so sorry this took so long! trying to find my rhythm back with this baby. thank you for being patient <3

*

Sanders doesn't ask for an answer when they come back from holiday break.

He spent the holidays with his family, and she spent them with hers. They FaceTimed, just because Mahika and Hathai (and Siam) were insisting on seeing her face, demanding when she would visit again, telling her to eat a lot and be careful and to "please take care of our boy". Sanders rolled his eyes but Becks only laughed and assured them that she would.

He also said hello to her parents and to her brothers, Matthew and Henry. Matthew was wearing glittering makeup, and he was in heels and a skirt, and he was absolutely stunning. Henry was shy—he didn't want to talk to him, but Sanders got him to laugh.

"It's a challenge to make you Arlingtons laugh," Sanders said, clicking his tongue.

"You do it so easily, though," Becks answered quietly. Sanders grinned.

So when they come back, they only hug for two seconds, and then they play video games, and Becks loses, pouting and whining, and Sanders slaps her on the wrist.

He doesn't ask for her answer.

And Sanders usually wakes Becks. He's up first in the morning—prays, showers, runs, buys the milk. When he comes back, from doing all of those, Becks should still be in bed.

But when Sanders opens the door and takes off his shoes, she's in the kitchen, toasting bread.

"Hey," she greets brightly, turning around. "Morning."

Sanders sets the milk down on the counter. "Morning. What's happening? Why are you awake already? You—your face is washed."

Becks gives him an exaggerated smile. "Yeah. Am I pretty?"

"Yeah, words can't describe how pretty you are."

She blinks. "Oh. Thanks."

"But numbers can," Sanders says, opening the glass bottle. "Three out of ten. Here."

Becks glares at him and takes the milk with more force than necessary. "I wanted to do something nice and this is how you repay me?"

"For me or for Maxon?" Sanders asks nonchalantly, sitting down on a stool.

Becks clears her throat, averting her eyes. "For you. He left already," she answers quietly, turning back around to face the toaster.

That stings. He tries for a smile. "Well, thanks. It's nice to just sit and watch for a change. Can I have peanut butter and—"

"I thought about what you asked me," she says, suddenly, and Sanders's words die in his throat. She turns around to look at him, and she's clutching the sink, knuckles turning white. "Um, yeah. I thought about it. Sure. Why not?"

Sanders stares at her. His head is quiet. The little Sanders up there are all dead. "What do you mean, 'sure, why not?'"

Becks blinks. "I mean, sure, I'll go out with you. Why not?"

"No," Sanders says slowly, drawing his eyebrows together. "What—what exactly do you mean by 'sure, I'll go out with you. Why not?'"

Her lips twitch. Like it's threatening to smile. "Sanders. That's exactly what I mean. Are you okay? Did your brain switch off or something?"

"Yeah," Sanders says, blinking. "But what do you mean—"

"Take me out," Becks cuts him off, shrugging.

"Like—like food? Or murder?"

"On a date, you idiot," she says, and then she laughs. She throws her head back and laughs. The sound sends a jolt through his body. "You're such a loser," she mutters, rolling her eyes, but she's still smiling. The toaster makes a tiny ping, and Becks takes out the bread and piles them on a second plate. They're not burnt this time.

Sanders knows why she's doing this. She just doesn't want Maxon to know.

It's fine. Sanders is...Sanders is fine. "I'm going to need three business days to process that information," he says, just as Becks slides him a plate with peanut butter and jelly.

"Idiot," Becks breathes, grinning, and she sits across from him and drinks her milk, and Sanders eats the sandwich she made.

Little Sanders are all dead. His brain starts playing a little sad song for the funeral.

*

When they decide on the date (Friday, after training), Sanders can't stop twitching. It's Wednesday.

"Dude, fucking—" Rosen stops, laughing. He claps his friend on the back and guffaws loudly. "Can you calm down? You're, like, a dancing spaghetti noodle. A spadoodle. What do you want to eat?"

