?”

Questions flew like bullets. Flashes blinded.

Scotty’s breathing hitched, shallow. You slid your arm around his waist, grounding him, shielding him as best you could while Dennis guided you both up the steps.

Inside the courthouse, the air was colder still — sterile, humming with whispers and shuffling papers. Attorneys and staff moved briskly, voices clipped, the energy taut.

Dennis led you to the plaintiff’s table at the front of the courtroom. Every step made your pulse louder in your ears.

Scotty sat down beside you, his hand finding yours under the table instantly, clinging like he’d drown without it.

You leaned close, whispering so only he could hear: “Whatever happens, we face it together.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours. “Together.”

“All rise,” the bailiff called.

The entire room stood.

Judge Ramirez entered, robes sweeping, her expression calm but unreadable. She settled behind the bench, gavel in hand.

And just like that, the trial began.

The courtroom was suffocatingly still, the kind of silence where even the scratch of a pen sounded too loud. You sat pressed against Scotty’s side at the plaintiff’s table, but your whole body felt detached, like you were floating above it.

Judge Ramirez gave a nod. “Counsel, you may begin.”

Dennis rose. Calm. Grounded. Like he’d been rehearsing this moment with you for months.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “this is a case about accountability. About a school that ignored warning signs, about teachers and administrators who turned away when students were in pain. Hannah Baker was failed. And in the time since her death, my clients — her parents, her brother — and Scott Reed, have continued to be failed.”

Your throat tightened instantly at her name. Hannah. It echoed against the wood-paneled walls like it had weight, like it could crush you.

Dennis’s voice grew firmer: “This isn’t about money. This isn’t about headlines. This is about ensuring no more lives are silenced by neglect.”

You gripped Scotty’s hand so tightly it hurt, your fingernails biting into his skin. He didn’t flinch. His thumb moved against your palm in slow circles — anchoring you.

Then Ms. Carlisle stood, precise and cold as marble. “The Bakers’ grief is tragic. No one disputes that. But grief does not mean liability. Liberty High is not responsible for Hannah Baker’s choices. No one could have predicted her actions. The evidence will show the school took reasonable measures.”

Her words landed like glass shards. Choices. Her actions. Like Hannah had been nothing more than a reckless decision, like her pain hadn’t been real.

Your lungs burned. You bent forward slightly, squeezing your eyes shut, whispering through clenched teeth so only Scotty could hear: “She was more than a choice.”

Scotty pressed his forehead to your temple, whispering back: “I know. Don’t let them take her from you.”

But Ms. Carlisle wasn’t done.

“You will also hear testimony from Hannah’s younger brother, Sam Baker, and from Scott Reed. While heartfelt, their accounts are colored by bias, by personal emotion, and recent… incidents of volatility.”

You froze. The words wrapped around you like a noose. Bias. Volatility. They were already planting seeds, already painting you as unreliable.

For a moment, you felt yourself spiraling — like you were going to break right there in front of everyone.

Then Scotty’s hand clutched yours tighter, dragging you back. You forced your eyes open, forced your breath steady. You refused to give her what she wanted.

When Ms. Carlisle finally sat, the judge called for a short recess.

Around you, the courtroom filled with a low hum — papers shuffling, whispers, reporters scribbling notes about Hannah Baker’s choices.

You leaned closer to Scotty, your voice raw. “They can’t rewrite her. They don’t get to.”

He nodded, jaw tight, his other hand cupping the back of your neck. “We won’t let them. Together.”

Chapter Text

Words~

—-

The December air had that thin, icy bite to it — the kind that turned every breath into smoke and made your fingers stiff even through gloves. Two cars idled in your driveway, exhaust puffing into the cold morning.

Tony leaned against his Mustang, hands in his jacket pockets, keys twirling like it was any other Saturday drive and not what it really was: the road back to Justin.

Jess stood by her car — a slightly battered sedan with a pine tree air freshener dangling from the mirror. “We can’t all fit in Tony’s show pony,” she said, pointing her thumb at the Mustang. “So we’re doubling up. Couples get split. Deal with it.”

Scotty groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Please don’t tell me I’m riding with Clay.”

“You’re riding with Clay,” Zoey said instantly, sipping her coffee with a grin.

Clay rolled his eyes. “Wow. Like I’m the punishment seat.”

“Relax,” Sheri added, nudging him. “You’re just less noisy than these two.” She pointed between you and Scotty.

“Not fair,” Scotty protested. “We’re not noisy.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Scotty, last week you tried to convince me the words ‘firefighter suspenders’ are an aphrodisiac. At a stoplight.”

Jess slapped her car hood, laughing. “Yup. They’re in my car. No way am I surviving that for two hours.”

Tony jingled his keys. “So: Me, Clay, Scotty, Sheri in the Mustang. Jess, Sam, and Zo in the sedan. Sound good?”

Zoey grinned wickedly. “Perfect. I finally get Sam all to myself.”

Scotty’s head snapped toward her, mock glare already forming. “Zo.”

“What?” she teased, looping her arm through yours. “I just want to see what my new brother-in-law is like without my idiot brother clinging to him.”

“Hey!” Scotty objected.

You grinned, patting Scotty’s chest. “Don’t worry. We’ll gossip about you the entire ride.”

Zoey leaned closer. “Every embarrassing story.”

Scotty groaned. “This is sabotage.”

Jess smirked, already sliding into the driver’s seat. “Call it balance.”

The engines started. The caravan pulled out.

And even though the banter filled the air, and Zoey was already poking your ribs in the backseat, there was still that shared silence under it all — that quiet understanding of where you were headed.

The road stretched toward Oakland, lined with bare trees and frost. Scotty glanced back at your car once at a stoplight, his hand lifting slightly against the glass like he couldn’t stand being in a separate vehicle from you.

You mirrored it, palm against the cold window, and mouthed: Together.

He smiled — small, tired, but real. And the caravan rolled on.

The drive ended in silence. Even Zoey had stopped joking by the time Jess’s car rolled into the rehab center’s lot, Tony’s Mustang pulling in right beside it.

The building sat plain and square under the gray December sky — peach walls, narrow windows, a sign that had once been bright but now looked like it had weathered too many storms. Not a place meant to feel like home. More like a holding pattern.

Everyone climbed out, breath puffing in the cold air. Scarves tightened, jackets zipped higher. No one said it out loud, but it was written on every face: Don’t mess this up. Don’t make it heavier than it already is.

Scotty slipped his hand into yours almost automatically, his grip firm but trembling. You squeezed back. “We’ve got this,” you whispered.

Tony led the way, shoulders squared, as if walking into court instead of a family lounge. Sheri trailed close behind, Jess and Clay side by side. Zoey lingered at the back with you and Scotty, her eyes sharper than usual. She was scanning everything — the parking lot, the doors, the windows — like if she watched closely enough, she could keep her brother safe.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee. The nurse at the desk greeted Tony like she remembered him from before, then guided all of you down the hall. Shoes squeaked against the linoleum as the group filed into the lounge — that same room with plastic chairs, mismatched couches, and the vending machine that hummed like it was ready to give up.

And then the door opened.

Justin stepped in.

For a second, no one breathed.

He looked different. Not healed — not yet — but steadier than the last time. His posture straighter, his eyes clearer. There was still exhaustion in his face, shadows under his cheekbones, but there was also something new: a kind of fragile determination.

“Hey,” he said. Just one word.

Jess moved first. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t test the water. She crossed the room in two strides and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. The sound she made was somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“You’re late,” she whispered into his hoodie.

“I know,” Justin murmured back, his voice breaking. “Missed you, Jess.”

One by one, the others followed. Sheri gave him a soft smile and squeezed his hand. Clay offered a fist bump that turned into a hug when Justin didn’t let go. Tony clapped him on the back with a quiet, “Good to see you, man.”

Zoey hovered for half a beat before stepping forward, tilting her head. “You’re taller.”

“You’re meaner,” Justin shot back.

“Always have been.”

She grinned and hugged him too.

Then his eyes found yours. There was a pause — not hesitation, just recognition. The weight of all the missing time pressed between you. You didn’t wait. You just pulled him into a hug, breathing out the words, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Justin swallowed hard. “Didn’t think I’d make it this far.”

“You did,” you whispered.

Finally, Scotty stepped up. He stuck out a hand, but Justin yanked him into a hug instead.

“You’re still a dick,” Justin muttered, voice thick.

Scotty smirked faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

And for the first time in a long time, the room felt alive again.

Everyone drifted into their spots around the lounge like muscle memory — Jess perched on the armrest beside Justin, Sheri sinking into one of the plastic chairs with her bag on her lap, Clay leaning back awkwardly against the wall, Tony choosing the corner where he could see the whole room. Zoey sprawled like she owned the place, kicking one boot onto the edge of the coffee table.

You and Scotty ended up on the couch, his knee pressed firmly against yours. His hand stayed on your thigh, grounding himself through touch, like letting go would mean losing his balance.

Justin sat back in his chair, eyes flicking around nervously. He picked at the cuff of his hoodie, knuckles pale. “So… how’s Liberty?”

The question landed heavy. No one rushed to answer.

“Messy,” Sheri said finally, breaking the silence. “But when isn’t it?”

Justin smirked faintly. “Yeah, that sounds right.”

Jess leaned in, her voice gentler. “How’s it here?”

Justin shrugged, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Quiet. Boring. Which I guess is the point.” He let out a sharp breath. “Feels like the world’s been turned down to low volume.”

“That sounds kind of nice,” Clay said softly.

“Sometimes,” Justin admitted. “Other times it just feels empty. But I’m… filling it again. Little by little.”

Jess squeezed his hand, and his shoulders eased a fraction.

Zoey tilted her head. “So what’s the hardest part? Besides the cafeteria coffee, obviously.”

Justin actually laughed, short but real. “God, that stuff’s poison.” His face sobered, though, as he thought. “Honestly? Sitting with myself. Without the noise. Without the high. Just me. That’s… that’s the hardest part.”

The room went quiet. Everyone was listening, really listening.

Scotty leaned forward, his voice rough but steady. “You’re doing it, though. You’re here.”

Justin’s throat bobbed as he nodded. “Yeah. For now.”

Sheri offered a squashed granola bar from her bag. “For later,” she said with a small smile.

Zoey snatched it before Justin could. “This is a friendship tax.”

“Zoey!” Sheri gasped, swatting her.

Justin chuckled again, shaking his head. “God, I missed this.”

For a few minutes, the weight in the room lifted. The conversation turned soft, silly. Zoey told a dramatic story about a therapy goat she’d read about, Tony muttered something dry that made Clay laugh harder than he should’ve, and Jess leaned into Justin’s shoulder like no time had passed.

But under the laughter, the quiet truth lingered: Justin was still fragile. Still fighting. And all of you were holding that fight with him.

The laughter eventually faded, settling into the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, just heavy. The kind that meant there was more under the surface.

Justin stared at the floor for a long moment, his foot tapping against the linoleum. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“I was really scared none of you would come.”

Jess sat up straighter. “Justin—”

“No, I mean it,” he said quickly, shaking his head. His voice cracked. “I didn’t exactly leave on good terms. I said a lot of shit I shouldn’t have. I… I didn’t think anyone wanted to see me again.”

“You’re wrong,” Sheri said gently.

Justin’s jaw tightened. “Maybe. But it matters to me. I—” He swallowed hard. “I was drowning. And I ran. From everything. From you guys. From myself.”

Jess reached out, squeezing his hand firmly. “You were drowning. Now you’re swimming.”

Justin blinked fast, eyes glassy. He looked away, his voice rough. “Doesn’t feel like it most days.”

“You’re allowed to be messy and still be loved,” you said softly.

His gaze snapped to yours, like the words struck something raw in him. His lips parted, but before he could answer—

Zoey’s phone buzzed sharply against the coffee table. The sound sliced through the quiet like a blade.

She picked it up, glanced at the screen, and froze. Her face shifted instantly, the teasing mask gone. “It’s Dad.”

The room stilled.

Scotty stiffened beside you. His whole body tensed, jaw clenching so hard you heard the grind of his teeth.

Zoey rose slowly, walking toward the hallway. The group stayed frozen, every eye darting to Scotty.

Minutes later she returned, her voice careful. “Scotty. He… he wants to talk.”

“No.” The word shot out of him before she’d even finished.

Zoey’s brow furrowed. “You don’t have to, but—”

“I said no.” Scotty’s voice was sharp, shaking. His hands trembled against his knees.

“Scott,” Zoey tried again, lowering her voice, “he’s trying, okay?”

Scotty stood suddenly, the chair scraping hard against the floor. “Trying? He hasn’t called me in three weeks. Didn’t ask where I was sleeping. Didn’t care. And now he wants to talk? Because I’m a public embarrassment in the news?”

You reached for his arm gently, grounding him. “You don’t have to do this.”

His eyes flicked between you and Zoey, his chest heaving. Finally, he muttered, “…Maybe tomorrow.” Then he shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and stormed out into the hallway.

The door swung closed behind him, leaving the group in silence.

Justin whispered, voice breaking, “He’s still carrying all of it, isn’t he?”

You nodded faintly, your chest tight. “Yeah. He is.”

The evening air was colder than it should’ve been. The lot outside the rehab center buzzed faintly with the hum of a flickering streetlamp, empty except for Tony’s car parked by the curb.

You found Scotty leaning against the hood, his arms crossed tight against his chest, his eyes fixed on some faraway point like he was daring it not to blink. His breath came fast, his shoulders rigid.

You approached carefully. “Scotty.”

He didn’t look at you. His jaw flexed, knuckles white where they dug into his hoodie sleeves.

“Hey.” You touched his arm gently. “Talk to me.”

For a moment, nothing. Then his voice cracked like glass.

“I don’t want to talk to him,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t. But I can’t ignore him forever, either.”

You stepped closer, slipping your hand into his trembling one. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your silence. Not your words. Not your pain.”

His eyes finally met yours—wet, furious, broken. “But he’s my dad.”

Your chest squeezed. “And you’re his son. He should’ve protected you. Not tried to rewrite you.”

Scotty’s throat bobbed, his lips pressing tight. “He doesn’t see me. Not the real me. He only sees what I ruin for him.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb against his cheek. “I see you. Zo sees you. Justin sees you. The people who matter already know who you are. And we love you for it.”

His shoulders sagged, the tension leaking out in shudders he couldn’t control. “I’m so tired, Sam. I feel like I’ve been carrying this forever.”

You pulled him into your chest, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you could. He resisted for half a second before collapsing fully against you, shaking as the tears came.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered into his hair. “Always.”

His hands fisted into your jacket like he was holding on for dear life. “Don’t let me fall apart.”

You kissed the crown of his head, steady. “Then we’ll fall apart together. And we’ll stand back up together too.”

The door behind you opened softly. Jess peeked out, catching sight of the two of you. She didn’t say anything—just nodded once, a quiet acknowledgment—and slipped back inside.

The parking lot was silent again, just the two of you under the buzz of the streetlamp.

Scotty finally pulled back, his face streaked but calmer. His hand found yours again, gripping like he might never let go. “Okay,” he whispered hoarsely. “Okay. I’m not ready now. But maybe… someday.”

You squeezed his hand tighter. “On your terms. Not his.”

And for the first time that day, Scotty nodded. A small, fragile nod—but real.

Jess’s old sedan rattled as it pulled out of the rehab center parking lot. The Mustang had gone ahead already, Tony dropping off Clay. Normally, Scotty’s expensive Audi would’ve been the default ride home for the two of you, but it was still in Tony’s shop — something about a rattling axle and the heater refusing to work.

So here you were: you, Scotty, Sheri, and Jess crammed together in a car that smelled faintly of peppermint gum and old coffee. Jess at the wheel, Sheri in the passenger seat, you and Scotty tucked into the backseat together.

The first ten minutes were quiet. The heater hummed low, headlights cut through the early winter dark, and exhaustion hung over everyone like a weighted blanket. Sheri had her head leaned against the window, scrolling absently through her phone. Jess hummed along with the radio, her voice soft and low.

And you? You leaned against Scotty. Just a little at first — head brushing his shoulder, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric of his hoodie. His arm shifted instinctively around you, steady, grounding.

You hadn’t realized how tired you were until your eyelids started sinking heavier, breaths slowing.

Scotty whispered down to you, “Hey. You good?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, barely awake.

Then your head dropped fully against him, your cheek pressing into his chest. Within minutes, you were out.

And, unfortunately, you drooled.

“Uh—” Scotty stiffened, looking down at you in horror as a damp patch spread across the front of his hoodie.

Jess caught it instantly in the rearview mirror and burst out laughing. “Oh my God. Sam just spit all over you.”

Sheri turned halfway around in her seat, grinning. “He’s drooling in his sleep? That’s adorable.”

Scotty’s face went crimson. “Adorable? He’s soaking me.”

Jess smirked. “That’s love, Reed. Real, messy, human love.”

“I signed up for kissing, not for… this,” Scotty muttered, tugging at his hoodie uselessly.

You stirred faintly but didn’t wake — just burrowed closer, face pressed deeper into him, completely oblivious.

Sheri stifled a laugh. “You better not wake him up. He looks peaceful for the first time all day.”

“Peaceful? He’s drowning me.” Scotty sighed dramatically, though his arm stayed firmly around you, pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.

Jess shook her head. “Face it. You’re stuck. He’s yours now. You’re officially the human pillow.”

Scotty leaned his head back against the seat, groaning. “Unbelievable. This is what my life has become. Star pitcher, team captain, covered in my boyfriend’s spit.”

Sheri smiled softly. “And you love it.”

His lips twitched despite himself. He looked down at you — your face slack with trust, breathing steady against him. And something in his chest loosened.

“Yeah,” he whispered, almost too quiet for anyone else to hear. “I really do.”

The car went still again. The road hummed beneath the tires. You slept soundly against him, and Scotty rested his cheek gently against your hair, holding you steady as the world outside blurred past.

For once, even with the trial looming and the storm still hanging over Liberty, it felt like a small, safe moment. Just you, Scotty, and the quiet promise that no matter how messy or heavy things got, you weren’t carrying them alone anymore.

Chapter Text

Words~1806

—-

The cold December air bit at your cheeks as you and Scotty crossed the parking lot toward Liberty High. Your breath fogged in front of you, each step heavier than the last. It wasn’t the wind making your stomach knot — it was the knowledge that every hallway inside was waiting to devour you whole.

Scotty’s hand gripped yours tightly, his palm clammy despite the chill. His jaw was set, his shoulders stiff, like he was walking into a game with the bases loaded and no chance of winning.

“Ready for judgment day?” he muttered, eyes fixed on the double doors.

“Only if it ends with us skipping fifth period and making out behind the gym,” you said, trying to push a spark of warmth into the frozen air.

He shot you a sideways look. “We did that once.”

“And we got detention.”

He smirked, just barely. “Worth it.”

But as soon as you stepped through the doors, the lightheartedness evaporated. The whispers began instantly. Heads turned. Some stared openly, others tried to pretend they weren’t. It was like walking into a courtroom again, but this time without the judge’s gavel to keep people quiet.

The school’s “damage control” attempt didn’t help — cheap paper posters slapped up along the walls: One Liberty. One Truth. or We Support All Our Students. The slogans felt hollow, like they were meant to be band-aids over wounds that went down to bone.

