Sanders prayed for a good day, but God has other plans.

Not that Sanders can complain. It's just...was He not listening? This morning? When he prayed for a good day?

Sanders puts down the glass bottle of almond milk on the kitchen counter.

He's not supposed to do that. He's supposed to leave his shoes at the door (and he did), go straight to Becks's room (he did not), and wake her up. Give her the milk. (He did not.)

It's not a good day. Sanders pulls his hood down and runs a hand through his hair. "Who are you?"

If Becks were awake, she'd have this guy unconscious in a second.

He's tall. Taller than he is, which irks Sanders—there's not many that can be taller than him, but this guy has at least a few inches. It pisses him off, it's definitely not a good day.

He's in Sanders's kitchen, stealing his coffee, and he raises an eyebrow. "Who are you? I live here."

It reminds him of when he and Becks first met, but Sanders snorts—they're meant to be roommates. This guy...he's probably a murderer. Or a thief. Either way, it's not looking good. "I would probably be aware of that if you did," Sanders answers smartly, and then this gaze travels to the living room, and there's another breathing thing on the couch, half-asleep, mouth wide open. "Are you guys thieves? Why is your partner sleeping on the job? Why are you stealing my coffee?"

"Oh, it was sitting in the coffee pot," the guy says, smiling, putting the mug down. "Sorry. I'm, um, the new guy. The posting said you and your bro needed a third roommate to pay for the rent. I signed the contract yesterday."

Sanders knows nothing about this. "No, you didn't."

He has broad shoulders. It pisses him off. "I talked to the landlady," he says, but he doesn't sound pissed. Or irritated. He's still smiling, actually. Why is he smiling? There's nothing to smile about. Sanders is panicking. This is not his day. "Are you..." He pulls out his phone from his pocket and squints at it. "Um, Sanders Rush?"

"Rush," Sanders answers.

The almond milk is staring at him, screaming, "What are you doing, bro? You're supposed to wake Becks up!"

Sanders sighs. "We don't need a—"

"Where's the other guy?"

He's annoyingly obnoxious. Sanders grits his teeth—that's his trademark. His branding. "What's your name, bud? Then I can decide if I should talk to the other guy."

He grins. "I'm Maxon Finlay."

These are the things Sanders knows about Maxon Finlay:

1. He is an ace player, one of the best, in the soccer department. He's so well-known that even Sanders, who doesn't give a shit about anything or anyone in the school except for Becks, knows about him.

2. He's a prospect for the national soccer team.

3. He has a girlfriend—they've been together since high school.

4. He is, apparently, not to be fucked with.

Given these, the Maxon Finlay in Sanders's head is eight feet tall with the face and body of a grizzly bear. Maybe sporting a buzz cut, a jersey that barely fits all of his sixteen abs, probably eats his cleats for dinner.

It's unrealistic, Sanders knows, but he's never met the guy before. He didn't want to.

But Maxon Finlay is tall, has broad shoulders, long arms and legs, he's built but not too built, he has great hair in this chestnut color (what kind of shampoo does he use? Sanders will ask later), and he has a charming smile.

Damn it. "You talked to Lucianna?"

"Yep."

"What'd she say?"

"That the residents here don't pay rent on time. They need a third roommate. My apartment's rent was going up, too, so I needed to cut down—figured this was more efficient. Can I have the milk? The kid's passed out, he's not going anywhere."

Sanders takes a look at the kid. "Is he yours?"

"I think," Maxon answers, rubbing the nape of his neck. "He follows me around like a puppy. He's a fish."

A freshman. Sanders sighs. "I need the milk." He snatches it off the counter and glares at him. "Stay here, don't go anywhere. I'm going to talk to...the other resident."

Maxon grins again and salutes him.

Sanders creeps down the hallway and enters Becks's room, closing the door quietly behind him. She's still asleep.

Her curls are all over her pillows—completely covering her face. Sanders bites his lip to hide his smile and sits down on the edge of the mattress, setting the milk on her bedside table. He pinches her arm. "Becks."

She grumbles something under her breath.