Zoey was already leaning against a locker when you reached the main hall, her phone in one hand and a stick of gum in the other. She didn’t look fazed, but you knew better. Her eyes flicked sharply over every whisperer, every gawker, and the tension in her jaw gave her away.

“If one more person stares at me like I’m contagious,” she said, snapping her gum, “I swear I’m throwing a cheerleader off the roof.”

Jess, Sheri, Clay, and Tony weren’t far behind, instinctively falling into a loose protective circle around you and Scotty. Their presence was a shield — not perfect, but enough to keep you breathing.

And then you saw it.

The hallway narrowed, the sound around you dropped. Laughter faded into a hush.

Her locker.

Something was taped to it.

Your steps slowed, your heartbeat sinking into your stomach.

The photo was old — Hannah at thirteen, hair pulled back, frosting smeared on her cheek as she laughed with a cupcake in hand. Someone had scrawled harsh red Xs across her eyes and mouth.

Your throat closed. Your breath wouldn’t come.

You reached up with shaking fingers, tore the picture down, folded it once, twice, and pressed it against your chest like it might burn straight through.

“Hey.” Scotty’s voice was low, right beside you. He touched your arm gently. “We’ll report it. We’ll tell Vasquez. You’re not alone.”

But you couldn’t answer. Not yet. The words stuck like glass in your throat. You just nodded, holding the photo tighter.

Dinner smelled like rosemary chicken and roasted potatoes, but no one was really eating. The folded photo lay between the plates like a ghost, Hannah’s laughter trapped under angry red Xs.

You hadn’t been able to throw it away. Not yet. Not when it felt like proof of how cruel people could be. Proof of how far Liberty would go to try and erase her, even after death.

Your mom sat across from you, her fork untouched. Her eyes stayed on the folded paper. “She would’ve hated this picture,” Olivia murmured, her voice thin.

You swallowed, your throat raw. “I can’t tell if any of this is helping. The trial. The speeches. Me testifying. It feels like I’m just ripping her further apart.”

Your dad’s hands tightened around his water glass. “She deserves justice,” he said firmly. “Even if it’s messy. Especially because it’s messy.”

You shook your head. “But what if we’re just giving them more chances to hurt her? To humiliate her all over again?”

The silence that followed was heavier than the food on your plates.

Finally, your mom stood and moved around the table, placing her arms around your shoulders from behind. She kissed your temple softly, her cheek warm against your hair. “She knew you loved her. Even when you fought. Even when she pushed you away. She knew.”

Your chest ached. “She made mistakes too.”

“She was human,” Olivia whispered. “Just like you. And you’re not alone in this.”

Across the table, Scotty’s hand slid into yours under the edge of the table. His palm was warm, grounding. He didn’t speak — he didn’t need to. His quiet presence was enough.

Your dad’s voice softened. “We can’t undo what happened. But we can stand together. That’s what matters now.”

You nodded faintly, your eyes still burning. For a moment, you let yourself believe them. Let yourself rest in the circle of your family’s arms, in Scotty’s steady grip, in the fragile truth that you weren’t carrying Hannah’s ghost alone.

The Reed house was too quiet when Scotty pushed open the door. His cleats still clacked against the tile, the smell of dirt and sweat clinging to him from practice. He hadn’t bothered changing — not for them.

From the kitchen, Richard Reed’s voice cut through like a whip.
“You couldn’t even be bothered to change before walking in here?”

Scotty froze halfway down the hall, then dropped his duffel with a heavy thud. “I’m not here to argue.”

“Too bad,” Richard snapped, stepping into the doorway. His face was taut with disappointment, but it was the coldness in his eyes that hit harder. “Because I’ve had enough. Of your disappearing act. Of you making a spectacle of yourself with that… boy.”

Scotty’s jaw locked. “Say his name. His name is Sam.”

Richard’s lips curled. “I don’t need to say his name. What I need is my son back. The version who wasn’t destroying his career over some confused teenage phase.”

Scotty’s chest heaved. “It’s not a phase.”

Richard stepped closer, voice sharper now. “I saw you in court. Crying like a child. Over a girl who made everything about her until she couldn’t take it.”

Scotty’s throat tightened. His voice cracked when he fired back: “Don’t you dare talk about Hannah like that.”

Richard’s gaze hardened. “You want to throw away college offers? Scouts? Everything you worked for—for a broken boy and a dead girl?”

The words sliced through Scotty like glass. For a second, his knees almost buckled. But he straightened, fists trembling at his sides.

“That broken boy saved me,” he said, his voice raw.

Richard scoffed. “You’re so far gone you don’t even see how pathetic this is.”

Scotty’s voice rose, shaking. “You don’t see anything. Not who I am. Not who Sam is. You never did.”

“You’re a disgrace to this family.”

Scotty’s hands curled tighter. He stared at the man who had given him his name but never his love. His voice broke but didn’t waver: “Then I don’t belong to this family anymore.”

Richard’s jaw clenched. “You think that boy loves you? He’s damaged. You’re just another thing he clings to.”

Scotty felt his eyes sting, his throat burn. But he didn’t flinch. “He’s the only one who’s ever loved me without conditions. Unlike you.”

For the first time, Richard went silent. The words hung heavy between them.

Then his father’s voice dropped, cold and final. “Don’t bother coming back until you figure out who you are.”

Scotty’s whole body shook as he whispered back: “I already did.”

He grabbed his bag, stormed out the door, and slammed it so hard the walls rattled.

The Bakers’ kitchen smelled faintly of roasted vegetables and something warm from the oven, the kind of comfort food Olivia always made when the day had been too heavy. You were sitting at the table with your mom and dad, the folded photo of Hannah still pressed between your palms like a relic.

The door swung open.

Scotty stood there, still in his Liberty High baseball gear. His jersey was rumpled, his eye black smudged, curls falling wild across his forehead. His cheeks were red from the cold — and from something hotter. His chest rose and fell like he’d run the whole way here.

You shot to your feet instantly. “Scotty—”

He looked at you, eyes glassy, lips pressed tight like he was fighting everything just to stay upright.

For a second, you forgot to breathe. You took in every detail: the way his cleats tracked dirt across the rug, the way his hands shook even as he tried to shove them into his jacket pockets. He looked wrecked — and you’d never loved him more.

“Geez,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “You are hot.”

Scotty blinked, choking on air. “Wh—Sam!”

Your mom’s head snapped up from the salad she was tossing. “Excuse me?”

Your dad lowered his newspaper with a raised brow. “Do we need to revisit the PG-13 rule?”

You shrugged helplessly. “I mean… look at him. He looks like he just walked off a Nike ad. The gay baseball awakening edition.”

Scotty groaned, covering his face. “Please, just kill me now.”

Olivia pressed her lips together, trying and failing to hide a smile. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Even your dad chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

Scotty dropped his bag, finally stepping closer. You could see how badly he was trembling now, the way his tough mask had cracked open. You reached for his hand, grounding him instantly.

He sat down heavily beside you, shoulders slumping. For the first time that night, his breathing slowed.

Dinner carried on in fits and starts — laughter bleeding in just enough to lighten the edges of the storm. Every so often, you caught Scotty watching your family with something almost like awe, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to sit here at all.

Halfway through, you slid the folded photo from your jacket and placed it on the table. Hannah’s thirteen-year-old face, frosting on her cheek, eyes crossed out in harsh red ink.

The whole table went quiet.

“She would’ve hated this picture,” your mom murmured softly.

Your throat closed. “I don’t even know if any of this is helping. The trial. The testimonies. I feel like I’m just… ripping her further apart.”

Your dad reached across the table, his voice steady. “Justice is always messy. But she deserves it.”

Scotty’s hand slipped over yours under the table, squeezing tight.

“She looked happy,” he said gently, his voice breaking just a little. “Free.”

Olivia reached for your other hand, her touch steady and warm. “She knew you loved her. That’s what matters.”

And for the first time that day, between your parents’ words and Scotty’s trembling hand around yours, you felt like maybe Hannah was still here. In the silence. In the love. In the fight you weren’t giving up.

Chapter Text

Words~1200
___

Tuesday, December 12 – Liberty High & The Bakers’

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just a bad morning. A missed joke. A short answer. Maybe he didn’t sleep well, or he’s distracted by the trial again. But by lunch, you know better.

Scotty isn’t just tired.

He’s unraveling.

At first, it’s the way he doesn’t smile when Zoey says something snarky about the cafeteria pizza. It’s how he ignores Jess when she nudges his shoulder and says, “You okay, Reed?” and how he avoids your eyes completely when you slide your hand toward his under the table.

He pulls away without realizing.

And you? You don’t say anything. Not yet.

Because something in his posture — shoulders tight, eyes rimmed red like he’s been fighting tears or fury all day — tells you this isn’t the moment.

⸻

Seventh period. Hallway.

You’re trying to catch up to him between classes when you hear it.

Bryce, voice loud and casual like he doesn’t know you’re listening — but he does. “Hey Reed, you skipping team meetings again for your little boyfriend? Thought you were supposed to be team captain, not homecoming queen.”

A few guys laugh.

Monty snorts.

You stop in your tracks.

Scotty does too. He doesn’t turn around. Not at first.

He just stands there, back to them, spine rigid.

Then he turns. Slowly.

And when he speaks, it’s not loud. It’s not violent.

It’s like the room temperature drops five degrees.

“You know what, Bryce? You’ve got all this bark and still no bite. You talk like you’re top of the food chain, but every time you open your mouth, it just proves what we all already know.”

Bryce raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

Scotty steps forward.

“That you peaked in junior year. That your game is weak. That the only thing you’re good at is making people uncomfortable because it distracts them from how irrelevant you’re becoming.”

You don’t think anyone breathes for a full ten seconds.

Then he looks at Monty.

“You laugh a lot for someone still scared of his own reflection.”

Monty opens his mouth — but Scotty’s already walking away.

And you follow.

⸻

The Bakers’ — 5:46 PM

He says nothing the whole ride.

When you get inside, he drops his bag by the stairs and heads straight for your room. Doesn’t even kick off his shoes.

Your mom looks at you from the kitchen, concerned.

“He okay?”

You hesitate. “No. Not really.”

She nods. “Give him time.”

You do.

You open the door quietly and find him sitting on the edge of your bed, bent over with his hands in his hair.

Still in his baseball gear. Still covered in dirt and sweat and whatever else clung to him during the day.

You walk in and sit next to him, leaving just enough space for him to come closer if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

Not yet.

You wait.

Then, finally:

“I feel like I’m falling apart.”

You swallow. “Then let me catch you.”

His shoulders shake — not with tears yet, but with exhaustion. His voice comes out hollow.

“I don’t know who I am anymore. Everything’s wrong. I wake up and there’s this pressure on my chest and I think, maybe today’s the day I snap. And then I do. And I hate it.”

You shift closer. “Talk to me.”

He still won’t look at you.

“I can’t breathe at school. I walk through those halls and I can hear them — the whispers, the jokes. About you. About me. About Hannah. About all of it. And I’m supposed to walk taller through that?”

You want to reach for his hand, but he’s trembling.

“And practice,” he continues, his voice cracking. “Coach keeps looking at me like I’m broken. The team treats me like I’m a distraction. Like I’m less.”

“They’re wrong,” you say quietly.

“I know. I know that. But knowing doesn’t stop the way it eats at me.”

He finally turns to you, and what you see in his eyes nearly guts you.

Raw.

Fractured.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “Scared I’m too much. Too angry. Too loud. Too soft. I’m scared I’m gonna lose you because I’m not handling any of this the right way.”

You reach for him and pull him close, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead to his temple.

“You’re not too much,” you whisper. “You’re hurting. And you’re allowed to.”

He clutches your shirt. “I want to be better. I don’t want to be like my dad.”

You kiss the side of his head. “Then you already aren’t.”

His breathing shudders, and for the first time, you feel him start to cry — real tears, heavy and quiet and steady, soaking into your hoodie. You hold him tighter.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he chokes out.

“You don’t have to,” you say. “You just have to let yourself be loved.”

He sniffles, and you feel his lips brush your collarbone.

“I’m so tired,” he mumbles. “I just want to feel safe again.”

“You are,” you promise. “Right here.”

⸻

Later That Night – 8:54 PM

He’s curled up on the couch with you, changed into your clothes — your oversized hoodie, your plaid pajama pants that barely fit his legs.

Your mom walks by and eyes the situation, muttering, “You better not be planning on making me a grandma tonight.”

“Mom,” you groan, as Scotty bursts into the first real laugh he’s had all day.

“Honestly?” he says through a grin. “I don’t have the energy.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek. “That’s the hottest thing you’ve said all day.”

He rests his head on your shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

He smiles. “I really do.”

Then he looks up at you, brushing your hair back.

“You’re the only thing that feels real when everything else is falling apart.”

You kiss him.

Softly.

Like an answer.

And he kisses you back, just as slow, just as certain.

⸻

You don’t solve anything that night.

The pain is still there. The trial is still looming. The whispers haven’t stopped.

But for now, you’re together.

And sometimes that’s enough.

Sometimes, that’s everything.

Chapter Text

Words~1045
—-

⸻

You woke up to heat — the good kind. A familiar arm draped over your stomach, warm breath against the back of your neck. Scotty’s chest rose and fell behind you, steady and close, like gravity had decided to tether him to you permanently.

You stretched a little, shifting your hips back against him, and you heard him groan softly.

“Keep doing that and I’m gonna be late to practice,” he mumbled into your hair.

You grinned. “We’re not even at breakfast yet and you’re already turned on?”

“You’re pressing your ass into my lap at seven in the morning,” he countered, voice rough and sleep-heavy. “That’s not even fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” you said, rolling over and meeting his eyes. “Besides, you love it.”

He blinked slowly, then smirked. “I really, really do.”

You tilted your head. “If I told you to skip practice and stay in bed all day…?”

“I’d say you’re trying to kill my baseball career.”

You fake-gasped. “Would you really pick baseball over morning sex with me?”

Scotty laughed, low and husky. “If I say yes, will you punish me later?”

You rolled on top of him, pinning his wrists gently to the mattress. “You’re lucky we have court this morning.”

He groaned. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You kissed him — slowly, teasingly — and whispered, “Worth it.”

⸻

8:30 AM – Downstairs at the Bakers

Zoey had stayed at the Reeds overnight for once, saying she had stuff to pick up and “wasn’t ready to face your joint sex noises at dawn.” So it was just you, Scotty, and a quiet kitchen. Your mom had already left for the courthouse. Your dad was reviewing notes in his study.

Scotty, now in slacks and a fitted shirt that made you want to push him back against the fridge, was sipping coffee while scrolling through his phone.

“You wear that and then expect me to concentrate at court?” you asked, biting into a piece of toast.

He looked up. “I was thinking the same thing about you in those pants.”

You leaned across the counter. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll climb over this island and make us late.”

He set his phone down. “Do it. I dare you.”

You were halfway to standing when your dad walked in with a file in hand. You both froze.

“…Good morning,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Ready for the hearing?”

You cleared your throat. “So ready. Very ready. Extremely ready.”

Scotty nodded seriously. “Couldn’t be readier.”

Your dad just gave you both a knowing look and walked off.

“I want to die,” you whispered.

“After court,” Scotty said.

⸻

10:30 AM – Liberty County Courthouse

The second day of testimony was somehow worse.

The school’s lawyers were more aggressive, more polished. They questioned Sheri first — then Jess. Then Tony, who remained calm but visibly angry. Then finally, you.

Your name echoed too loudly in the courtroom.

You sat. The same lawyer leaned forward.

“I’ll keep this brief,” he said with an oily smile. “Would you confirm, for the record, that you told your sister — shortly before her passing — that you wished she wasn’t your sister?”

You closed your eyes for a second. “Yes.”

“And do you think that may have impacted her emotional state?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you feel responsible for her death?”

Scotty shifted in his seat. You could feel his gaze on you.

“Yes,” you said, voice cracking.

“Objection,” your lawyer — Vasquez — called. “That’s speculation and emotional coercion.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Stick to facts.”

But the damage was done.

By the time you stepped down, your hands were shaking.

Scotty met you halfway down the aisle and touched your arm. You nearly folded against him.

“You were brave,” he said, under his breath.

You nodded, swallowing thickly. “Just get through practice. Then come home.”

He smiled — the one just for you. “Of course I will.”

⸻

3:45 PM – Liberty High Baseball Field

Scotty tossed his bag onto the grass and adjusted his cap. Practice was half-hearted. His mind wasn’t here.

He kept thinking about the way your voice broke. How he couldn’t do anything to fix it.

He needed to let out steam. Swing a bat. Hit something. Sweat.

He didn’t notice the black SUV pull up by the side gate.

⸻

5:30 PM – Back at the Bakers

You flopped onto the couch, texting him something flirty about him better being sweaty when he got home.

No reply.

You tried again.

where are you, sexy boy?

Still nothing.

⸻

6:15 PM

You sent:

if ur not home in 30 minutes i’m replacing you with a blow-up doll. and naming it scott 2.

Still no reply.

You rolled your eyes. “He probably left his phone in the locker room again.”

⸻

7:10 PM – Zoey Returns

She kicked off her boots at the door. “Dad’s being weird again,” she said. “Did Scotty come back yet?”

You froze. “No. I thought he was with you.”

She blinked. “No, he didn’t come home.”

You checked your phone again.

Still no messages.

Zoey looked at you. “I’ll call him.”

It rang. And rang.

Voicemail.

⸻

8:00 PM – Scotty

He woke on cold concrete. Groaned as pain surged through his ribs.

The dim warehouse smelled like oil and metal. A buzzing light overhead flickered.

A voice — low, cruel — said, “You’re lucky we didn’t go further.”

Scotty blinked, tasting blood. He turned his head, slowly.

Two masked men stood near the door.

“This isn’t about you,” one said. “It’s about shutting you up.”

The other one added, “You want to play hero in court? Fine. But stop dragging names into the dirt.”

Scotty coughed. “Tell Bryce… he’s still a coward.”

The taller guy stepped forward and kicked him in the ribs.

“You’ll be released soon. This is just a warning.”

Then footsteps. The door creaked open. Closed.

And Scotty was alone in the dark.

⸻

8:30 PM – Bakers’ Porch

You sat on the steps. Cold air burned your cheeks. Your phone screen glowed uselessly in your palm.

Zoey sat beside you, silent.

Your mom peeked through the window, concern all over her face.

“He’s never this late,” you whispered.

Zoey didn’t speak.

You looked up at the stars, trying not to fall apart.

“He always comes back,” you said softly.

But this time… he didn’t.

Chapter Text

Words~1856
—-
Wednesday, December 14 – 2:47 AM

⸻

You’ve never heard a house feel this loud with silence.

The tick of your alarm clock feels like a taunt. The hum of the fridge, distant from the kitchen, thuds through the floor like footsteps you wish were real. Your room, usually your refuge, has grown stale with waiting. And dread.

You check your phone again.

2:47 AM.

You stare at the screen longer this time, half-hoping that if you look hard enough, a message will appear. Some harmless explanation.

Nothing.

Your chest tightens.

He was just supposed to go to practice In and out. Maybe a small argument with the coach, but nothing out of the ordinary. And then he was going to be home.

Back here. With you.

Instead… nothing.

You try to tell yourself it’s fine. That maybe he forgot to text. That maybe he left his phone behind, or visited Zo and fell asleep at Zoey’s, or just needed air.

But the worry creeps in anyway, soft at first, then gnawing.

Your fingers drift to your phone again, but this time, you don’t check the clock. You tap the screen just to see it light up—to see him.

Your wallpaper glows to life.

It’s a photo from two months ago. October, still warm enough that you could pretend summer hadn’t ended. He’s laughing, arm around you, his hoodie half on your shoulders, his curls wind-mussed and his eyes crinkled with joy.

You remember thinking when Jess took that photo, God, this is it. This is what peace feels like.

Now you can barely look at it.

Your thumb hovers, then rests gently over the screen, as if touching it might make him walk through the front door.

It doesn’t.

Your vision blurs.

You lie down slowly, curl into your side, and try to hold back the tremble in your hands. But the weight of it—of fear, of exhaustion, of the quiet panic you’ve been pushing down all night—cracks open inside you like a fault line.

You cry.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just quietly, bitterly, into the pillow. Your chest aches from how tight it’s wound, and your stomach turns with guilt for not calling earlier. For not going after him.

You press the phone to your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “Just come back.”

⸻

Ding-dong.

It’s a small sound.

Faint.

But it might as well be thunder.

You bolt upright, heartbeat slamming into your throat.

Ding-dong.

You don’t grab shoes. You don’t even throw on a sweatshirt. You just run, legs stiff from sitting, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

The hallway is dim. The door looms.

You open it.

And time stutters.

⸻

He’s standing there.

Scotty.

But not like you’ve seen him before.

His curls are damp, some stuck to his forehead. His hoodie—the one you’ve stolen so many times—hangs ripped at the sleeve, dirty and dark with blood at the shoulder. There’s a long, angry scrape across his left cheekbone and bruises blooming along his neck and jaw.

But it’s his eyes that stop you.

Not because they’re lifeless.

Because they’re shaking.

“I… I lost my key,” he says softly.

Then his knees buckle.

You catch him.

Your arms wrap around his waist as he slumps forward, and the sound he makes—half pain, half relief—sticks to your ribs like a bruise.

You guide him inside.

His legs barely work, but he doesn’t resist.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

⸻

The living room is dimly lit from the hallway light.

You ease him down onto the couch, your hands trembling as you take in the full extent of his injuries. A shallow cut above his eyebrow. Blood on his collar. One hand scraped raw, like he tried to catch himself falling.

“What the hell happened?” you whisper.

“Three of them. Masks. Gloves. Said I was getting too involved.”

His voice is low. Dull. Distant.

“Didn’t give names. Just shoved me into a car and dumped me in a lot near the school.”

You drop to your knees beside the couch, brushing his hair gently off his forehead.

“You’re safe now. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

His eyes close.

⸻

You’re in the kitchen seconds later, your voice just loud enough to stir someone.

Mrs. Baker appears in her robe, eyes immediately widening.

She doesn’t scream.

She moves.

Together, you and her work like a quiet team. She brings the first-aid kit. You run warm water. She kneels on the rug next to you, cleaning Scotty’s wounds with gentle hands.

He winces only when the alcohol stings. But he doesn’t flinch from your touch.

“I’ll finish up here,” she murmurs.

You meet her eyes.

You nod.

Then you help him upstairs.

⸻

You strip his hoodie off slowly, carefully tugging the ripped fabric over his head. You wince at the sight of his ribs—covered in bruises, some old and yellowing, some new and angry red. His shoulder has another scrape, this one deeper but already drying.

He sits on the edge of your bed, watching you.

“You’re staring,” he says, voice hoarse.

“I’m counting,” you answer.

“Counting?”

“The bruises. So I know how many people I need to haunt.”

He almost smiles.

You lean in, fingers gently grazing over his arm.

“I love you,” he says suddenly.

You freeze.

He says it again, softer. “I love you.”

You drop to your knees in front of him.

“I was scared,” he admits. “I thought—I thought I was going to die. And the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the thought that I’d never get to tell you. That I didn’t say it enough. That you didn’t know how much I needed you.”

Your throat burns.

“I love you too,” you whisper, barely holding it together. “I love you more than anything, Scott Reed. More than I ever thought possible.”

His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“And if I’d never gotten to say that?” he says quietly. “I would’ve died the most cowardly person I’ve ever known.”

You crawl onto the bed beside him, wrapping yourself around his side, careful not to hurt him.

“You’re the bravest person I know.”

He kisses your forehead.

And for the first time in hours, something like peace settles over you.

You sit beside him, your fingers running softly along his hairline, brushing through the curls that were once sweat-matted and tangled. Now they just look tired. The bruises on his jaw have darkened, but his breathing has evened out. His eyes flutter open, slow, like he’s not quite sure this is real.

“You still here?” he whispers.

“Where else would I be?”

He smiles, tired but real.

You watch him for a moment, heart aching.

“I was so scared,” he says suddenly, voice hoarse. “They kept telling me I’d be fine if I just shut up. That it was just a warning. But all I could think about was you. That I wouldn’t get to say it.”

You swallow.

“Say what?”

His fingers find yours, grip shaky.

“That I love you.”

Your throat catches. You’ve said it before. Whispered it into his chest. Traced it on his skin with your fingertips when you thought he was asleep. But this? This is different.

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his.

“I love you too,” you whisper. “So much it physically hurts sometimes.”

He chuckles softly.

“Pain is temporary. Love is forever, right?”

You snort. “Did you read that off a Tumblr quote board?”

“Maybe.”

You glance at the shredded hoodie hanging off the bed.

“Damn. Your hoodie really took the fall.”

He shifts, grimacing. “It died a noble death.”

“It made you look so hot though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Even when it is covered in blood?”

“Especially then. Real bad boy chic.”

He rolls his eyes, but you catch the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Seriously though,” you say, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Promise me if anyone ever touches you again, you won’t go it alone.”

“I promise.”

You kiss his temple.

“Get some sleep.”

“You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Always.”

You get up slowly, reluctant to leave. You tug the blanket over his chest and linger at the door until his breathing evens again.

Only then do you slip away.

⸻

The hallway is dim, and you walk toward the kitchen on instinct, needing air. Needing something.

But as soon as you step through the doorway and see Mrs. Baker—her arms crossed loosely, tea in her hands, wearing one of Dad’s old hoodies—your chest starts to cave.

She looks up.

“Is he—?”

“Sleeping? Yes he is” you say in a shaking voice.

“I thought he was gone forever,” you whisper.

And just like that, your legs give out. The chair is the only thing keeping you upright as everything you’d been holding in all night shatters.

You can’t stop crying.

Mrs. Baker crosses the room and catches you in her arms like she’s done it a thousand times. You bury your face into her shoulder and just sob.

“I—I didn’t know what to do,” you stammer. “I kept checking my phone. That photo of us—I thought it was the last thing I’d ever have. I thought—I thought I’d never see him again.”

She holds you tighter.

“You don’t have to apologize for being scared,” she whispers. “That just means you love him.”

You shake your head. “He’s my everything.”

“I know.”

You feel like a little kid again, crushed by the weight of love and grief and relief all at once. And Mrs. Baker doesn’t push. She lets you cry, lets your hands shake, lets you feel.

When you finally pull back, your eyes are swollen and your voice is raw.

“I love him more than I thought I could love anyone.”

“And he loves you just as much,” she says softly. “That boy would walk through fire for you. Probably literally.”

You snort, still wiping your nose. “He would look hot doing it.”

Mrs. Baker sighs, mock-exasperated. “Teenagers.”

You smile.

And then her tone shifts.

“But listen,” she says, gently serious. “We need to report this.”

You hesitate.

“He’s scared,” you say.

“He has every right to be. But that doesn’t mean we let people get away with hurting him.”

You swallow, nod slowly.

“Yeah, you are probably right, mom”

She nods. “We’ll do it together. He’s not alone.”

You squeeze her hand before heading back upstairs.

⸻

He’s still curled on the left side of the bed when you return, one arm thrown toward your side of the mattress like he didn’t want you to be gone long.

You slide back in beside him, careful of the bruises. He stirs, barely awake.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“You cried again.”

“Did not.”

“Did too. You get all sniffly when you lie.”

“You get all dramatic when you’re in love.”

“Damn right.”

You brush your thumb over his cheekbone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

He kisses your shoulder. “Neither am I.”

And in the stillness before morning, with bruises still aching and hearts still raw, you sleep.

Wrapped in each other.

Safe, for now.

Chapter Text

Words~1096

___

The morning sun breaks gently over your windowpane. You stir first, blinking against the quiet light, the weight of Scotty’s arm heavy around your middle. His breath warms the back of your neck, steady and familiar. For a minute, you lie still, wrapped in the slow rhythm of his chest rising and falling behind you.

“Still here,” he murmurs into your skin, voice rough from sleep.

You turn your head, meeting his half-lidded eyes. “Did you think you wouldn’t be?”

His expression darkens for a moment, and then he shakes it off with a half-smile. “No, but it feels better to check.”

“It’s Wednesday,” you murmur. “December 14”

He groans and buries his face into your shoulder. “Kill me.”

“Tempting, but you’ve got to report to the police instead. Lucky you.”

You shift to face him fully, brushing your fingers through the wild mess of his hair. “You still look like someone tried to make out with a baseball bat.”

He grins. “Don’t act like you’re not into it.”

You pretend to consider. “I mean… the firefighter look had its moment. But now I think I’ve got a thing for the bruised-up, ex-jock revenge arc aesthetic.”

He gasps, mock-betrayed. “So now I’m a walking kink collection to you?”

You kiss his swollen cheek softly. “Always was, babe.”

⸻

Drive to School – Mr. Baker and You

After Scotty and your mom leave for the station, you’re halfway through forcing down some cereal when your dad enters the kitchen.

“Want a ride?”

You nod quickly. You’d rather be with him than deal with the silence alone.

The car is quiet for a few minutes as the town rolls past the windows.

“You okay?” he asks eventually.

“Not really.”

He nods like he expected the answer.

“Scotty was brave going in today,” he says. “But so were you. Letting him go without you.”

You glance out the window. “I didn’t sleep. I kept waking up to check he was still there.”

Mr. Baker’s voice softens. “That’s love, kiddo. Doesn’t come with a handbook, just gut instinct and a lot of sleepless nights.”

“I’m scared he’s going to break,” you whisper. “And I won’t know how to put him back together.”

Your dad reaches over and gently pats your knee. “You already are. You’ve given him a place to come home to. That matters more than you know.”

You nod slowly. “Thanks, Dad.”

He smiles faintly. “Anytime.”

⸻

At the Station – Scotty and Mrs. Baker

Meanwhile, Scotty sits across from Detective Marin, your hoodie pulled low over his hands. He picks at the cuff, the fabric still faintly stained with blood from the night he returned.

“They didn’t tie me up,” Scotty says. “Just shoved me to the floor. Told me to shut up and keep my head down.”

“And what did they say when they released you?”

“They said… it was just a warning. That I should stay away from the Bakers. From your son.”

Detective Marin leans in slightly. “You’re doing the right thing by telling us this. Did you recognize anything?”

“One voice maybe… Monty. I can’t say for sure.”

Mrs. Baker’s hand reaches out, warm and firm on his forearm.

“We’re not letting this go,” she says softly. “You’re safe now.”

Scotty nods, eyes burning.

⸻

Liberty High – You and the Group

You find your friends already waiting near your locker. Tony, Jess, Clay, and Sheri look up as you approach, and they pull you in quickly, like a safety net.

“How is he?” Tony asks immediately.

“Still shaken,” you say. “But he went with my mom to the police this morning.”

Jess’s face crumples. “That’s good. I mean… that he’s reporting it.”

“Did they say anything else?” Clay asks. “About who it could’ve been?”

You nod. “He thinks Monty might’ve been one of them. Voice match. But not certain.”

Sheri shakes her head, furious. “We knew something was brewing. But kidnapping? Jesus.”

Just as you start to say more, the silence cracks.

“Aw. The jock not in school today?” Bryce’s voice slithers across the hallway.

You look up slowly. He’s leaning against a locker with Monty beside him, both wearing matching smirks.

“Let me guess,” Monty adds. “Too traumatized from sleeping in his boyfriend’s arms?”

Your hands curl into fists, but before you speak—

Zoey’s voice slices the air.

“You absolute roaches.”

She storms up, eyes blazing.

Bryce laughs. “Look who showed up.”

Zoey doesn’t even hesitate. “Say another word about my brother and I will go full-on Switzerland psycho on your ass.”

Monty mutters, “Touchy.”

Zoey glares. “You touch him and I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly how closeted you really are.”

The hallway goes still. Monty stiffens.

Bryce sneers, but Zoey’s already turned to you.

“Come on. You’re riding with me today. I want to see him.”

You nod. You’re not in the mood for another word.

⸻

Afternoon – Zoey’s Car

Zoey grips the steering wheel tightly.

“I can’t believe they’re still getting away with this.”

“They won’t,” you say.

She exhales shakily. “Every time I think I’ve gotten a handle on it, something knocks the wind out of me. First Hannah, now Scott…”

You place a hand on her arm. “You’re here now. And you’re doing more than most.”

She shakes her head. “It’s just… he’s always been my hero. The one who picked me up when I fell. And now he’s the one who’s bleeding.”

You squeeze her hand. “We’ve got him now. We’ll hold him together.”

⸻

Evening – Bakers’ House

Scotty’s curled on the couch when you and Zoey walk in. His bruises look worse in the soft living room light. But he’s safe. He’s here.

“Zo?”

She rushes forward and hugs him tightly.

“You’re okay,” she whispers. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” he says, burying his face in her shoulder.

“You look like hell,” she teases.

“Still hot, though?” he jokes weakly.

“Debatable,” she replies, sniffing.

You settle on his other side, tugging the blanket higher over his knees.

“You’re definitely hot,” you murmur in his ear. “Though between the firefighter thing and now the bruised baseball jock look… I think I’ve got a problem.”

Scotty snorts. “Your kink list is getting out of control.”

“You’re the one expanding it,” you reply, grinning.

Zoey groans. “Get a room.”

Mrs. Baker walks in right then with folded towels and a raised brow. “I’m pretending I didn’t hear any of that.”

Scotty winks. “You sure? Want the details?”

Mrs. Baker pauses dramatically. “We’re having that talk later. You better pray I forget.”

You and Scotty both laugh—tired, sore, but full of something warm that feels like healing.

Chapter Text

Words~1218

—-

The living room looked like a fairy tale exploded and glitter survived. Garlands sparkled on the mantle. The tree blinked in slow, warm pulses of gold. Snow had started falling outside the windows, just enough to frost the glass and catch the light. And Zoey stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand on her hip, wearing a silver dress and an expression of well-practiced judgment.

“Well,” she said, eyeing you both, “I’m off to the Winter Ball. You two stay here and continue to be painfully in love, I guess.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“It is when you’re doing it in a house I decorated,” she retorted, sweeping her eyes across the room like she was the queen of Christmas and this was her glittery kingdom. “Seriously. If I come back and find suspicious stains on the couch, I will cry. And then I will kill you.”

Scotty held up his hands. “No couch-staining. Got it.”

Zoey narrowed her eyes at both of you, then grabbed her clutch and spun toward the door with a final, perfectly Zoey one-liner.

“Goodbye, sluts. May the hornyness protect you.”

And with that, she was gone, the door closing behind her in a flurry of sequins and sass.

You and Scotty stood in silence for a beat.

“She’s not wrong, though,” he said, smirking. “We are dangerously in love.”

You grinned. “Tragic, really.”

“Uncontrollable.”

You grabbed the remote, clicked through a playlist you’d titled “For When It’s Just Us,” and hit play.

The soft piano intro of “The Night We Met” filtered through the room, and Scotty’s smirk melted into something softer, gentler. He held out a hand.

“Dance with me?”

You stepped into his arms without hesitation, resting your cheek against his shoulder. The music swelled, echoing memories of the Autumn Ball — dancing in the falling snow, laughter and quiet, the two of you twirling beneath white lights like the world had paused just for you.

“She would’ve loved this,” you whispered.

Scotty nodded. “Hannah would’ve mocked the shit out of us.”

You laughed into his chest. “And then made hot chocolate and told us to shut up and dance slower.”

You danced until the song faded, and for a moment the world stood still again. Snow dusted the windows. The fire crackled low. Your heart ached with love and memory and warmth.

Then you clicked play again.

And chaos erupted.

Nutsa’s “Firefighter” slammed into the room like a meteor.

Scotty groaned, eyes widening. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.”

He covered his face. “No. No, no, no—”

You were already lip-syncing into a pillow, throwing your entire body into the beat.

🎶 I see it in the air, I see it in the airrrrrr! 🎶

You whipped off your hoodie like it was a dramatic costume reveal, then turned to him with the look of a man who had nothing left to lose.

“You’re either with me or you’re boring,” you said.

Scotty laughed, shaking his head. “I swear, you’re going to be the reason my dignity dies.”

“Your dignity died the day I showed you Eurovision 2017”

“Fair.”

You jumped off the couch with a dramatic spin, thrusting your imaginary mic toward him.

“Come on, Reed. I know you know the words.”

Scotty groaned but relented, peeling off his shirt’s top buttons and stepping into the “stage” you’d cleared earlier by moving the coffee table aside. The moment the chorus hit again, he matched your energy — hips swaying, feet stomping, a full body roll that had you grabbing the arm of the couch for support.

“I was a firefighter!” he yelled mid-spin. “The Halloween Party!”

“You practically set the coat closet on fire!”

He winked, dramatically dragging a hand down his chest.

Then, in one gloriously unhinged move, he ripped open the rest of his button-up with a growl, revealing his bruised torso beneath.

You let out a strangled, delighted scream. “I need holy water.”

Scotty laughed breathlessly. “You need therapy.”

“AND A DEFIBRILLATOR.”

🎶 Can you hear me calling, I see ashes falling… 🎶

You twirled past him, then backpedaled to jump on the couch like a drag queen at the final round of a lip sync battle. You grabbed your phone and turned the flashlight on like a spotlight, aiming it right at him.

“You better give me a show.”

Scotty narrowed his eyes, pulled the throw blanket around his shoulders like a cape, and launched into a ridiculous pseudo-striptease. You howled with laughter.

But somewhere between the dancing and the screaming and the beat drop, you both locked eyes — and it turned from absurd to real. From chaos to something intense. Scotty dropped the blanket. You stepped closer. The beat kept pounding.

🎶 I’m running through these ashes like your firefighter. 🎶

You sang the line together, low and breathless, faces inches apart.

Then you kissed, hard and laughing into each other’s mouths, too dizzy and in love to care that you were singing and sweating and slightly out of breath.

When the song finally ended, you collapsed onto the rug, heads pressed together, panting.

“Okay,” Scotty said, voice ragged. “That was a lot.”

“You’re a lot,” you replied, eyes crinkling.

“You’ve turned me into a Eurovision addict.”

You grinned. “Mission accomplished.”

Scotty turned to you, brushing your hair back. “Seriously. You’ve made me memorize more ballads and Balkan girl bops than I ever expected to. I catch myself ranking performances in the shower.”

You chuckled softly. “I grew up on it. Me, Hannah, and my parents… every May since I was seven. It was tradition. Popcorn, score sheets, yelling at the results. Hannah pretended to hate it. But she always watched with us.”

He nodded gently. “She would’ve loved seeing you like this.”