Sanders turns her around. He's supposed to say something. He's supposed to say only three words, and then wake her up again. Tickle her, push her off the bed or something—until she sits up and drinks the milk.

But he doesn't. He sighs. "We have a third roommate."

One eye cracks open. "Huh?" she mumbles, voice raspy.

"Um, remember when we forgot to pay rent on time..."

"We spent it on buying your motorcycle, I remember," she mutters, narrowing her gaze at him.

Sanders laughs. It's high-pitched and nervous. "And when we dyed our hair purple..."

"And when we bought matching Nike shoes and bags," she adds impatiently. "Where is this going, Sanders?"

"Um, yeah. So. Lucianna plotted her revenge...? We're housing another...breathing creature."

Becks sits up. Her eyebrows are furrowed. She's in a ratty, old, gray university shirt and a hoodie with holes. Gym shorts. There's drool on her cheek. "A male?"

Sanders bites his lip and winces. "Yeah."

Backing up. When they first met, three years ago, Becks had Sanders in a chokehold.

Her arm was strong around his neck. Sanders was going to die. "Help!" he choked out, eyes wide, clawing at the girl's arm. He was six foot tall, easy, ripped but not buff, had muscles, abs, sure—needed for his sport, and he could easily jab his elbow in this lunatic's stomach to get her to let go.

But. His moms raised him better than that. He wasn't going to hit a girl. Even if he was about to face death.

"Pervert!" she yelled, tightening her arm, and Sanders could see his life flashing before his eyes—pretending to drown at age eight in the swimming pool, scaring his moms to death and getting an hour of timeout afterwards; riding his first bike at thirteen, spraining his knee; playing his first volleyball match in high school (and losing); getting his letter from Bellevue Sports University, saying goodbye to his parents.

At least he was able to hug them. Tell them he loved them. He wouldn't be going in vain—he regretted nothing.

"Fuck, you're—" Sanders wheezed out, breathing heavily, "fucking strong—"

"Who are you!" the girl demanded loudly. "I'll kill you! Why aren't you hitting me back!"

She was crazy. She was a lunatic with actual murder intentions. Sanders clamped his teeth down on her arm—there, his DNA on her skin would do the trick.

She loosened her grip, letting out a noise of surprise, and Sanders saw his opportunity—he pushed her down on the floor, catching her wrists in both hands, pressing down on her weight.

Her eyes were wild and angry, her dark hair splayed all over her face.

Pretty, Sanders thought. Then, suddenly, there were bells in his ears, ringing against his head—he was in the middle of getting killed, and he was hearing fucking bells—

"Intruder!" she yelled, screamed at the top of her lungs, and she flailed around and kicked Sanders in the stomach.

He hissed in pain but didn't let go. "Fuck—you're insane!"

"I know! Isn't it great!"

"I'm the new resident, I paid for my rent, I signed the contract!"

For a second, she stopped fighting. She looked at him, narrowing her gaze. "Name?"

"Sanders Rush," he said, breathing heavily. "And you just tried to kill me."

She huffed and pushed him off.

Sanders fell on his butt on the ground.

"I said I didn't want a male in my living space," she said, glaring at him, as if it were his fault for being born with a penis. "I don't want a male breathing in the space as me."

"Sorry, Your Grace," Sanders muttered, hanging his head and bringing a hand to his neck. His skin burned, but at least it was still intact. "I would compromise on the breathing, but I actually need it to, you know, survive."

She flipped her frizzy curls away from her face and huffed again. Sanders took a good look at his captor.

Her skin was dark, like caramel. Her hair was obsidian black, and her eyes were like coals, smoking with anger, still, and throwing daggers at him. She had thick eyebrows that framed her sharp cheekbones, and she was short, and skinny—but built, with muscles, but all around looked delicate but could and would actually murder you, and her knuckles were red, like she punches people as a hobby.

Sanders suppressed a gasp. Maybe she did.

"You didn't contact me before coming here," she accused him, crossing her arms over her body, cheeks heating from his stare. "I told you to call me. I could've been in the shower or something."

"Are you Beckett Arlington?"