“I think she’d mock me,” you whispered, “and then smile when I wasn’t looking.”

Scotty took your hand. “You showed me something really special, you know?”

You looked up. “What?”

“This. All of this. You… let me into something sacred. Something weird and wild and beautiful. And now I know every word to Fuego and Euphoria and I’m okay with that.”

You smiled. “You’re one of us now.”

He leaned closer. “And you’re everything to me.”

You blushed. “Stop. You’re gonna make me cry and that would ruin my dramatic eyeliner.”

Scotty smirked. “You look hot when you cry.”

“I looked hotter when you danced like a stripper to Firefighter.”

He leaned down and whispered, “Then let’s dance again.”

And you did.

The track played again, and you both screamed the lyrics, pretending the rug was a drag stage and the fairy lights were stadium lights. You sang into wooden spoons. He did body rolls. You tossed a pillow like a pyrotechnic. He pretended to fan himself with Zoey’s sequin clutch.

By the third round of the chorus, you were both gasping for breath and laughing so hard tears streamed down your face.

It was ridiculous. It was messy. It was perfect.

You collapsed back onto the couch, tangled in each other, grinning like idiots.

Outside, snow fell.

Inside, everything was on fire — glitter, love, and two hearts burning brighter than ever.

„I Love you more than anything else on this goddamn planet“ You breathed

„I love you like that too and even more“ Scotty replied and kissed you romantically.

Chapter Text

Words~1150

—-

You and Scotty were still catching your breath, flushed and panting, after the private concert you’d just performed. The soft thump of the bass from Nutsa’s Firefighter still seemed to echo in your chest. You were both sweaty, giggly, and totally shameless—Scotty’s button-up was hanging open, his undershirt askew, and his smile lit up the entire room like the twinkling string lights you’d wrapped around the mantle.

“I’m serious,” you gasped, flopping onto the couch beside him. “If the EBu ever sees this footage, we’re going to be banned from participating .”

Scotty chuckled, tousling his already wild hair. “I regret nothing. Honestly? That was kinda hot.”

“Kinda?” You raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. “You ripped your shirt open and ground on me like we were headlining Magic Mike.”

He smirked, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “You in that skeleton outfit from Halloween? You know what that does to me.”

“Oh, don’t even start,” you said with mock warning. “That was your fault. Firefighter fantasy? You knew I’d lose it.”

Scotty laughed, loud and unrestrained. “I did. And you did.”

Before you could reply with another snarky comment, the front door opened.

“Boys?” came your mom’s voice, followed by the jingle of keys. “We’re home!”

“Couch is still standing,” your dad added. “That’s already a win.”

You and Scotty sat up quickly but not guiltily. Mrs. Baker entered first, taking one look at your flushed faces, disheveled hair, and the subtle scent of sweat and holiday candles.

She blinked.

Then smirked.

“I don’t want the details,” she said, waving a hand as she walked past. “Just—sanitize whatever you touched.”

Mr. Baker followed, shaking his head but smiling faintly. “You two look like you just ran a marathon.”

“Dance floor got intense,” you mumbled, tucking yourself under the blanket now draped on the couch. “Private prom.”

“Ah,” Mr. Baker nodded. “Well, carry on.”

You thought that was the end of it—until a second knock rattled the door.

Not a casual one.

A deliberate, sharp thud-thud-thud.

Scotty immediately tensed beside you.

Mrs. Baker turned, brows furrowed. “Expecting anyone?”

You shook your head.

Mr. Baker opened the door.

And there he was.

Mr. Reed. Cold winter air gusted in behind him, coat still on, jaw clenched tight as a rusted vice.

“Richard, what an unpleasant surprise, What are you doing here?” Mr. Baker asked, stepping forward slightly.

“I came to speak to my son,” Mr. Reed said flatly, eyes already zeroing in on you and Scotty, who were halfway standing now.

You could feel Scotty’s posture shift beside you, every muscle braced.

“We were just about to have dessert,” Mrs. Baker said, moving toward you with a forced smile. “If this is about—”

“It won’t be long,” Mr. Reed interrupted.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission.

Scotty stepped in front of you instinctively.

“You could’ve called,” he said quietly. “You haven’t in days.”

“I shouldn’t have to call,” Mr. Reed snapped. “Especially not when my son is being paraded around like some prize in a house that isn’t even his.”

Mr. Baker moved between you again, voice calm but firm. “Scott is family here.”

“Funny definition of family,” Mr. Reed shot back, glaring at you. “You think this”—he gestured between you and Scotty—“is normal?”

Scotty exhaled sharply. “You’ve said worse.”

“Don’t you dare pretend this hasn’t ruined you,” Mr. Reed snarled. “You were focused. Driven. Now you’re just… this. Emotional. Distracted. Clinging to some boy who—”

“That boy,” Mrs. Baker snapped, “is our son. And he saved your son’s life.”

Mr. Reed turned on her. “From what? A bad baseball season? Heartbreak?”

“From being completely alone,” she said. “From thinking that he was unlovable.”

You felt the sting behind your eyes but held your ground.

Mr. Reed’s mouth curled into something cruel. “You made him soft. All this crying. Courtroom theatrics. He used to be strong.”

“I used to be silent,” Scotty said. “You liked me better when I didn’t talk back.”

“I liked you better before he got in your head,” Mr. Reed hissed, nodding at you. “Made you into a different person.”

Mr. Baker stepped forward. “That’s enough.”

“Not nearly,” Mr. Reed bit back. “I should’ve sent both your sister and you of to Switzerland.”

Before you could respond, the door opened again.

Zoey stood there in her coat, still flushed from the cold. She took one look at the scene and said, “Oh. What the fuck is he doing here?”

Mr. Reed turned. “Don’t start.”

Zoey rolled her eyes. “Too late.”

He shot her a look of warning. “You should be glad I brought you home at all.”

“Yeah, because you thought I would ground him, and I did but not the way you thought“ she said, stepping between him and the couch. “And here you are, insulting his boyfriend and acting like you deserve sympathy?”

“You want to play adult, Zoey?” he said sharply. “Then stop dressing like a brat.”

Her face fell.

Scotty tensed. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Mr. Reed ignored him. “If you don’t come home in the next three days, Scott, I’m throwing your stuff out. You’re not a stray.”

Mrs. Baker stepped up then. “He’s not. He’s ours.”

“You can’t just adopt every broken kid you meet.”

“But we can love them better than you ever did,” Mr. Baker said.

The silence was thunderous.

Zoey shook her head slowly. “I Think its time to go, I’m going with him. Just to make sure he doesn’t crash his ego into a tree.” the last thing she whispered to you and Scott.

Scotty whispered, “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she said. “But I’ll be back soon.”

She turned to Mr. Reed, following him out the door.

As it shut behind them, silence returned.

You sank slowly onto the couch, and Scotty followed, collapsing beside you.

“I literally got kidnapped a few days ago,” he said hoarsely. “And he didn’t even ask how I was.”

Mrs. Baker sat beside you both. “Some people don’t deserve answers.”

You glanced at Scotty, brushing the hair off his forehead. “He doesn’t get to define you.”

He nodded faintly. “I know.”

“And,” you added with a sniffle-smile, “for the record—you were very hot tonight.”

He snorted. “Not exactly the moment.”

“I’m just saying.” You leaned closer. “Between firefighter, bruised-up baseball jock, and emotional boyfriend? I’m collecting the full set.”

He cracked a real smile then.

Mrs. Baker stood slowly. “You boys get some rest. We’ll… deal with the rest later.”

As she and Mr. Baker disappeared into the kitchen, you laid your head on Scotty’s shoulder.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You smiled. “I love you more.”

Silence.

Peace.

Then you whispered, just to break the moment:

“All this drama… five days before Christmas.”

He chuckled.

“Next year, we’re just getting matching pajamas and staying in bed.”

You kissed his temple. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

Words~1251
—-

The final day before winter break hit Liberty High like a snowplow crashing through a nativity scene — loud, chaotic, and full of questionable decisions.

It was December 20th, and despite the cold creeping in through every cracked window and under every poorly sealed door, the hallways buzzed with the manic energy of students who knew they were only a few hours away from two weeks of sleep and no math.

You walked shoulder to shoulder with Scotty, your breath fogging slightly in the hall, your fingers occasionally brushing. He looked tired — in that unfairly attractive way — his Liberty baseball hoodie slung low, sleeves pushed back just enough to show fading bruises. The same hoodie he’d been wearing that night.

“You know what I realized?” you said, nudging him. “This school smells like moldy candy canes and desperation.”

Scotty snorted. “You say the sweetest things.”

“I try. Seriously, though — why is everyone so hyped? There’s no Santa here, only trauma and surprise fire drills.”

Scotty smiled sideways. “Because for some people, a talent show and half a cookie in homeroom is enough to pretend life doesn’t suck.”

“That’s dark.”

“You love it.”

You bumped his shoulder. “I tolerate it. Like you.”

He stopped walking, pretending to be wounded. “Ouch. And here I thought I was your emotional support jock.”

“That position’s still under review.”

“I saved your ass in gym class.”

“You also tackled me into a pile of cones.”

“Out of love.”

You grinned. “Speaking of love… wanna skip assembly?”

Scotty raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘skip.’”

“I mean,” you said, lowering your voice, “I know a certain janitor’s closet that’s… seasonally underused.”

Scotty smirked. “You mean the one near the art wing?”

“Is there any other?”

“Five minutes?”

“Ten. Minimum.”

“God, I love you.”

“Say that again after we survive chlorine fumes and emotional repression.”

⸻

The janitor’s closet was barely lit — a thin slit of window above the door let in pale light, dust swirling in its path. The mop bucket and cleaning chemicals weren’t exactly romantic, but they’d done worse.

You pulled the door shut behind you, and before the latch clicked, Scotty’s hands were on your waist, lips already finding yours in a kiss that was equal parts heated and familiar. Like this was the only place either of you could breathe.

His hoodie was soft beneath your fingers, his lips warm against yours. The kiss deepened, your hands threading into his hair, and for a few stolen minutes, the trauma, the trial, the courtroom whispers — all of it melted into the background hum of your heartbeat.

When you finally broke apart for air, both of you were breathless, grinning.

“That,” Scotty said, “is my favorite elective.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “Advanced Closet Studies?”

“With a minor in Making Out with the Hottest Skeleton from Halloween.”

You rolled your eyes. “You still think that costume was hot?”

“Absolutely feral for it. I saw bone and black paint and went, ‘Yup, there’s my type.’”

“You’re unhinged.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You leaned back against the shelf of disinfectants. “Remind me again what your costume was?”

He winked. “Firefighter. Full gear. I had handcuffs.”

“That explains why I almost combusted.”

Scotty leaned closer. “It’s kind of hot to think about… you know…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Fooling around in Hell?”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

“You’re going straight there.”

“You’ll save me.”

“With what, holy water and a skeleton suit?”

“You’re forgetting the part where I’m extremely bendy.”

You snorted. “You’re disgusting.”

He kissed you again. “Disgustingly in love with you.”

⸻

The intercom crackled overhead: “All students please proceed to the auditorium for the holiday assembly.”

You both groaned.

“Do we have to?”

You tilted your head. “If we stay here, Zoey’s gonna assume we’re dead.”

“Or that we’re making out in a closet.”

“She’s a smart girl.”

You sighed. “Okay. But next time — we get a blanket, a playlist, and at least one scented candle.”

“Deal.”

⸻

Meanwhile, in the stairwell near the vending machines, Zoey was having a very different kind of afternoon.

She’d been texting Jess about their post-assembly coffee plans when the unmistakable voices of Bryce and Monty cornered her — again.

“Well if it isn’t Miss ‘I speak fluent Swiss,’” Bryce sneered.

Zoey looked up, already bracing herself. „If you would actually be not as stupid as you are, you would know that Swiss isn’t actually a language, dumbass“

Monty leaned on the rail. “Did they send you back to monitor your brother, or are you here to finally learn how to walk in heels?”

Zoey rolled her eyes. “Wow, Monty. Still relying on your mouth since your brain left the chat?”

“Feisty,” Bryce said. “No wonder you ended up back here. Daddy couldn’t handle you either?”

“Better than your dad, who handled literally everything except parenting.”

Monty stepped closer. “Careful. Wouldn’t want to make us angry.”

“You already exist. That’s plenty.”

Bryce leered. “Maybe we should show her what happens when a Reed messes with real men.”

Before they could move closer, a voice cut in — sharp and furious.

“Back the hell off.”

Jess and Sheri descended the stairwell like angels of rage, eyes blazing.

“Try that again,” Sheri snapped, stepping between Zoey and Bryce, “and I swear, I will make sure your life becomes a legal case.”

“Is that a threat?” Monty spat.

“It’s a prophecy,” Jess growled. “Now get out of here before we make good on it.”

Bryce hesitated, then hissed a laugh. “You’re all insane.”

“Better than being a pathetic little boy who only feels powerful when hurting girls,” Zoey said, voice steel.

Jess stared him down. “And if you even breathe near her again, I’m dragging your name through court so fast your lawyers will quit.”

Bryce and Monty slunk off, muttering, but defeated.

Zoey exhaled shakily. “Thanks.”

Sheri hugged her. “We got you. Always.”

Jess took out her phone. “I’m calling the office. Enough is enough.”

⸻

You and Scotty finally made it into the auditorium — flushed, slightly sweaty, and deeply unaware.

Tony raised an eyebrow as you sat beside him.

“You two missed caroling. Everything okay?”

Scotty grinned. “Let’s call it extra credit.”

You leaned in, smirking. “We studied tongue anatomy.”

Tony groaned. “Why do I ask?”

Before the show started, Jess caught your attention and quickly explained what happened. The blood in your veins ran cold.

“Wait— while we were—”

Zoey, who sat behind you, smiled faintly. “I’m okay. I promise.”

Scotty rubbed the back of his neck. “I should’ve been there.”

“You didn’t know,” Jess said firmly. “Don’t blame yourselves.”

But the guilt lingered. It always did.

⸻

Later, outside in the parking lot, the group huddled beside Sheri’s car. Snow flurried in lazy spirals as the sky darkened to a winter twilight.

“We’re still on for Christmas Eve, right?” Sheri asked.

“Of course,” Tony said. “We’re bringing food, music, and trauma bonding.”

Jess smirked. “Mistletoe, too.”

You squeezed Scotty’s hand. “Private winter ball, round two?”

He grinned. “With less firefighter performances, hopefully.”

Zoey made a gagging noise. “I swear, if you two keep kissing during every group event, I’m filing a complaint.”

You winked. “You just wish your brother was less hot.”

She gave you a look. “Trust me. That sentence just made me die inside.”

The laughter came easy, even if the pain hadn’t left.

You leaned into Scotty as he kissed your temple.

“Still think this school’s full of moldy candy canes?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But at least I found my favorite one.”

Chapter Text

Words~1046

___

The Bakers’ living room was pure festive chaos—fairy lights strung like spiderwebs across the ceiling, garlands of tinsel looped on picture frames, and a giant paper snowflake Zoey had proudly hung crooked over the fireplace. She squinted at it.

“Too tacky?” she asked, holding another snowflake in her hand.

You stepped back, arms crossed. “If Santa threw up on this house, I wouldn’t know the difference.”

Zoey grinned. “Exactly the vibe I was going for.”

Scotty sauntered in holding a tray of hot cocoa, one mug already topped with an ungodly amount of whipped cream. “You realize I almost died making these. The marshmallows exploded.”

“Your bravery knows no bounds,” you said, snatching the whipped cream monstrosity and kissing his cheek. “A true domestic firefighter.”

Zoey groaned. “I’m going to throw tinsel at both of you.”

Sheri, Jess, Tony, Clay, and finally Justin trickled in over the next hour, the room filling with warmth, familiar voices, and a strange playlist that somehow blended carols with Eurovision bangers. Justin lingered by the doorway at first, nervous, unsure.

But then Sheri hugged him. And Jess pulled him to the couch.

“You look good,” Tony said, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Stable. Strong.”

“I’m getting there,” Justin replied, eyes darting nervously around until they landed on Scotty.

Their eyes locked. There was a pause—longer than a moment, shorter than a full breath.

Scotty crossed the room and pulled him into a hug. “Took you long enough.”

Justin huffed a laugh. “Shut up.”

They stood like that a beat longer, and something unspoken passed between them—years of laughter in dugouts, shared Gatorades, pep talks before games, late-night runs from reality, and the fact that even now, even after everything, they were still here.

You watched from the couch, heart swelling.

Scotty and Justin broke apart, Justin ruffling Scotty’s hair. “Still a sap, Reed.”

“And you still smell like convenience store cologne,” Scotty shot back, smirking.

Everyone laughed.

It felt like healing.

⸻

Secret Santa was predictably chaotic.

Jess gifted you a beautiful framed photo collage of you and Hannah. The room quieted as you stared at it—snapshots from Halloween, birthdays, her arm slung around your shoulder, both of you mid-laugh.

“She loved you so much,” Jess said.

You nodded, eyes glassy. “I miss her every day.”

Scotty’s gift came last. He handed you a thick envelope, stuffed full of photos and inside jokes printed on colored paper, little scribbled notes and Polaroids tucked between.

Right in the middle—one glorious, absurd Polaroid.

Scotty. Shirtless. In his firefighter costume. Suspender straps hanging loose. Candy cane between his teeth.

You howled.

“You re-wore it for the photo?!” you shrieked.

“Fresh out of the laundry,” he said, smug.

Zoey gagged audibly. “My brother’s a whore.”

Sheri choked on cocoa. “It’s Christmas!”

Tony was already recording reactions. “The gift that keeps on traumatizing.”

You held the photo to your chest. “I’m framing this.”

Scotty winked. “Thought it’d warm your holidays.”

Justin shook his head, laughing. “He’s gone full himbo.”

⸻

The group somehow transitioned into playing Truth or Dare—because nostalgia, chaos, and a room full of post-trauma teens meant poor decisions were bound to happen.

Justin leaned forward, firelight flickering across his face. “Scotty. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, obviously.”

“I dare you,” Justin said slowly, grinning, “to slow dance and kiss X for one whole minute. No breaking. Song choice is mine.”

Jess immediately screamed. “YES.”

Tony queued up a dramatic Eurovision ballad.

You stared at Scotty. “This is peak cringe.”

Scotty extended his hand. “Dance with me, drama queen.”

You groaned, stood, and let him pull you close. The group counted down as the music began—loud, emotional, over-the-top.

Scotty spun you once, then dipped you dramatically.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you whispered.

He pressed his lips to yours. “Shut up and kiss me.”

You did. The kiss deepened, turning from playful to intense. The room erupted.

“NOT IN FRONT OF THE TREE!” Sheri wailed.

Jess threw a pillow. “THE BABY JESUS IS WATCHING.”

Zoey, fake-crying: “I’m going to need therapy.”

Justin clapped. “Best dare I’ve ever given.”

You finally pulled back, breathless. Scotty looked smug as hell.

You whispered in his ear, “Still hot. Still insufferable.”

“I try.”

⸻

Later, Justin and Scotty sat quietly together near the fireplace.

“I thought I lost you,” Justin said, voice low.

“I thought I’d lost me too,” Scotty replied.

“I wasn’t there. When you got taken—”

“You were getting better. That was being there.”