She huffed again. Sanders tried not to breathe so much. "Yeah. I live here. I moved in last week."

"Great." He grinned and stood up, dusting his hands off his jeans. "Glad we cleared that up. Besides the, um, very interesting first impression, I hope you don't try to kill me anymore, Beckett."

"Don't call me that," she said, clenching her jaw.

Sanders raised an eyebrow. "What should I call you then?"

He stretched out his hand, and his new roommate stared at it.

For a second, he thought she might break his fingers, but it was too late to retract it now. Sanders was committed. He was committed to this fucking handshake.

"Your Grace is fine," she said, and shakes his hand with less enthusiasm than his grandmother when she needed to take a bath.

Sanders smiles at the memory.

"Great," Becks grumbles irritably, pulling at her curls with her fingers. "Great, another trash can."

Sanders has learned not to be offended. Becks's grudge against the male species is rightful—women have been oppressed for centuries.

"Name?" she asks.

"Maxon Finlay."

Becks's face doesn't change. "Men in baggy shorts scoring touchdowns and some shit," she says, grabbing the almond milk from the table.

Sanders takes it. Opens the cap. "I think that's football, babe. And basketball. The guy does soccer."

"Same thing." Becks drinks her milk. Then, her eyes widen, and she puts it down. There's white on her lip, and Sanders resists the urge to grin. "What'd you tell him?"

"That I thought he was a thief. He brought a fish with him."

"Are we housing the fish, too?" Becks snaps.

"Nope." Sanders smiles. He reaches over and swipes the milk on her lips with his thumb. Becks doesn't even flinch. "It's his. It'll leave."

"What else did you tell him?" she demands.

Sanders blinks and tilts his head to the side. The fact that Becks is asking how exactly their conversation went down is...unusual. "That's it. I asked for his name, he asked for mine. He was asking where the other dude is."

"Don't tell him anything else," Becks says, throwing off the covers and grabbing her eyeglasses. She brings the milk with her to the bathroom. "I'll be right out."

Sanders takes a deep breath. Before leaving her room, he takes a look at the photos on her wall, smiling when he sees dozens of himself staring back at him.

Maxon is still leaning against the kitchen sink. Sanders shoves his hands inside his pockets and sits on one of the kitchen stools. "Who's the fish?"

"Li Suho," Maxon answers, scrunching his nose. "He does my laundry. Well, he used to."

Sanders nods. He has a couple of fish who wash his kneepads. Brings him towels and water bottles during games.

"You look like a swimmer."

Sanders snorts. "I'm not."

"Track?"

"Volleyball." A look of surprise passes on Maxon's face. Sanders raises an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"No." He grins. Crosses his arms. "Makes sense. I think I heard about you—you have a mean spike. I heard the ball hits people's faces."

One corner of Sanders's mouth pulls up. "Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment."

"And the other guy? Rowing, judo, weightlifting...?"

The door opens before Sanders can answer. Becks comes out, and Sanders's eyebrows raise so high it reaches his hairline.

She took off her hoodie—the one with the holes. She's still wearing the ratty university shirt and the red gym shorts, but her face is washed, and her hair is—it doesn't look like a bird's nest. It usually does when Becks comes out for breakfast.

A slow grin spreads across Maxon's face as he stares at her. "Well, look who it is. How are you doing, Cal?"

"Who the fuck is Cal," Sanders grumbles, jaw tightening. He can't stop staring at Becks. Not that he could before, but it's—it's different.

In the years they've been living together, Becks has never come out for breakfast with her hair combed.

"He refuses to call me anything else," Becks mutters, setting the glass bottle on the counter. "Nice to see you again, Maxon."

Calani is Becks's second name. Sanders knows that. Of course he does. "Why do you call her that?" Sanders demands. Maxon is still grinning, and his eyes are shining. Like he's having fun. "Do you two know each other? What do you mean 'again'?" He's panicking. It is not his day.

"High school," Becks mutters, sitting next to Sanders and pushing her glasses up her nose. "We were seated beside each other for two years."