They sat in silence a moment. Then Justin pulled out a worn keychain—the one Scotty had given him years ago, when they were both 13.

“For luck,” Justin said.

“You kept it?”

“I kept you, dumbass.”

You watched from across the room as they laughed. Two boys who had every reason to fall apart. Still finding their way back.

⸻

Near midnight, the snacks were mostly gone, and everyone sat in a lazy sprawl.

Tony dared you: “Tell us something no one knows.”

You smiled. “Y’all already know I am a fan of Eurovision but also I’ve been a Eurovision fan since I was seven.”

The room blinked.

Sheri raised a brow. “Oh, we know now.”

Jess gasped. “You made him watch the entire contest last year!”

“And he loved it,” you replied proudly.

Scotty shrugged. “The drama. The lights. The outfits. The screaming. Honestly… I’m converted.”

Zoey buried her face. “I want a refund on my ears.”

Scotty leaned into you, whispering with a grin, “Especially that one performer with the glitter and flames…”

You smirked. “Nutsa. Firefighter.”

He laughed. “Iconic.”

You kissed his cheek. “So glad I corrupted you.”

⸻

As the fire burned low and the laughter softened, Zoey yawned and tossed a throw blanket over Justin’s legs. “Merry Christmas, jerks.”

Justin smiled. “Yeah. Merry Christmas.”

You lay with your head on Scotty’s lap, watching the lights flicker on the tree, heart full in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Scotty ran his fingers through your hair. “Hey.”

You tilted your head.

“I love you,” he said softly.

You smiled. “I know. I love you more.”

“You wish.”

“Literally provable fact.”

“Shut up and go to sleep, Eurovision nerd.”

You whispered back, “Firefighter simp.”

And then the room fell into the soft hush of safety, friendship, and love—exactly one week before Christmas.

Chapter Text

Words~1105

—-

You wake slowly to the gentle tick of the radiator and a shaft of soft December light spilling through your curtains. Scotty’s arm is heavy around your waist, his chest warm against your back, and the faint rise and fall of his breath brushes against your neck.

“Morning, Skeletwink,” he murmurs sleepily, his lips barely moving.

You groan, rolling in his grip until you’re facing him. His hair’s a mess—chestnut strands jutting every which way—and his grin is dangerously smug.

“You did not just call me Skeletwink,” you say, voice raspy.

“You earned it. Halloween. Skeleton costume. Ferally gay energy. Don’t fight it.” He nuzzles closer, eyes still closed. “Besides, it’s festive.”

You laugh, nose scrunching. “Well, I should start calling you… Flame Papi. Or no—Inferno Himbo.”

Scotty snorts. “You’re obsessed. Say it.”

“I’m obsessed,” you whisper against his collarbone. “And you looked unreasonably hot in that firefighter costume.”

“You mean still do,” he corrects, eyebrows waggling.

You smack his shoulder lightly, grinning, and just as you lean in to kiss him, a knock on the door cuts through the moment.

Mr. Baker’s muffled voice calls, “Hope you two are decent. We’ve got cinnamon rolls downstairs.”

You pull back, and Scotty pouts dramatically. “Do they know it’s Christmas? I should be unwrapping you.”

You snicker. “I’m the gift that keeps on giving.”

He wiggles his brows. “Yeah, and I’m about to start unboxing.”

“Breakfast first, inferno himbo. You’ll live.”

⸻

Downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls hits you like a hug. The living room’s glowing—twinkling fairy lights, stockings along the mantle, and the same aging tree that’s stood crooked in its stand since you were six.

Mr. Baker eyes the two of you as you shuffle in. “Morning. You both look—well, alive.”

“Barely,” Scotty groans, rubbing at his eyes. “Too much cocoa last night. Sugar hangover.”

Mrs. Baker shoots him a knowing look. “Mmm. Cocoa. That what we’re calling it now?”

You stifle a laugh, pretending to focus on the rolls. Scotty just grins.

Mr. Baker lifts his mug. “Long as no furniture was broken, we’ll count it as a win.”

The room fills with warmth and laughter. It’s not traditional, it’s not perfect, but it’s yours.

⸻

Zoey ambles in twenty minutes later, hair half-curled, phone in hand, and wearing Scotty’s oversized hoodie like it’s armor. “I swear if there’s no coffee—oh, thank God.”

She flops onto the couch with her mug and eyes you both. “Did you two ever sleep or were you busy reenacting the Great Fire of London?”

„Girl the bigger question is why you are now starting to wear my hoodies too“ Scotty playlingly groans.

„Well I liked it, and since we are siblings, we are supposed to share our things, soooo“ Zoey answered quickly.

You and Scotty exchange a look but then answer her question.

“Define sleep,” Scotty says innocently.

Zoey groans. “Jesus Christ. It’s Christmas. Do you two ever turn it off?”

“No,” you reply, deadpan.

But then you soften. Because despite the jabs, despite everything, she’s here. Not in Switzerland, not avoiding the tension or her dad’s awful energy—here, with you and your family.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

She nods, eyes flicking toward the window. “Yeah. Just thinking. Can’t believe he really left.”

Scotty shifts beside you, his fingers curling around yours. “Not even a text.”

“Who leaves their kids for Christmas?” Zoey mutters. “I mean, I’ve been in Switzerland for almost six months , but even If I would have stayed I’d have never missed Christmas at home. Not once. But him? Gone.”

“I should’ve seen it coming,” Scotty says, voice low. “He left on the 20th. Said it was ‘business.’ That’s code for ‘I don’t care.’”

The silence after is thick. You squeeze Scotty’s hand under the table. Mrs. Baker clears her throat gently, standing and placing another plate in front of Zoey.

“Well,” she says with finality, “he’s missing out. And for what it’s worth, you two are ours today. You always have a place here.”

Zoey’s smile wobbles just a little. “Thanks, Mrs. B.”

“Call me Mom today,” she says, brushing Zoey’s hair back softly. “That okay?”

Zoey’s breath catches. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

⸻

Later in the day, after way too many rounds of charades (Zoey is terrifyingly good at impersonating news anchors), and enough sugar to sedate a horse, you quietly excuse yourself.

You find yourself standing outside Hannah’s room.

The door’s still cracked, just the way she left it. You slip inside.

Everything is frozen in time. The posters, the books, the scribbled notes still pinned above her desk. A Polaroid of the two of you at last year’s Christmas is half-tucked into the mirror.

You kneel beside her bed and press your hand against the comforter.

It hits you then. Sharp and real and suffocating.

“I miss you,” you whisper.

Footsteps behind you. A soft hand rests on your shoulder.

Mrs. Baker doesn’t speak right away.

“She loved Christmas,” she finally says, voice quiet. “Remember when she made that gingerbread village and cried when you accidentally stepped on the bakery?”

You laugh—wet, hiccuping. “I fell into the whole thing.”

“She screamed like she’d lost a limb.” Mrs. Baker kneels beside you. “She’d have loved seeing you so happy, sweetheart. She really would have.”

“I know, but I literally told her I wished she wasn’t my sister,” you say suddenly. “Just before…”

Mrs. Baker wraps you in her arms. “You were hurting. So was she. Don’t carry the blame for a moment you didn’t mean.”

“I do,” you whisper.

“I know,” she says. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

You cry quietly, and she holds you, humming the tune of a carol she used to sing when you were small.

⸻

When you return to the living room, Scotty opens his arms without question. You bury your face into his shoulder. He doesn’t ask what happened. He just holds you tighter.

Zoey eyes you, a softness behind her usual sass.

“Group movie cuddle pile?” she offers.

You nod.

⸻

That night, you sit squished between your found family, wrapped in three blankets, a half-eaten gingerbread cookie in hand, and a warmth in your chest you never thought you’d feel again.

It’s not the Christmas you imagined. But it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

And as the credits roll and Scotty leans over to whisper, “Skeletwink, I’d rescue you from a fire any day,” you snort and kiss him under the mistletoe.

“Careful,” you whisper back, “or Flame Papi is gonna get burned.”

Zoey groans loudly. “You two are insufferable.”

But she’s smiling. And for now, that’s all that matters.

Chapter Text

Words~1162

—-

By the time December 31st rolled around, the Bakers’ living room had already returned to its usual, less glittery self. The decorations still shimmered faintly, but the scent of cinnamon and pine was fading. The chaos of Christmas had passed. Now, anticipation for a brand-new year filled the air—but so did the heaviness of what the past year had cost everyone.

You sat curled on the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big—Scotty’s hoodie, obviously—scrolling aimlessly on your phone, only half watching Zoey paint her nails on the floor. The soft strum of acoustic music hummed in the background. The group text was blowing up, Jess insisting that everyone better show up at Tony’s garage by seven sharp, “or she was starting the new year without them.”

Scotty wandered in, his damp curls still tousled from the shower, a fresh T-shirt clinging to his chest in a way that absolutely wasn’t fair. You looked up, narrowing your eyes.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you said.

He blinked. “Doing what?”

You gestured vaguely at his torso. “Existing like that.”

Zoey snorted. “I’m leaving. I can’t be around for the Horny New Year Countdown.”

Scotty grinned and leaned over the back of the couch to press a kiss to your temple. “Don’t pretend you’re not gonna miss it, Zo.”

“I miss peace. I miss quiet. I miss having a brother who didn’t make out in every room of the house like it’s a sport.”

You shot her a look. “We do have medals.”

She flipped you both off on her way out the door to get ready.

⸻

At Tony’s Garage – 7:23 PM

The string lights around the garage glowed softly, casting warm halos on everyone’s faces. Sheri and Jess were dancing already, holding their phones up as Bluetooth speakers pumped in Top 40 hits. Clay leaned awkwardly against the far wall, sipping a soda and looking both thrilled and overwhelmed. Justin sat beside him, cracking jokes and nudging his arm with familiarity. It was good. It felt real again.

Tony had outdone himself. Chips, pizza, soda, cookies, even a weird punch bowl that you absolutely did not trust. A few sleeping bags were already laid out, hinting that not everyone would make it home before the New Year began.

You spotted Scotty chatting with Tony by the corner, heads leaned together. You knew what they were talking about.

Tony had shared his story weeks ago—his family deported back to Mexico in November, leaving him in limbo. It had wrecked him. You remembered how hard it was for him to talk about it the first time, how he broke halfway through and had to leave the room. But now, with Scotty beside him, he looked…not okay, but steadier.

When you joined them, Tony glanced up and smiled faintly. “Hey.”

“Hey. Just came to steal my boyfriend back for a minute.”

Scotty smirked, grabbing your hand. “See, I’m in high demand.”

Tony rolled his eyes fondly. “Enjoy the countdown, lovebirds.”

⸻

Outside – 8:02 PM

You and Scotty stood out in the cold air, watching your breath fog in the light spilling from the garage.

“I never thought we’d get here,” Scotty said after a beat.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “You mean, like…the end of the year?”

“I mean this. With you. Alive. Together. After everything.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was silence. Not awkward—just heavy with understanding.

“You were my bright spot this year,” he said. “Like…when everything was so dark, there was this one dumbass skeleton twink making it all better.”

You barked out a laugh. “You did not just call me skeletwink again.”

“I absolutely did. And I regret nothing.”

You pulled him in for a kiss—soft, warm, familiar. When you finally pulled away, he looked dazed.

“We should go back inside before Jess gets ideas,” you said.

Scotty grinned. “Too late. She already called us horny raccoons earlier.”

⸻

Game Time – 10:12 PM

Back in the garage, everyone had gathered in a circle, snacks in laps and drinks in hand. Jess, of course, suggested Truth or Dare. You weren’t surprised when Justin picked Dare.

“I dare you to…” Jess squinted. “Kiss Clay on the cheek and tell him he’s the prettiest boy here.”

Everyone howled. Clay flushed. Justin did it with a wink and a flourish.

You turned to Scotty. “If I get dared to make out with you again, I’m not stopping this time.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d let you stop.”

The game carried on with increasingly ridiculous dares—Zoey had to sing a karaoke version of “Since U Been Gone,” Sheri had to prank-call her cousin, and Tony had to wear a tiara for ten minutes.

At one point, Justin dared you to whisper your naughtiest New Year’s resolution into Scotty’s ear.

You leaned over and said, “Find out just how hot a firefighter can get.”

Scotty choked on his drink. Jess yelled, “STOP CORRUPTING MY EYES.”

⸻

The Sneak Away – 11:04 PM

You tugged Scotty’s hand and led him to the back room under the excuse of needing “fresh air” even though the garage was already open.

The room was small and a little dusty, but the moment the door shut, it didn’t matter. He pulled you in, kissed you like the year was ending in minutes. Your hands were in his hair. His thumbs traced your jaw.

You were breathless when you pulled back. “This year sucked.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But it gave me you.”

“Damn,” you said. “You’re getting good at this romance thing.”

He chuckled and rested his forehead against yours. “Don’t tell anyone. Gotta keep the jock image alive.”

⸻

Midnight – 12:00 AM

Everyone was outside again, wrapped in jackets and scarves. Tony had pulled out sparklers. The countdown started—ten, nine, eight…

You grabbed Scotty’s hand.

“Three… two… one—HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Cheers echoed down the street. Fireworks burst in the sky above.

Scotty turned to you, eyes shining. “We made it.”

You kissed him again. No dares. No jokes. Just love.

⸻

Back Inside – 12:34 AM

Blankets and pillows littered the floor. People were dozing off. Clay leaned on Justin’s shoulder. Jess had her legs draped across Sheri’s lap. Zoey yawned dramatically and said, “I’m already regretting the new year“

Tony grinned. “Same.”

You caught Scotty’s eye across the room.

“Hey,” you said. “We survived last year.”

He nodded. “And we did it with style.”

You raised a brow. “Horny raccoon style.”

He smirked. “Best style.”

You cuddled into his side, heart full. Somewhere deep inside, Hannah’s memory lingered. Not a wound—just a quiet ache. But tonight wasn’t about the past. It was about surviving, loving, and finding moments of joy even when the world tried to take them away.

As you closed your eyes, Scotty whispered, “You know, I still think you’re the hottest skeleton I’ve ever seen.”

You whispered back, “And you’re the hottest firefighter I’ve ever corrupted.”

Outside, the fireworks finally faded, but inside the garage, laughter and love lit the night.

Chapter Text

Words~1689
—-

The New Year began with a groan from Scotty, muffled into your pillow.

“Why is it illegal to sleep in on January first?” he mumbled against your shoulder. His morning hair flopped into your face, and you gave him a lazy shove, chuckling.

“It’s not. You’re just dramatic,” you muttered, pressing your forehead against his. “Also, this is the first New Year where you woke up next to the hottest guy in Liberty.”

Scotty snorted, then smiled sleepily. “Must’ve missed him on my way in.”

You swatted his chest. “Rude.”

“Also,” he continued, ignoring your offense, “you’re not allowed to be this chipper before coffee. It’s unconstitutional.”

There was a beat of silence as you both lay there, tangled in the sheets, warm and safe. Then, the vibration of a phone broke the moment. Scotty reached for his, squinting at the screen.

You watched the shift in his face — the way his casual smirk faltered, how his mouth pressed into a flat line.

“What is it?” you asked, sitting up slightly.

Scotty hesitated. Then handed you his phone.

“Hope you’re doing alright. Happy New Year.”
— Dad

You blinked at it. “Huh.”

“That’s it,” Scotty said flatly. “That’s the first thing I’ve heard from him since Christmas Eve. Not even a call.”

“Maybe… he’s trying?” you offered, unsure. The message was suspiciously neutral. Mr. Reed wasn’t known for ‘trying’ — he was known for controlling.

Scotty’s voice turned bitter. “Or maybe he realized he looked bad abandoning both his kids over Christmas and needed to do damage control.”

You didn’t argue. You just leaned your head against his shoulder and whispered, “Whatever it is, he doesn’t get to crawl back with a text.”

He exhaled, phone still in hand. “You’d think after everything—after being kidnapped, after being out of that house for weeks—he’d want to talk. But nah. Just a six-word text.”

You sat in silence for a moment, letting him process. Then softly, “You wanna delete it?”

Scotty didn’t move. “Not yet.”

⸻

Downstairs, the Bakers were already in the kitchen. The smell of scrambled eggs and toast filled the air. Mrs. Baker raised an eyebrow when the two of you walked in.

“You two look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” she commented, handing you both mugs of coffee.

“We’ve been hit by love,” you said dramatically. Scotty groaned beside you.

Mr. Baker smirked from behind his newspaper. “You’ve been hit by something. Probably hormones.”

“I’m choosing to ignore that,” Scotty muttered, sipping his coffee. Then, like clockwork, he added with a teasing grin, “By the way, I’m taking your son to a closet later. Just so you’re prepared.”

Mrs. Baker looked up sharply. “Excuse me?!”

“FOR CLEANING!” you yelped, slapping Scotty’s arm as he tried not to burst out laughing. “CLEANING SUPPLIES. TOTALLY NOT TRAUMATIZED BY THE LAST CLOSET INCIDENT OR ANYTHING.”

“Closet trauma?” Mr. Baker asked, clearly regretting it immediately.

Mrs. Baker waved a hand. “We’ll talk about it later. Or never.”

⸻

Later that afternoon, the three of you — you, Scotty, and Zoey — sat curled up in the Bakers’ living room. Zoey was wrapped in one of Hannah’s old fleece blankets, a mug of tea cradled between her hands.

She’d been quiet most of the morning, but when Scotty told her about the text from their father, something inside her cracked.

“He doesn’t want to fix anything,” she snapped, her voice sharp and breaking at the same time. “He wants to feel better about himself.”

Scotty looked over at her. “Yeah.”

“I spent years trying to be perfect,” Zoey continued. “Good grades. Cheer squad. Switzerland. I thought if I stayed out of his way, he’d have nothing to be angry about.”

You watched her knuckles tighten around the mug.

“But it was never about us. It was about control. He didn’t send me away to ‘give me a future.’ He sent me away so he didn’t have to deal with two kids.”

You reached out and gently touched her wrist. “You didn’t deserve that.”

She swallowed, hard. “Neither did he,” she added, nodding toward Scotty. “And now he sends a Happy New Year text like it’s all water under the bridge.”

Scotty rubbed his face. “Part of me wanted to answer. That’s the worst part.”

“No,” you said firmly. “That’s the human part.”

He turned to look at you. Your expression was steady. “You’re allowed to want closure. But you don’t owe him a thing.”

Scotty didn’t say anything for a moment. He just leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling like it held some kind of answer.

“I used to think… maybe if I was just more of what he wanted—more focused, more grateful, more whatever—he’d stop looking at me like I was a disappointment,” he said finally, voice low. “But I could’ve turned into a golden retriever and he still would’ve found something wrong.”

Zoey gave a bitter little laugh. “He probably would’ve put you in obedience training.”

That made Scotty snort despite himself. You cracked a smile too, tension in the room breaking just slightly.

“God, this family is so messed up,” Zoey muttered, swiping at her face. “Do you know what I said to myself, right before he sent me to Switzerland? I actually believed it was my fault.”

Scotty turned to her, eyes soft. “Zo…”

“I thought maybe I made it harder for him. Maybe I asked for too much. All because I wanted to stay for one damn summer,” she said. “And then when I saw your bruises last week—” her voice cracked. “I just kept thinking, how could he be so cold to his own kid?”

There was silence again, heavy and real. You didn’t try to fill it. You just reached out and took both of their hands, thumb brushing over Scotty’s knuckles, fingers linked with Zoey’s.

Finally, Zoey spoke again, this time quieter. “I’m going to talk to him.”

Scotty blinked. “Zo…”

“Not for him. For me,” she said, resolute now. “I can’t spend another year wondering if I did something wrong. I need to say my piece—even if he never hears it.”

Scotty hesitated, then gave her hand a squeeze. “You’re braver than me.”

She gave him a look. “You literally survived a kidnapping. You’re a cockroach, Reed.”

“Wow,” Scotty said, mock offended. “Touching.”

You smiled. “Our cockroach. The hot kind.”

“Gee, thanks, Skeletwink.”

You let out a groan, dropping your head onto his shoulder as Zoey burst out laughing.

“I told you that name would stick,” she said, victorious.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered. “You’re all hilarious.”

Scotty looked down at you, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You know, it’s kind of terrifying how much I love you both.”

Zoey immediately pointed a finger. “Don’t get sappy. I’ll cry again.”

You looked up at him, your grin softening. “I love you too, dumbass.”

Scotty bumped your forehead with his. “I know.”

⸻

Later that evening, as Zoey ducked upstairs for a shower and Mr. Baker flipped channels absently, Mrs. Baker pulled you into the kitchen. You were grabbing a soda when she leaned against the counter with one of her classic raised eyebrows.

“How’s he doing? Really?”

You knew she meant Scotty.

You leaned on the opposite side of the kitchen island, thoughtful. “Better than he was. But it’s like… every time he starts to heal, something else knocks him down.”

Mrs. Baker nodded. “He’s had a hell of a year. You both have.”

You looked at her for a moment, then said quietly, “He got that text from Mr. Reed this morning. Just ‘Happy New Year.’ Nothing else.”

She exhaled sharply. “Of course he did.”

“I think part of him wants to believe it means something,” you admitted. “But I think he knows it doesn’t.”

She stepped closer, her hand finding your shoulder. “You’re doing a good job, you know.”

You blinked. “What?”

“With him. Being there. Loving him like this. I’ve never seen anyone make you feel safer.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m enough. If it’ll ever be enough.”

Mrs. Baker shook her head gently. “It already is.”

You nodded, suddenly emotional, and she just pulled you into a quick hug. “Also, for the love of God,” she added, “please warn me next time you and him decide to perform a striptease in my living room.”

You burst out laughing. “Noted.”

Scotty wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, still in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair a mess.

“Everything okay?” he asked, eyeing you both.

Mrs. Baker smiled. “I was just telling your boyfriend how we need a chore wheel for the New Year. And also maybe less of his pelvic thrusting during our music hours.”

You choked.

Scotty looked between the two of you. “Wow. I leave the room for five minutes and suddenly I’m banned from being sexy.”

“Not banned,” Mrs. Baker said sweetly. “Just… limited.”

“Limited sexy. Got it,” Scotty said with mock seriousness.

⸻

That night, after brushing teeth and slipping into pajamas, you and Scotty curled up under the same blanket on your bed, the lamp casting soft golden light around the room.

You turned your phone over in your hands, then showed him your lock screen.

It was the photo of the two of you from the Halloween party—him in that stupid firefighter outfit, you in your skeleton one, both of you grinning like idiots with red solo cups in hand.

“I still don’t know how I managed to look that good,” he whispered, smirking.

“You’re welcome,” you whispered back. “I manifested it.”

He leaned over, kissed your cheek. “Manifest more often.”

You let your head fall onto his shoulder. The buzz of the New Year had worn off, but what remained was solid. Warm.

“I don’t care what your dad says,” you mumbled. “This—this is home now.”

Scotty was quiet for a second.

Then, softly, “Yeah. It is.”

You were half-asleep when he kissed your temple and whispered, “Happy New Year, Skeletwink.”

You muttered, “You’re the worst,” and curled into him anyway.

Outside, the world was still cold. But in that little room, there was only warmth.

And finally, peace.

Chapter Text

Words~3150
—-

The second day of the new year feels strangely… paused. Like the world is still catching its breath from all the noise and fireworks and leftover champagne of the night before. The house is hushed, still basking in that post-holiday haze. No school. No chaos. No obligations. Just you and the quiet hum of a house that, lately, feels more like home than your own ever did.

You wake slowly, stretched out in the Bakers’ guest bed — though by now it might as well have your name stitched on the sheets. The blanket’s slipped halfway off your shoulder, the pillow’s warm but missing the weight you’ve gotten used to. Your hand reaches instinctively across the mattress.

Empty.

No Scotty.

Still warm, though. Like he only left a few minutes ago.

Your eyes blink open, hair a mess, the room bathed in the soft gray light of an overcast morning. You push yourself up, groggy and a little sore — which, let’s be honest, is his fault — and glance at the clock on the nightstand.

11:08 a.m.
You groan softly. Late. But not enough to feel guilty.

From the hallway, you catch the faint sound of running water. Shower. Which means he’s up. You sit there a moment, bare-legged and shirtless, one of Scotty’s hoodies hanging off your frame. You could stay here, be chill about it. Let him have his moment. His steam. His solitude.

But where’s the fun in that?

Besides… after everything — the trial prep, his father’s bullshit, the constant ache of grief and pressure simmering beneath every day — you want him. Not just to touch. To feel. To ground yourself in something real.

You pad quietly across the floor and out into the hallway, hoodie hanging just low enough to be indecent. The house is quiet. Zoey’s out with Jess and Sheri, and the Bakers made it clear they’d be running errands all morning. No witnesses. Just you and him. You feel the corners of your mouth twitch upward at the thought.

The bathroom door’s shut, but not locked — it never is anymore.

Steam curls under the frame, warm and thick. You open it slowly, letting yourself in, and it greets you instantly: that wet, eucalyptus-scented air, rich and hazy, already clinging to your skin. The mirror’s completely fogged over, and the only sound is water — loud, constant, like rainfall in a summer storm.

Through the misted glass of the shower, you can make out his shape.

And damn.

Scotty stands under the spray, head tilted back, eyes closed, water running over his face and down his chest. His hair is slicked back, darkened, curling just slightly at the edges. One hand is braced against the wall, the other lazily running through his hair.

You take a second — okay, maybe more than a second — just to look. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve seen him like this. But something about it now, in the quiet, without the weight of the world pressing in… it hits different. He looks peaceful. Which is rare these days. Like he’s letting go.

And you’re not about to waste that moment.

You slip off the hoodie in one lazy motion, letting it fall to the tile with a soft thud, followed quickly by your boxers. The steam kisses your bare skin instantly, wrapping around you like a second body. You slide open the shower door, stepping inside with barely a sound.

He doesn’t even open his eyes.

“You always stare this much, or is today special?” he asks, voice low, thick with sleep and amusement.

You smirk. “I stare because I care.”

“More like you stare because you’re horny.”

You step closer behind him, the water cascading over your shoulders now, warm and delicious as it runs down your spine. “Can’t I be both?”

Scotty finally opens one eye, tilting his head slightly to glance over his shoulder at you. There’s a lazy grin tugging at his mouth, the kind he gets when he’s about to say something smart and knows he’s gonna get away with it.

“You only ever show me affection when I’m naked and wet.”

You slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your body to his back, resting your chin between his shoulder blades. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He laughs — that breathy, honest sound that always hits you in the ribs.

“You’re such a little menace.”

“And yet, here you are. Still letting me in.”

Scotty leans back into your touch, just slightly, enough for you to know he needs this as much as you do. Your fingers splay across his stomach, slow and deliberate, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath. He’s warm beneath your hands. Solid. Safe.

“I could get used to mornings like this,” he murmurs after a beat.

“Then let’s make more of them.”

He turns in your arms then, slow and deliberate, water sliding between you, over your joined skin, steam curling up around your faces. And when his eyes lock onto yours, all teasing fades for a moment. There’s something unspoken there — soft, heavy, vulnerable.

You reach up and brush wet strands of hair from his forehead.

“You okay?” you ask, quieter now.

He nods. Swallows. “I am now.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

He kisses you.

And suddenly, you’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling — lips moving against yours, slow and deep, like he’s memorizing you all over again. His hands slide up your arms, your neck, your face. Yours are already roaming across his back, his ribs, the place behind his shoulder where you know he’s ticklish but pretend not to use as leverage.

The water beats down like white noise, and the world outside doesn’t exist anymore.

Just this. Just him.

Just you.

His mouth moves against yours slowly — like he’s savoring every second, like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else he wants more than this.

And maybe that’s true.

You can feel it in the way he kisses you — deliberate, tender, deep. The way his hands slide from your waist to the curve of your back, fingers pressing lightly, not pulling, just grounding. There’s no rush here. Just heat. Steam. Breath.

Your palms explore him like you’re remembering every inch, even though you already know him by heart. The slope of his shoulder blades. The dip in his lower back. The way his skin tenses just a little when your fingers trail lightly down his spine.

Scotty exhales against your lips.

“You always do this to me,” he murmurs, voice husky, water dripping from his jaw to yours. “Touch me like I’m something breakable. Like you actually care.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your fingers still tracing lazy lines along his ribs.

“That’s because I do,” you say, quiet but firm. “I care. Always.”

For a moment, he just looks at you. His expression flickers between disbelief and something softer, something that scares him — maybe how deeply he believes you. Maybe how much he needs to.

Then his lips are on yours again, and this time, the kiss is different.

Hungrier. Wetter. Less careful.

You feel it the second he presses closer, chest to chest, your bodies slick with water and tension. His hand slides up the back of your neck, into your hair, gripping just enough to make your breath catch. You moan softly against his mouth, and you swear you feel him smile into the kiss.

The hand you had on his back trails downward now, tracing the firm line of his spine until it reaches the base — and you don’t stop. You let your fingers glide lower, across the curve of him, until you find his thigh, pull him closer by it, and roll your hips against his, slow and deliberate.

The contact makes him shudder.

“Fuck,” Scotty breathes, his voice breaking open like a secret.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parting against your neck. You feel him pant there, hot and shaky, his hands gripping your sides harder now. He rocks against you — once, slow and messy and so much need in just that one motion.

“I need—” he starts, but the words don’t land. His voice is too rough, too undone.

“I know,” you whisper, kissing just below his ear. “Me too.”

Your hand moves between you. You don’t rush it. You wrap your fingers around him with deliberate slowness, the way you know he likes — no sudden movements, just the softest glide, wet from the shower and from him. He groans, low and guttural, burying his face against your throat like he’s trying not to fall apart just from that first touch.

You stroke him gently, teasing him with rhythm, feeling the way his body reacts in waves. His hips twitch, his thighs flex, and his breath comes in staggered bursts. You kiss his temple, his cheek, his jaw — anywhere you can reach while you keep your hand moving.

“Jesus,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “How do you always—fuck—know exactly how to touch me?”

“Because I pay attention,” you murmur. “And because I love watching you lose control.”

That earns a strangled laugh, but it breaks off into a moan as you speed up slightly. His hands grip your shoulders now, bracing himself. He’s so warm, so solid in your arms, and the way he’s letting you take him apart like this? It does something to you — something deep.

But then he grabs your wrist gently, pulling your hand off him.

You look up, confused for a second — until you see the look in his eyes.

His turn.

Scotty’s hand slides between you, and you don’t even try to act cool about it. The second his fingers wrap around you, your whole body stiffens against him, your lips parting on a gasp.

“See?” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Not so cocky now.”

“You’re such a little shit,” you manage, already breathless.

He chuckles darkly, and it vibrates through you. His strokes are firm but slow, his grip perfect, teasing in just the right way. He knows your body just as well as you know his — knows how to curl his fingers, how to time the pressure, how to keep you dangling right on the edge.

Your hips move into his touch, and your hands find his waist again, pulling him closer. You’re panting against each other now, water still pouring over your backs, your foreheads pressed together like you’ll fly apart if you let go for even a second.

Scotty’s breath hitches, and you don’t have to say anything. You both know what’s coming.

“Together,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. Just like always.”

Your hands find him again, and the rhythm falls into sync — not hurried, not frantic, but matched. Like muscle memory. Like music. Stroking, gasping, holding, grinding. It builds between you, hotter than the water, sharper than anything you’ve felt all week. The steam makes it feel surreal, your bodies melting into each other, your moans echoing off the tile.

Then it hits.

Scotty gasps your name as he comes, face buried against your shoulder, his whole body going tense, then slack. You follow a second later, the pleasure crashing over you in waves, your knees almost giving out from how hard it hits.

You’re both panting, clinging to each other like lifelines, shaking with adrenaline and affection.

You don’t say anything right away.

You just breathe.

You stay like that — tangled, soaked, and blissfully wrecked — as the water continues to rain down on you.

Eventually, Scotty lets out a broken laugh.

“Well,” he says, voice rough and low. “Guess that’s one way to start the year.”

You grin into his shoulder. “We’re overachievers.”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw lazily. “Shower sex is kind of elite, not gonna lie.”

“You say that like you didn’t almost collapse on me.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t knock both of us over like bowling pins.”

You snort. “Now that’s romantic.”

Scotty leans back just enough to look at you. His cheeks are still flushed, his hair wild and dripping, but his eyes are clear. Soft. Loving.

“I love you, you know,” he says quietly, suddenly serious again.

You nod, resting your forehead against his. “I know. I love you too.”

And you do.

More than anything.

Your legs are still wobbly when you step out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and breathless in every possible way. The hallway feels cold in contrast to the heat you and Scotty just left behind — like stepping back into reality after being suspended in a dream made of water, skin, and heavy breathing.

Scotty trails behind you a few seconds later, his hair still damp and wild, towel low on his hips like he’s in no rush to get dressed.

“You know,” you mutter, glancing at him over your shoulder as you reach the bedroom, “I think that shower should go down in history.”

Scotty raises an eyebrow as he follows you in. “Like, get its own plaque?”

“Absolutely. ‘Here, on January 2nd, Scott Reed and X Baker made the hot water bill worth it.’”

He snorts, slinging the towel over the back of your desk chair and grabbing one of the old hoodies he leaves here — because of course he basically lives here now. You dry off slower, on purpose, just to make him squirm. He tries to hide it, but the flush on his face is giving him away.

“Jesus,” he mutters, ruffling his hair with his own towel, not even bothering to hide the way his eyes flick down to your waist. “Put on some clothes before I forget what human decency is.”

You smirk. “Who says we ever had it?”

He throws a pillow at you. You dodge it and flop onto your bed in a fit of laughter, towel barely holding on. The sheets are still rumpled from this morning — or maybe from the other times he’s been here. Honestly, you’ve stopped keeping track.

You both get dressed eventually, though the process includes at least one wrestling match over who gets the “good hoodie” (you win, obviously) and several kisses that almost derail things entirely.

By the time you’re curled up under the covers again, it’s well past noon. The Bakers still aren’t back — your mom texted about groceries and some church friend they ran into at the store. Zoey’s radio silent, probably with Sheri and Jess still. The house is quiet in a way that almost feels sacred.

Scotty lies on his back, head tilted toward you, one arm behind his head, the other lazily tracing shapes along your thigh. You’ve got your head on his chest, close enough to hear his heartbeat — still a little fast, but steady now.

“You think the showerhead’s okay?” he asks after a minute.

You blink up at him. “Wait—did we break it?”

“No. But like… it judged us. I could feel it.”

You grin. “Showerhead’s seen worse. This is a Baker household.”

He groans and covers his face with one hand. “God. Your parents live here.”

You snort. “Yeah, and?”

“And we just—you know. In their bathroom.”

“You were too busy moaning to complain about it ten minutes ago.”

He flicks your forehead gently. “You’re evil.”

“You’re into it.”

“Unfortunately.”

You rest your chin on his chest, smile softening. “Seriously though, they love you. My mom literally called you ‘sweetheart’ while handing you mashed potatoes last week. I think you’re good.”

He exhales a slow breath, eyes scanning the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I know. I just… I still get that pit in my stomach. Like someone’s gonna barge in and tell me I’ve ruined your life.”

You lean up and kiss his jaw. “You’ve saved my life more times than I can count.”

Scotty doesn’t say anything for a moment. His hand finds yours under the blanket and squeezes.

“I hate that my dad still gets to do this,” he whispers. “That he still makes me feel like I have to choose between being loved and being me.”

Your fingers slip into his hair, gently pulling him toward you. You press a kiss to his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to choose,” you whisper. “Not here. Not ever.”

He lets out a shaky breath and buries his face in the crook of your neck. You wrap your arms around him, fingers tracing slow circles along his back, just letting him breathe. Letting him be.

You stay like that for a long time. No pressure. No expectations. Just warmth and heartbeat and skin.

Eventually, Scotty pulls back, eyes half-lidded, the kind of tired that comes from emotional drain more than lack of sleep.

“You ever think about just… running away?” he asks suddenly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Like, Thelma & Louise style?”

He grins, just barely. “Minus the driving off a cliff part, yeah.”

You snort. “Where would we go?”

He shrugs. “Somewhere warm. Ocean. Cheap diner with terrible pancakes. We sleep in the back of a beat-up car and live off milkshakes and soft pretzels.”

“And make out in public like reckless gays.”

“Obviously.”

You smile and kiss the tip of his nose. “Let’s not run just yet, though. We still have to beat Bryce in court. And you promised to watch Eurovision with me again.”

He groans. “God. You and Zoey are obsessed.”

“Because it’s art.”

“It’s camp. With glitter.”

“Exactly. And it’s healing.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But if I have to watch another shirtless Albanian dance in a circle of fire while singing about his ex, I’m charging emotional rent.”

You laugh into his chest. “Deal.”

It goes quiet again — but this time, it’s the good kind of silence. The kind where you don’t feel like you need to fill it. His hand finds yours again. You lace your fingers together and just… exist.

You must drift off for a bit, because the next thing you remember is waking to Scotty gently stroking your hair, your head still on his chest, your body curled around his like he’s home.

Outside, you hear the faint jingle of keys — your mom and dad returning.

Scotty tenses slightly under you, but you don’t move.

“They won’t care,” you mumble sleepily. “They already know.”

He nods slowly, then relaxes again.

You hear your mom’s voice from the hallway. “We’re back! And we brought… way too many apples.”

“Why do we always do that?” your dad’s voice follows. “No one even likes red apples.”

“Speak for yourself,” Zoey shouts, clearly having just gotten home too.

Scotty smiles into your hair. “This house is ridiculous.”

“It’s the best kind of ridiculous.”

He kisses your forehead.

“I love you,” he says quietly, like it still surprises him.

You smile, heart warm. “Good. Because I’m never letting you go.”

And in that moment — tangled up in each other, the smell of apples wafting through the house, your family yelling about fruit like it’s a political debate — you feel it.

Home.

Chapter Text

Words~1911

—-

It’s late morning, and the kitchen smells like cinnamon and burnt toast.

Mr. Baker is crouched by the toaster like it’s personally betrayed him, muttering something under his breath about “how the hell did this happen again?” while Mrs. Baker calmly scrapes a charred corner with a butter knife. You and Zoey are hunched over mugs of coffee at the table — hers overly sugared, yours still too hot — watching the chaos unfold like a low-budget sitcom.

Scotty leans against the counter in one of your oversized sweatshirts, arms crossed, eyes still heavy with sleep. His damp curls suggest he showered but didn’t bother drying off completely. You don’t mind. You like the way his hair curls at the ends when it’s wet.