"She'd fall asleep listening to the teacher, drool on her arm," Maxon says. "I'd remove her eyeglasses so she doesn't break them."

Sanders doesn't like this. He does not like this at all. "She wears contacts now," he says childishly, through gritted teeth.

Maxon doesn't look at him. He's still staring at Becks. "You're still ugly."

Becks scowls. "You're uglier."

"No, I think I'm more handsome now than before." He's still grinning. He walks the few steps towards Becks. "Don't you think so?"

Sanders stands up. "Dude, I wouldn't—"

Maxon ruffles her hair.

Maxon ruffles her hair!

Sanders snatches his wrist and pushes him back. "Man, you have a death wish?"

Maxon grins. "I used to do that all the time."

Sanders's jaw drops. He turns his head. Becks doesn't look mad. If anything, she looks tired.

What? When Sanders touched her hair once before—in good faith, might he add—to take out a piece of rice stuck in her strands, Becks twisted his arm behind his back. Sanders's hands never went near the bird's nest again.

Sanders drops Maxon's arm. What the fuck is going on.

God, he calls desperately. I need answers. Now. Preferably. Please.

"Rules," Becks starts, taking a deep breath. "We can't be late on rent again. Lucianna would kick us out."

"No problem," Maxon says, grinning.

"There are only two bathrooms, so the two of you need to share."

"I'm not sharing," Sanders counters immediately. The fish on the couch stirs. Sanders will kick him in the face later. "No way."

Becks raises an eyebrow. "Well, I'm not sharing."

"As much as I look at Cal like another bro," Maxon says, putting a hand on Sanders's shoulders, "let's give the, um, lady, her space." He's laughing.

Becks flushes red.

Sanders has only seen Becks's face go red in three occasions—one, when they fucked. Two, when she's training, in the ring, boxing. Three, when she's under the sun for too long.

Sanders's brain can't process the multitude of things happening at once. He shrugs off Maxon's hand. "Fine," he grits out. "Hot water's for only one bathroom. We can't use the showers at the same time. Also, Becks and I do the groceries together. You can let us know what you need and pay for it later."

"Or I can come with you."

"Or you can just let us know."

"As for chores," Becks cuts in, clearing her throat. "Um, Sanders usually does the cooking. I clean. No shoes in the house. And we do our laundry separately. If you have food in the refrigerator, please label it with your name, or else I'll—Sanders will eat it."

Sanders raises an eyebrow. It's Becks who eats his food. Not the other way around.

Did she just say please?

Becks doesn't meet his gaze.

"Still can't cook?" Maxon asks her. "I can cook, too. I'll help clean. I'll do my own laundry. What else?"

"Don't go in my room," Becks blurts out. "No one, um, goes in my room."

Maxon tilts his head to the side. "But Rush—"

"He's allowed. You're not."

Sanders feels his shoulders lighten. He grins and puffs his chest out. "Sorry, dude," he tells him, not sounding very sorry at all, "we've been a package deal since we were fish."

Maxon's eyes narrows. He looks at Sanders, and then at Becks, and back at Sanders.

Yeah, Sanders thinks. Yeah, there's something between us. Don't even think about it.

Becks stands up. "Okay, that's it. I'm going to take a shower and head to school, I'll be late for—for training," she says the last part in a rush.

Before she can turn around, Sanders frowns. "Babe, aren't you getting breakfast with me?"

They eat before she showers. It's—it's usually how it goes.

When Sanders is in the mood, he usually cooks up something simple. Pancakes, waffles, sausages, eggs. He'll have coffee. Becks will have water. Most of the time, they eat breakfast in this tiny kitchen—they can't afford to miss breakfast. They have runs, and training, and they're going to use up all their energy before lunch.

When he's not in the mood, Becks showers first, and then they head to a cafe near the school, or to McDonald's. It's not healthy for athletes, he knows, but Becks loves their hashbrowns.

Point is. They need to eat. They can't not eat, and they can't not eat together. It's just. Wrong. It's not their way of life.

"We're going to be late," Becks says, checking the time on her phone. "Coach will chop my neck off."