There’s a peaceful rhythm to mornings like this. A familiarity. One that settled in slowly over the holidays and now fits like a second skin. After everything — the trial stress, the Christmas mess, the weight of Mr. Reed’s looming silence — this has become the eye of the storm. Safe. Steady. Yours.

You steal a piece of toast from Zoey’s plate when she’s not looking. She narrows her eyes at you but doesn’t fight for it. She’s too busy scrolling TikTok and rolling her eyes at everything.

Mrs. Baker finally slides the semi-salvaged breakfast onto the table and joins you, ruffling your hair in that distracted, affectionate mom-way as she sits. Mr. Baker follows a moment later, sighing like he just wrestled a dragon and lost.

And for a few golden minutes, it’s just a normal morning.

Until the doorbell rings.

It’s the kind of knock that doesn’t belong in this house.

Not casual. Not familiar. Not the kind of knock Clay uses when he shows up with coffee and gossip, or Sheri’s impatient little rhythm, or even Tony’s calculated tap-tap-tap. No — this one’s heavy. Deliberate. A full fist against the door. Twice.

Everyone at the table freezes.

You look up from your half-eaten toast. Scotty’s already gone still beside the counter. Zoey lowers her mug slowly. Mr. Baker’s chair creaks as he stands.

No one says it out loud. But you all know.

Mrs. Baker’s eyes narrow as she moves toward the window, peeking through the curtains just enough to see.

Then she steps back like she’s been slapped.

“…It’s him,” she says tightly.

No one needs to ask who.

Mr. Baker opens the front door with slow, measured control — the kind of calm that only barely hides the simmering fire beneath.

Mr. Reed stands on the porch. Same blazer, same pressed shirt, but something about him looks off. Not disheveled exactly — he would never allow that — but worn. Tired in the face. Eyes that don’t quite meet yours when you appear just behind Mr. Baker, hand ghosting over Scotty’s elbow.

Zoey lingers near the hallway corner, arms crossed tightly.

“I’m not here to start anything,” Mr. Reed says, voice lower than usual. “I just… I’d like to talk. To my son.”

Mr. Baker doesn’t move. “You said you’d throw his things out if he didn’t come back in three days.”

“That was two weeks ago,” Mrs. Baker cuts in from the other side of the living room, her tone frostbitten. “You disappeared. What exactly do you think is left to talk about?”

Mr. Reed swallows.

“I know. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I shouldn’t have… vanished.” He glances toward Scotty, who remains silent. “I wasn’t ready to come back until I knew I could say something worth hearing.”

Silence stretches across the threshold like a drawn wire.

Zoey is the first to speak.

“You just left,” she says sharply. “You ghosted us. On Christmas. On him. And now you think you can knock and make it better?”

Mr. Reed’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t react with the fire you’ve seen from him before. No anger. No insults. Just quiet resignation.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I can make it better. I just want to talk. That’s all.”

The Bakers exchange a look. Not approval. Not forgiveness. But a decision.

“You can talk,” Mr. Baker says. “But this time? You do it under our roof. On our terms.”

Mr. Reed nods once.

And just like that, the air changes.

The five of you settle in the Bakers’ living room.

Scotty sits on the couch between you and Zoey. Mr. Reed takes the farthest seat, upright, hands folded in his lap like he’s bracing for court. The Bakers remain nearby in the doorway — not intruding, but present.

Mr. Reed looks older than he did last time. Not in years, but in weight. His shoulders don’t carry the same tension, but his eyes are tired. As if the silence over the holidays was louder than he expected.

“I didn’t plan this well,” he starts. “Or at all, really. I didn’t come here with a speech.”

Scotty doesn’t reply.

“I said some things in anger before I left,” Mr. Reed continues. “Things I can’t take back. And I made it worse by disappearing. I thought space might… help. That maybe giving us time would take the edge off.”

Zoey laughs under her breath. It’s not nice.

“You thought ignoring your gay son for two weeks over Christmas would cool things off?”

“Zoey,” Scotty says softly. She quiets, but her glare stays sharp.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Mr. Reed admits. “I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. I blamed your relationship for things that were never your fault. I told myself it was a distraction. That it was pulling you away from your future.”

He turns to Scotty, not quite meeting his eyes.

“But you weren’t running away. You were finally choosing something for yourself. And I didn’t want to see that.”

You glance at Scotty. He’s staring forward, face unreadable. You gently thread your pinky through his under the blanket between you. He squeezes once. Hard.

“I’m not saying I get it all now,” Mr. Reed continues. “But I know this much: you’re not broken. You never were. You were just trying to live.”

And for the first time, Scotty responds.

“I didn’t need you to understand everything,” he says, his voice steady. “I just needed you not to make me feel like I was a disappointment every time I didn’t fit your mold.”

Silence.

Then Mr. Reed nods slowly.

“I think I do now.”
r. Reed is still sitting perfectly upright on the couch, like his spine won’t let him relax. But his voice has softened — not apologetic in the rehearsed way, but in that quiet, tentative way of someone who knows they’ve already burned the bridge and are trying to rebuild from ash.

Scotty shifts beside you, but doesn’t pull away.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Mr. Reed says. “All those years pushing you — trying to get you focused, tough, driven — I thought I was giving you everything you’d need to survive. To succeed. I didn’t realize I was just making you smaller. Quieter. Afraid.”

Zoey makes a soft sound under her breath. You glance at her and see her arms still folded, but her expression is less sharp now. Tired. Sad.

“I didn’t ask for perfect,” Scotty says, his voice low. “I just wanted you to see me. Not what I could do. Not what you wanted me to be. Me.”

“And I didn’t,” Mr. Reed admits. “Not because I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to. Because I was scared of what it meant.”

He pauses, then adds, “Scared of what it would say about me. About what kind of father I’d be if I said, ‘That’s enough. You’re enough.’”

Zoey leans forward, finally speaking.

“You were scared? You left your own son over Christmas and we were the ones picking up the pieces. You didn’t even text me back, Dad. Not once.”

Mr. Reed’s voice tightens, but he doesn’t deflect. “I know.”

“And now you think just showing up fixes it?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t. I just… couldn’t sit in that silence anymore. Not knowing if I’d already lost him for good.”

Scotty’s fingers tighten around yours.

“You said I had three days,” he says, his voice still calm but edged with something raw. “Three days to choose between myself and your plan for me. And when I didn’t pick you, you vanished.”

“I thought it was punishment,” Mr. Reed murmurs. “But it ended up feeling more like grief.”

The room goes quiet again.

No one says anything. The fireplace crackles faintly in the corner. Outside, a dog barks somewhere down the street, far enough away that it barely registers.

Then Scotty exhales — shaky, controlled.

“I’m not coming back,” he says. “Not to that version of life. I’m not quitting the trial. I’m not hiding my relationship. And I’m not going to pretend I’m someone I’m not so you can feel better at your office or your booster meetings.”

You look at him then. His jaw is set, but his shoulders are relaxed. For once, he’s not bracing. He’s standing still in his truth.

“I know,” Mr. Reed says. “And I’m not here to talk you out of it.”

Scotty’s brows furrow slightly. “Then what are you here for?”

There’s a pause. A breath. Then:

“To try. Not perfectly. Probably not even well. But I’m here. I’m late. But I’m here.”

It lands.

Not with fanfare. Not with dramatic tears or swelling music.

But it lands.

Later, after Mr. Reed has left — politely, quietly, with a nod to the Bakers and a longer look at Scotty that says far more than words could — you and Scotty return to your room.

He flops back on your bed like he’s been holding himself up all day.

You sit beside him, pulling your knees to your chest.

“He meant some of it,” he says after a long silence.

You nod. “I think he meant all of it. Even if he didn’t know how to say it right.”

Scotty stares at the ceiling. His hands are folded across his stomach, his voice softer now.

“He’s still the guy who said I was throwing my life away.”

“Yeah.”

“And he didn’t say he was proud of me.”

“No,” you agree gently. “But he didn’t tell you to come home either.”

Scotty turns his head to look at you.

“He said I wasn’t broken.”

You smile, inching closer. “You’re not. Never were.”

He reaches out and pulls you into him. You curl into his chest without hesitation. His skin is warm beneath the fabric of your hoodie — your hoodie on his body, your heartbeat against his ribs.

“I waited my whole life to hear him say that,” he whispers. “That I’m not broken.”

You nod, nuzzling into his neck. “And now you don’t need him to say it again. Because you know.”

He hums. It’s not quite agreement. But it’s not denial either.

A few minutes later, Zoey pops her head in.

“You two okay?”

Scotty lifts his head just enough to give her a thumbs-up. You smile softly.

She doesn’t push. Just nods once and leaves the door half-closed behind her.

You lie there like that for a while — wrapped in the blanket, arms around each other, quiet.

Not fixed.

But different.

Scotty’s breathing slows. His fingers are tangled with yours.

And before either of you drifts off, he whispers into your hair:

“I think he actually saw me today.”

You don’t reply. You just hold him tighter.

Because you know he’s right.

Chapter Text

Words~3000
—-

The house is quiet when you wake up, and for once, it’s not comforting.

It’s the kind of silence that hums with something thick and tense — not grief, not fear, but something between the two. The kind that settles into your spine and lingers behind your ribs like it’s waiting for something to snap.

Downstairs, you hear soft movement. The creak of cabinets. Silverware shifting in drawers. A kettle clicking on.

You roll over and find Scotty already sitting on the edge of the bed, hoodie half-on, one hand running through his curls as he stares at the floor. Not spaced out, just… heavy.

You sit up slowly, pulling the covers tighter around your waist. “Hey,” you say, voice quiet.

He glances over his shoulder. Tries to smile. It doesn’t quite land.

“Morning.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit beside him, letting your thigh press against his. Your arm bumps his as you lean into him slightly.

He exhales. “It’s today.”

“I know.”

“Feels different this time.”

You nod. “Because we know what they’re gonna try.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks down at his hands, thumbs fidgeting.

“They’re gonna go after us,” he says eventually. “Harder than last time. Twist our words. Make it about us instead of… her.”

You put your hand over his. Steady. Warm.

“They can try,” you say. “But we know the truth.”

He finally looks at you — and for the first time that morning, something like resolve flickers in his eyes.

“Let’s get ready, then.”

⸻

Downstairs, Mrs. Baker has already set out breakfast, though no one really touches it. Zoey’s sipping coffee with both hands like it’s a lifeline. Mr. Baker double-checks the documents he’s packing into a leather binder. The air smells like cinnamon toast and nerves.

No one says much — but there’s an understanding in the room. A kind of quiet unity. Even in the silence, you feel the pulse of it: We’re going in together.

You and Scotty sit close at the table, thighs touching under the surface. You reach for the same piece of toast at the same time and both stop, hands awkwardly overlapping.

He chuckles softly. “We’re pathetic.”

“You’re pathetic,” you murmur. “I’m charming.”

He steals the toast anyway.

Mrs. Baker smirks from across the kitchen.

“Eat up, boys,” she says, eyes gentle. “You’re gonna need your strength.”

And somehow, that makes it real.

The courthouse looks the same as it did last time, which somehow makes it worse.

There’s something deeply unfair about how normal the building appears — white stone, polished glass doors, that heavy seal over the entrance that reads Santa Rosa County Superior Court. You’d half expected the sky to be stormy, or for the ground to rumble. Something to reflect the way your chest feels.

Instead, it’s just cold. Clear. Bright.

Too bright.

The Bakers park in the small side lot again. Mr. Baker pulls in with calm precision, his hands tight on the wheel. No one speaks for a long moment once the engine stops.

Then, quietly: “Ready?”

It’s not a question anyone answers out loud. You just nod. Scotty exhales through his nose. Mrs. Baker squeezes your knee before opening her door.

As soon as you step out of the car, you feel it — the weight. It’s not just nerves. It’s the presence. The people. Reporters are already gathered near the front steps. Some you recognize. Others are new. All of them have their cameras pointed toward the entrance.

You tug your hoodie sleeves down instinctively, but Scotty reaches over and gently pulls your hand back into his. Laces your fingers. Doesn’t let go.

“Let them watch,” he says under his breath.

You spot Jess and Clay near the steps, along with Sheri and Zoey, who already lef the bakers house earlier to get Sheri and Jess, waves in that too-casual way she does when she’s definitely not okay but wants to pretend. Justin’s not there — yet — and neither is Tony. But you know they’ll show. They always do.

Clay gives Scotty a nod — not exactly warm, but respectful. Jess walks straight up to you and hugs you, tight.

“We got this,” she murmurs.

“Do we?”

“We better. I wore eyeliner for this.”

That makes you laugh, and for a moment, the knot in your stomach loosens.

A moment later, the courthouse doors open.

A bailiff steps out and calls your names.

It’s time.

The courtroom smells like disinfectant and old wood. It’s cold in the way all courtrooms are — sterile, clinical, built for procedure, not comfort. You and the rest of the group take your usual spots behind the Bakers and Dennis Vasquez. Jess sits closest to the aisle, Sheri beside her. Zoey’s next to you, leg bouncing. Scotty sits at the edge of the bench, silent, hands folded tightly in his lap.

Then, it happens.

The court officer clears his throat.

“Scott Reed to the stand.”

Time slows for a second. You see the way his fingers tighten around the fabric of his sweatshirt. The small breath he pulls in — not deep enough to shake, but enough to show it costs him something.

He stands. Straightens his back.

You catch his pinky with yours for half a second. He looks at you.

And then he walks forward.

⸻

The oath is simple. A formality.

Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

“I do,” Scotty says.

He takes his seat, squares his shoulders, and waits.

Dennis Vasquez approaches first. Calm, steady. The good guy.

“Scott,” he begins, “you’ve been a student at Liberty High for four years, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve played on the varsity baseball team since sophomore year?”

“Yes.”

“Would you describe your relationship with the administration — particularly Coach Barnes and Principal Bolan — as supportive during that time?”

Scotty’s jaw shifts. “Supportive when it made them look good.”

Murmurs ripple through the courtroom.

Vasquez smiles politely. “Can you expand on that?”

“Yeah,” Scotty says, voice stronger now. “They supported me when I was winning. When I was their ‘future college star.’ When it made the school look strong. But when I started speaking up — when I defended Hannah, when I talked about Bryce, when I came out — I was a problem.”

His eyes scan the room. Find Bolan. Hold.

“They told me I was distracting the team. That I was compromising my ‘image.’ That I needed to remember what I ‘stood to lose.’”

“And what did you lose?” Vasquez asks softly.

Scotty’s voice breaks just slightly — not cracked, just thin. Controlled.

“I lost peace. I lost sleep. I lost the version of myself that thought adults would protect us.”

Your throat tightens.

Dennis thanks him, gives the judge a nod, and steps back.

Then the opposing counsel stands.

A woman this time. Sharp suit. Clipboard in hand.

“Mr. Reed,” she says smoothly, “you’ve mentioned your sexual orientation publicly, correct?”

Scotty tenses slightly. “Yes.”

“And you’re currently in a relationship?”

“Yes.”

“Would you say that relationship has affected your judgment or emotional state during the events being discussed in this case?”

You feel the air leave the room.

Scotty’s voice, when it comes, is calm. Even. Brutally clear.

“If loving someone makes me more human, then yes. It’s affected me. It’s made me brave.”

“Bravery is admirable, Mr. Reed,” she replies, “but let’s be honest — it’s also emotional. Would you agree that you’ve acted emotionally throughout this case? Particularly when testifying against fellow students like Montgomery de la Cruz and Bryce Walker?”

Scotty doesn’t flinch.

“I acted like someone who finally stopped being silent.”

A pause.

“And your boyfriend — the brother of the late Hannah Baker — would you say he’s influenced your perspective on the school’s role in her death?”

You feel every pair of eyes in the courtroom swing to you.

Scotty glances your way, then looks straight at the woman.

“He didn’t influence my perspective. He gave me the courage to admit what I already knew.”

The room goes still.

She shifts her papers but doesn’t push further. Not because she won’t — but because she’s saving it for the next round.

Scotty’s dismissed.

He walks back slowly. His face is pale, but steady.

He slides into the bench beside you, breathing hard.

You don’t say anything.

You just take his hand and hold it.

Tight.

“X Baker to the stand.”

Your legs move before your brain catches up. The courtroom is too quiet. The floor feels too far away. You hear Zoey inhale sharply beside you, but you don’t look back.

As you take your seat in the witness chair, you catch a glimpse of Hannah’s name printed in bold on one of the court files. It stings.

You lift your hand. Swear to tell the truth.

“I do.”

Dennis Vasquez approaches first. His presence is like a breath of oxygen — something familiar in a room full of eyes and judgment.

“Can you please state your relation to Hannah Baker for the record?”

You nod. “I’m her younger brother.”

“And you’ve been involved in these proceedings since the beginning, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve spoken about incidents involving Bryce Walker, Montgomery de la Cruz, and others. Do you stand by your statements?”

“I do.”

“Has anything changed about your account?”

“No.”

Dennis pauses. “Is there anything you’d like to say before we continue?”

You blink. That wasn’t expected.

But you nod. Slowly.

“I just… I want to remind the court that this isn’t about me. Or about Scott. Or the rest of us. This is about Hannah. She deserved better.”

Dennis gives a subtle nod — respectful, and thankful — then steps aside.

And then the opposing counsel rises.

The same woman who went after Scotty. Calm. Crisp. Cold.

“Mr. Baker,” she says, “you’ve testified before. So I’m going to ask that you answer clearly and directly.”

You nod again. “Okay.”

“How would you describe your relationship with your sister in the weeks before her death?”

Your jaw tightens. “We were… distant. But I loved her.”

“Would you say you were supportive?”

The question hits in a way that’s too familiar.

You pause. “I’ve already answered this.”

“Please answer again.”

You glance at Dennis, but he says nothing.

“Yes,” you say tightly. “I wish I’d been more supportive, but I loved her.”

“Is it true you told her you didn’t want her as your sister?”

Your breath catches. A question that burned itself into your skin months ago.

You don’t look at Scotty. You don’t look at anyone.

You just answer.

“Yes. And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

The attorney doesn’t even blink.

“And would you say that guilt informs your behavior in this case?”

You stare at her.

“I’m not here out of guilt,” you say. “I’m here because people who hurt her are still walking the halls of Liberty.”

“Including students you now associate with. Ms. Jess Davis, for example?”

Your brow furrows.

“I’ve already—”

“Answer the question.”

“She owned up to her part. She’s trying to make it right.”

“Is that what this is about now? Redemption?”

“No,” you snap. “It’s about truth. Which you keep pretending to look for, even while asking the same questions over and over.”

The courtroom stirs.

The judge raps his gavel once. “Order.”

You sit back slowly. Pulse racing. Vision hot.

The attorney watches you a beat longer. Then closes her folder.

“No further questions.”

You exhale — but not in relief.

Just in exhaustion.

As you return to your seat, Scotty reaches for you. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist. Grounding. You lean into him.

You both made it through.

But you can feel the storm rising again.

“Jessica Davis to the stand.”

You feel the shift in the room before she even rises. There’s something about Jess — not just her presence, but the way she carries her choices now. With intention. With weight.

She stands slowly, adjusts her blazer, and walks with quiet resolve. Not defiant. Not dramatic. Just… ready.

She raises her hand, swears in. Then sits.

Dennis Vasquez steps forward.

“Jessica,” he says, voice low and steady, “can you tell the court how long you knew Hannah Baker?”

Jess nods once. “Since she and her brother joined the school one and a half year ago.”

“And how would you describe your relationship with her?”

A breath. “Complicated.”

“Can you explain?”

Jess shifts slightly, fingers curling around the edge of the witness box.

“We were friends. And then we weren’t. Not because of some big fight — just… distance. Rumors. People saying things. And I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t push back.”

She pauses. Her voice stays strong, but there’s something raw under it now.

“I should’ve asked her how she was. I should’ve checked in.”

Dennis waits a moment, then asks, “In your view, did the school environment contribute to Hannah’s isolation?”

“Yes,” Jess says firmly. “There’s this… culture. At Liberty. Of pretending things are fine. Teachers turn their heads. Counselors brush things off. Students—” her jaw tightens “—we were taught to care more about our reputation than each other.”

“And what happened when Hannah began to show signs of distress?”

Jess looks down.

“She was called dramatic. Attention-seeking. Some of the teachers even said that. Like she was the problem.”

“Did anyone intervene?”

“No,” Jess answers. “Not until it was too late.”

The silence hangs in the room like smoke.

Dennis nods and steps back. “No further questions.”

Now it’s the opposing attorney’s turn.

She rises slowly.

“Miss Davis, you’ve said your relationship with Hannah was distant by the end, correct?”

Jess nods once. “Yes.”

“So your testimony today is based on what? Hindsight? Regret?”

Jess’s spine straightens. “It’s based on reality.”

The lawyer tilts her head. “And yet you weren’t in Hannah’s close circle. Why do you believe your insight is relevant?”

“Because I was part of the culture that failed her,” Jess says, unwavering. “We all were.”

The woman eyes her for a long second.

“Do you think the administration could have known everything going on in every student’s life?”

Jess’s laugh is bitter. “No. But they ignored what they did know.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Because I’ve sat in the counselor’s office. I’ve seen the way they minimize things. The way they blame the students for not saying enough, instead of asking themselves why students don’t feel safe saying anything.”

The lawyer opens her mouth, but Jess cuts her off.

“And because Hannah tried to speak up. She did go to them. And they let her walk away.”

The courtroom stills.

“Do you believe Liberty High bears responsibility for Hannah Baker’s death?”

Jess nods once. Steady.

“Yes. Because they made it easier for people to stay silent. And harder for people to be heard.”

“No further questions,” the attorney says tightly.

Jess steps down from the witness stand, gaze heavy but sure. As she returns to her seat, she meets your eyes — and you feel something settle in your chest.

She didn’t just speak for Hannah.

She spoke for all of you.

The courthouse doors swing shut behind you with a dull thud, and for the first time all day, the cold air feels good. Grounding.

Nobody says much as the group trickles down the stairs. Just the soft shuffle of feet on concrete, jackets pulled tighter, breath fogging in the January air.

Jess walks ahead with Sheri, both of them quiet but side by side. Clay has his hands shoved into his hoodie, earbuds in but no music playing. Zoey lingers with Dennis, asking questions you can’t hear.

You and Scotty hang back — not by plan, but instinct. The day feels like a bruise: fresh, deep, still forming.

“Hey,” you say softly, elbow nudging his. “You okay?”

Scotty doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at you. Then nods.

“Yeah. I think so.”

He offers his hand. You take it without hesitation.

“Jess was incredible,” you add after a moment.

He exhales. “Yeah. She always is.”

You don’t need to fill the silence. Sometimes being next to someone is enough.

⸻

Later, back at the Bakers’, the house feels warmer than it should. Maybe it’s the way Mrs. Baker keeps offering everyone tea like she’s trying to fix the world with chamomile. Maybe it’s the way Zoey plays quiet music from the speaker in the kitchen, something soft and wordless.

Maybe it’s the way Scotty keeps bumping your knee under the table like he needs to remember you’re there — and like maybe you need it too.

Eventually, the others peel off one by one. Jess gets picked up by her mom. Sheri heads home with Clay. Zoey disappears upstairs.

And you’re left alone with Scotty in the living room.

Finally.

He flops onto the couch, exhaling like he’s been holding his breath for hours. You sit beside him, your thigh brushing his.

“Today sucked,” you mutter.

“Big suck,” he agrees. “Maximum suckage.”

You smile.

Then his eyes land on you — and they soften in that way they do when he’s not thinking about anything else.

“You were kind of… absurdly hot up there,” he says.

You blink. “I was literally just trying not to cry or pass out.”

He grins. “And somehow, still hot.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you seriously turned on by courtroom anxiety?”

“Apparently I have a thing for brave, pissed-off boys who eviscerate lawyers with just their words.”

You shake your head, laughing.

“Well, in that case,” you tease, “maybe I should file a countersuit. For being too irresistibly stressed.”

Scotty leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You file that, and I’ll personally serve you the summons. In my underwear.”

You snort. “That was awful.”

“You liked it.”

“Unfortunately.”

You shift closer. His hand slips around your waist, your legs tangled up without even trying.

“Wanna go upstairs?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “And do what, Counselor?”

He grins. “Debrief. Very thoroughly. Maybe repeatedly.”

You laugh again — warm, real, grateful.

And as you both stand and head upstairs, hand in hand, you think:
For once, today ended right.

Chapter Text

Words~2060
—-

January 7th

You wake early. Not because of noise or nightmares — but simply because you can.

There’s a strange kind of peace in that.

The house is still. Scotty’s breath is soft and steady beside you, his arm curled instinctively around your waist. But you slip away gently, kissing his shoulder before rolling out of bed and padding downstairs in your socks.

The kitchen is already awake.

Mrs. Baker stands at the stove, humming and flipping pancakes with practiced grace. Mr. Baker is leaning on the counter, reading the news on his tablet and sipping coffee from a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Dad.

They both look up when you enter.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Mrs. Baker says warmly. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep in,” you reply with a shrug. “Too… awake.”

Mr. Baker smiles and gestures at the coffee pot. “Help yourself. It’s the strong kind today.”

You pour a mug and take a seat at the table, still wrapped in your favorite hoodie — one of Scotty’s, of course. For a while, the only sounds are the soft hiss of the skillet and the occasional flip of a digital newspaper page.

Then Mrs. Baker sits across from you and leans in, brow furrowing gently. “How are you really doing?”

You blink. It’s not just polite concern — it’s the kind of question that comes from watching someone closely.

You hesitate. Then: “Better than I thought I would be. Yesterday was a lot… but it helped. Jess helped.”

They both nod.

“She was powerful,” Mr. Baker says. “Reminded me of you, actually.”

You glance down at your coffee, hiding your smile.

And then, without meaning to, you say it.

“It’s been seven months today.”

Mrs. Baker tilts her head. “Seven months…?”

You look up. “Since Scotty and I got together. We started dating in June. We totally missed our six-month mark — it was buried between the trial and visiting Justin at rehab. But… yeah. It’s been seven.”

You expect a casual “congratulations” or maybe a comment about time flying. What you get instead is a quiet moment of recognition — and something softer in Mrs. Baker’s expression. Something proud.

“Seven months,” she repeats. “That’s something worth holding onto.”

“It is,” Mr. Baker agrees. “Especially with everything you’ve both been through.”

You nod, eyes stinging just a little. “I know we’ve only really had… now. Like, a few weeks of breathing room. But he’s been the one constant in all of it. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Mrs. Baker reaches across the table and touches your hand.

“You won’t have to.”

You smile, the kind that’s more about gratitude than joy.

Then she stands suddenly, brushing her hands together.

“Well,” she says, a little too brightly. “That settles it.”

You blink. “Settles what?”

She shoots her husband a knowing look.

“We’re giving you two the day off. No stress, no news, no trial talk. Just you and Scotty. Celebrating each other.”

You look between them. “Wait — what?”

Mr. Baker grins and walks to the kitchen drawer, pulling out a thick envelope.

“We were going to save this for later,” he says. “But you brought it up, so… happy seven months.”

Inside is a gift card. Not just any gift card — a voucher for a professional couples’ photoshoot. Outdoor session. Local photographer. Afternoon slot already booked.

Your jaw drops.

Mrs. Baker is smiling like she just handed you the keys to something precious.

“We thought it’d be nice to capture something good. Something real. Something yours.”

You don’t realize you’re getting misty-eyed until you blink hard and sniff.

“This is… this is a lot,” you say quietly.

“It’s love,” she replies.

Just then, Scotty stumbles into the kitchen like a bear out of hibernation.

His hoodie’s inside out, his curls are sticking up in every direction, and his eyes are squinty from sleep.

“Why are there feelings happening before 9 a.m.,” he mumbles.

You laugh, wiping at your eyes. “Because it’s our seven-month anniversary.”

Scotty blinks. “It’s what now?”

You reach for his hand. “Happy seven months, idiot.”

He blinks again.

Then grins. “Hell yeah.”

Mr. Baker hands him the envelope. “You’re getting photos taken. Today.”

Scotty opens it and whistles. “Oh, we’re about to be insufferably hot in high resolution.”

You elbow him. “Speak for yourself.”

Mrs. Baker sighs fondly. “Go. Get ready. Be obnoxious in love. We’ll make sure dinner’s waiting when you get back.”

And just like that — you feel something ease in your chest.

You’re seen. Supported. Celebrated.

And for the first time in a long time, it feels okay to be happy.

Back upstairs, Scotty flops onto the bed like he just ran a marathon.

“We have a photoshoot,” he says dramatically, arms spread like he’s just been handed the burden of beauty.

You grab a pillow and swat him with it. “You’re acting like they signed us up for a Hunger Games reaping.”

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t prefer the reaping,” he mumbles, “but—”

You raise an eyebrow.

He grins. “Okay, okay. I’m kidding. This is actually really cute.”

You go over to the closet and start flipping through hangers. “So… what do we even wear?”

“Something that screams ‘Look how stable we are despite our shared trauma,’” he says, already peeling off his hoodie.

You toss him a look. “So… jeans and a half-zip?”

He gasps. “Wow. Rude.”

You laugh and keep rummaging.

“Okay,” you say. “We need options.”

You throw him two different button-ups — one light chambray, one a soft maroon flannel. He holds them both up, squinting in the mirror like a very confused H&M model.

“I vote the maroon,” you say. “It makes your shoulders look illegal.”

Scotty smirks. “And you’re wearing…?”

“I was thinking my cream cable-knit. The one Zoey said makes me look like a gay New England novelist.”

He hums. “That sweater is a menace. I approve.”

You pull it over your head and fluff your hair out the collar.

Scotty whistles. “Jesus Christ. You could put that on a magazine cover.”

You smirk. “You’re biased.”

“I’m correct.”

He changes quickly, tucking his flannel into dark jeans and running a hand through his curls. You both check the mirror at the same time — and suddenly, there’s this pause.

Because yeah… you look good.

But more than that, you look right.

Like a team. Like a “we made it this far” kind of couple.

You catch him looking at you again.

“What?” you ask, tugging the hem of your sweater.

He shrugs, quieter now. “Nothing. Just… this feels like something we’d never have let ourselves do a few months ago. You know? Just enjoy each other. Without guilt.”

You walk over, resting your chin on his chest and looking up at him.

“Well, we earned it.”

“Damn right we did.”

He leans in and kisses you. Soft. Full of breath.

When you pull back, you grin.

“Photoshoot couple kiss #1: accomplished.”

“Now we just need a running-through-a-field shot,” he says.

You nod. “And the classic ‘look at each other like you’re not being watched’ pose.”

Scotty snorts. “My specialty.”

“Mine is ‘accidental hand touching while looking away thoughtfully.’”

“We’re going to be the most annoying people on the planet.”

“We already are,” you reply, slipping your fingers through his as you both head toward the stairs.

The field looks like something out of a postcard. Sparse winter trees frame the clearing, their branches bare and elegant against the cold sky. The grass is dry, brittle in spots and lightly frosted, glinting gold under the soft amber of the sinking sun.

Your breath fogs in front of you as you and Scotty step out of the car.

He pulls his scarf tighter. “Reminder that someone said winter golden hour was romantic.”

“It is,” you say, zipping up your coat. “You just complain in all seasons equally.”

He squints at you. “That’s character consistency.”

The photographer, Riley, waves from a small equipment stand she’s already set up. She’s wrapped in a parka and fingerless gloves, camera hanging from her neck.

“You two came prepared,” she grins. “Layers look great. You’re gonna pop against the landscape.”

Scotty grins. “We’re basically human thermoses.”

You’re in your cream cable-knit sweater under a tan peacoat, scarf loosely draped around your neck. Scotty’s wearing a maroon flannel layered under a sand-colored wool coat, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the cuffs of his knit gloves.

Riley snaps a quick test shot. “Oh yeah. We’re gonna ruin hearts with these.”

“Not our fault we’re iconic,” you mutter, nudging Scotty.

He snorts. “We’ve been iconic since that dumb presentation in June.”

“True.”

Riley gestures toward the fence that lines the edge of the field. “Let’s start with something easy — walk down that line and back. Hold hands. Pretend you’re on a snowy romcom poster.”

Scotty takes your gloved hand, laces his fingers through yours. His palm is warm even through the fabric.

“You ever realize how weird it is that you are soft now?” he says quietly as you walk.

“We’re literally holding hands in a frostbitten meadow while being photographed. I’d say i‘ve crossed a threshold.”

He chuckles and leans in. “You look like a winter novel protagonist.”

You scoff. “You look like an Abercrombie ad from 2013.”

“And yet, you’re still dating me.”

Riley’s camera clicks rapidly behind you. “Laugh again — whatever that was, do it again. Yes! Beautiful!”

Scotty dips his head against your shoulder and whispers, “Should we kiss on three just to break her lens?”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t slip on the frost and ruin your flannel.”

You stop walking, glance at each other, and — just for the hell of it — kiss.

It’s soft, warm against cold air, your lips cold but his breath hot as it ghosts against your cheek. He cups the side of your face, thumb brushing against your scarf. It’s not just for the camera anymore.

The shutter clicks.

Riley doesn’t speak for a second.

Then: “That’s the one. That’s your frame.”

You both laugh, nervous but glowing.

The next hour is a dance between motion and stillness. Riley has you pose by a weathered tree stump, then sit with a worn wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders. She makes you face each other, noses just touching, breath curling in the space between you like steam from a kettle.

You whisper things to each other. Some sweet. Some dumb.

“Your nose is red,” you murmur once.

“So is yours.”

“You look like a Hallmark extra.”

“You look like a failed poet trying to seduce someone at a cider stand.”

You both crack up again.

Riley sighs like she’s witnessing magic. “It’s so easy with you two.”

Later, you’re standing at the edge of the stream. The water hasn’t frozen entirely but parts of it glitter with thin patches of ice. Riley tells you to stand back-to-chest — Scotty behind you, arms around your waist.

His lips graze your temple. “I like it out here.”

“I like you out here.”

He smiles. “Remember when we thought we’d have to keep everything a secret forever?”

“Now we’re literally modeling.”

“Growth.”

He kisses your ear lightly. “Happy seven months, by the way.”

You look over your shoulder at him. “I was gonna say that first.”

“Beat you to it.”

Riley cuts in: “Okay, don’t move. Just — stay right there.”

She snaps another dozen shots.

The sun finally begins to fall fully behind the treetops, the cold getting sharper, the sky a soft purple-gray now.

Riley pulls off her gloves and shows you both the camera screen. “Want to see the one I think is the one?”

You nod.

She scrolls and lands on it — and there it is.

You’re standing in the frost-lit grass, your foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. Your breath curls together in the air between you. Scotty’s holding your face like you’re something sacred.

It looks like stillness. Like warmth. Like everything you’ve held onto despite the storm.

Neither of you speak.

But your hand slides into his again.

Riley smiles. “I’ll have the full set edited soon. But I think this one? This one’s already perfect.”

You and Scotty exchange a look — no words necessary.

Because this moment, this photo, this you — it’s all something you thought you might never reach.

But you did.

And it’s beautiful.

Chapter Text

Words~2390
—-

January 8th
Scene 1 – “In the Frame”

You’re half-awake when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Scotty is draped across you like a human blanket, one leg tangled with yours, his arm heavy around your waist. The cold air nips at your face where it isn’t buried in his hoodie. You reach for your phone without shifting too much.

1 new email.
From: Riley (📸✨ Winter Session – Photos Ready!)

Your breath catches slightly.

You sit up just enough to not jostle Scotty too hard. He grumbles but doesn’t wake — just shifts his head to your lap, face tucked against your thigh like he belongs there.

You open the link.

The folder is full: twenty-four high-resolution photos, every one of them softly lit, delicately framed, impossibly intimate. There’s the walking shot, your joined hands mid-swing. The blanket photo. The one where he’s laughing while your scarf is crooked. All golden and pale and winter-wrapped.

You quietly whisper, “Scotty… they’re here.”

His eyes crack open, still hazy with sleep. “Mmm?”

“The pictures.”

He groans, but he sits up — leaning on your shoulder, chin hooked over it as you swipe through together.

The silence between you becomes something reverent.

Then you reach it — that one shot. Foreheads together. Breath curling between your lips. Eyes closed. Wrapped in frost and something wordless.

Neither of you speaks.

Then Scotty: “…It’s so us.”

You nod. “This is the one.”

He unlocks his phone. “I’m posting it.”

You glance over. “Right now?”

“If we don’t, we’ll second-guess it.”

You pause. Then smile. “Do it.”

And just like that, the photo goes live.

The ripple starts small. Then it grows.

The blanket you’re both under is warm, but the scrolling makes it warmer.

Notifications flood in, your shared photo radiating across Instagram like a soft pulse. The comments are kind. Thoughtful. The kind of digital love you rarely let yourselves hope for.

Zoey:
“they make me believe in love again. gross.”

Jess:
“I’m not crying, you are. okay no I actually am. delete this.”

Justin posts it to his story with the caption:
“Icons. Try again, couples of Liberty High.”

Even Clay drops a comment that makes you laugh.
“Can’t believe you made seasonal depression look cute.”

You and Scotty are tangled together on the couch in the Bakers’ living room — his arm around your shoulders, your fingers interlaced, both your phones buzzing like the world is cheering you on.

Then Scotty freezes mid-scroll. His thumb hesitates above a name.

“Wait,” he says. “No way.”

You look over.

There, nestled among the sea of hearts, is a name you never thought would show up.

@richard.reed81 liked your post.

You stare at the screen. The breath in your lungs catches.

“…He liked it?” you ask, needing confirmation.

Scotty just blinks. “Yeah. That’s… that’s his account.”

There’s a strange pause — one that stretches longer than it should.

“He hasn’t liked anything I’ve posted since like… last spring,” he finally says, voice flat.

You can hear the gears turning. Wonder, suspicion, hope. The conflicted cocktail that always comes with Mr. Reed.

You slide your hand into his. “Maybe it’s small. Or maybe it’s something.”

Scotty nods, lips pressing into a thin line. “He didn’t comment.”

“He never does,” you reply gently.

Silence.

For a brief, fragile moment, it feels like progress. Or the start of something.

Then the messages come.

They start like static. Small, background noise. Nothing terrible — at first.

“Wow. You two are really milking this.”
“Kinda performative, don’t you think?”