Sanders clenches his jaw. "You can't go to training without eating."

"I'll grab a sandwich on the way." She turns around and heads for her room. "You eat, too!"

This is not...this is not a good day. Sanders glares at Maxon. "Get the fish out."

The fish did nothing wrong, but Sanders hates him. Maxon juts his thumb out at the direction where Becks disappeared to. "What's she majoring in? We lost contact after high school...messages and birthday greetings here and there. I didn't even know she was in Bellevue."

And he should've kept it that way. Sanders takes a deep breath. "She—"

"Sanders!" Becks shrieks. "Sanders, get in here!"

Sanders doesn't waste a second. Becks pulls his arm inside and pushes him against the door when he comes in.

"Whoa, babe, if you wanted to jump me, you could've just—"

"Don't answer him," Becks says, breathing heavily. Her eyes are wide, and she's clutching Sanders's arm with her nails. "Don't tell him."

Sanders is confused. This close to Becks, he can't think. It's like his brain is going somewhere else, like it's dancing—or, or dying. Sanders can't tell, but his heartbeat is picking up, and his fingers are twitching, like they need to touch something. (Becks.)

"Don't tell him what?" he murmurs, eyes fixated on Becks's own.

They're dark, and big, and Sanders has seen them shift from embarrassed, to angry, to surprised, to sad, to upset, to happy, to hungry—and if Sanders were more poetic, or more eloquent with his words, he'd say they're like fire. Sometimes calm, sometimes wild, but warm. Always warm.

But he's not poetic. And his brain is shutting down. And if it were anyone else, Sanders would've dropped his gaze, focused on something else. But this is Becks. And with Becks, Sanders wants more. He always wants more.

But her eyes now...they're scared. Panicked. Like the flames are going up, and up, and up.

"Don't tell him about boxing," she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Um, tell him...tell him I'm in table tennis. No, badminton."

A laugh escapes Sanders's mouth. Becks in badminton? He can't imagine it. He can't even bring himself to imagine it. "You can't even see a shuttlecock."

"Sanders!" she hisses, clutching his arm even tighter. "This is serious."

"What's so serious about it, baby?" Sanders draws his eyebrows together, and his eyes fleet around the room.

Beside her bed—her old boxing gloves. Black and gold. She used those when she first came in Bellevue—they're expensive, a gift from her parents.

On her bedside table—hand wraps. Blue, black, white, pink. The last was a gift from Sanders, along with the new gloves she uses—white, with streaks of pink on the side. It's cute. Becks spent a really long time trying to deny wanting wearing them, but he knew she liked them. She liked them so much she never used the more expensive gloves, the black and gold, again.

Under her bed, near the closet, on the floor—jump ropes. Her Nike sports bag—the one that Sanders has, too, in a different color. Punch mitts, sparring head gear. All of those scream boxing.

"Please," Becks says.

There it is again.

Sanders drops his grin. "Why do you keep doing that? What the fuck is going on?"

"Promise me," she insists, snatching his wrist, hooking their pinkies together. "Promise me you won't say a word, or—or ask me questions."

Sanders can't do that. He pulls his finger away. "Becks, I—"

"Promise me," she demands, and her voice is shaking now. "Sanders, please. Sanders."

Sanders can't say no. She knows he can't say no. Becks has never...Becks has never asked him for anything like this before.

It's unfair, Sanders thinks. It's unfair how she can use him like this.

Sanders is helpless. He always is when it comes to Becks.

He grits his teeth and tightens their pinkies together. "Fine," he says. "I promise."

Sanders never breaks his promises. Not to Becks, anyway.

"Thank you," she breathes, heaving a sigh of relief. "Okay, I'm going to take a shower. I'll lock the door."

She never locked the door before.

Sanders doesn't question it. He leaves the room.

Maxon raises an eyebrow. "Is everything alright?"

"No," Sanders snaps, heading to his own room. "Get the fish out. I'm going to change."

God wasn't listening. He wasn't listening when Sanders prayed for a good day.

*

please leave your thoughts in the comments! thank you for reading owo <333