"What does the chef recommend?" Sanders asks. His leg is bouncing.

"Rush. We are in McDonald's."

So he's nervous. Sue him.

Even though—even though Becks is only doing this so he can keep her secret. Even then. He's a little nervous, and he's tempted to call his moms and ask for advice on his physical appearance (because, let's face it, that's all they can fix), but he doesn't—he doesn't tell them. They'll freak out over nothing. He's still a divorcee. Temporarily.

In the end, he decides to just stick to what he's wearing—a black shirt, his black ripped jeans (he stole them back from Siam), and a beige, buttoned jacket. He takes a picture and sends it to Rosen.

How do I look

His reply comes in a second. If i say you look ugly will you forgive me

I can forgive you for having bad eyesight . not everyone can find me handsome and that's ok . you're wrong tho

Sanders shakes his hands. His fingers feel numb. He's not even outside yet and he feels so cold.

RUSH YOU FUCKING SLUT!! You're wearing your fuck-me ripped jeans what are you planning with becks >:(

Sanders manages a snort. He shakes his left foot, and then his right, while he types. nothing. just wanna have a good time with my TEMPORARY ex-wife

The temporary was not needed to be caps locked, i think i understood that perfectly from the COUNTLESS times you've said it

Sanders grabs his wallet and pockets it. His keys, too. Oh, God. Help. dude idk what it is im feeling but im feeling a lot of it

You might be having a nervous breakdown

I can't breakdance

BREAKDOWN oh forget it. Be safe. bye

Sanders pockets his phone and leans close to the mirror. He takes a deep breath, lowers his eyes, and grumbles, "You're Sanders Rush. You're cool. You're swag. You can do this. It's just Becks."

Maxon and Suho are focused on the television when he comes out. He sits beside the fish and puts his feet up the table.

"Going somewhere?" Maxon asks, shoving his hand inside the bag of Cheetos Suho is holding.

Sanders huffs. "None of your business, Finlay."

Suho turns to look at him. He chews loudly and offers him the Cheetos. "Can I come? Where are you going?"

"There's a night market with a little ramen bar that I want to check out," he answers, pushing the Cheetos away. That's a lie. Becks has been pestering him to check it out. She'll love it. "And there's an arcade there." She loves beating him in games. "And no, sorry, I'm going with Becks."

Maxon hums.

"Like a date?" Suho asks excitedly. He starts poking Sanders's arm, like he's teasing. About to belt out the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song. Sitting on a tree or some shit. How do you sit on a tree?

Maxon laughs once. "Yeah, like Cal—"

"Yeah," Sanders answers, crossing his arms. "A date."

Suho gasps. He abandons the Cheetos, giving it to Maxon, and grabs Sanders's hand. "Will you kiss?" he whispers, narrowing his eyes, except it's not exactly a whisper, because it's very loud, and Maxon hears him and kind of—snorts.

Sanders doesn't answer him. He grins and flicks his forehead. "You're too young to know."

"I'm nineteen."

"Nine, the 'teen' is silent," Sanders corrects. "Becks and I are having a baby. It's you. You need to sign the adoption papers tonight."

Suho laughs. "Congratulations, then."

Sanders ruffles his hair, and they go back to watching the television, only Maxon isn't really watching anymore and he's just—staring into the wall. Suho asks for the Cheetos back.

Becks's door opens. Three things happen at once:

1. Sanders stands up. His heart races to his throat.

2. Maxon stands up, too. (Sanders doesn't know why he does that.)

3. Suho gasps very loudly. (Understandable.)

She's fumbling with the strap of her bag. She's in a black shirt—like him (like him! They match!), a tight one, it hugs the delicateness of her shoulders, and it's tucked under a denim skirt with silver buttons lined up at the middle. She's wearing a simple necklace, and earrings, and her hair isn't straightened, it's tied up in a bun and she has loose, curly strands falling down her cheekbones, and her face—she has little makeup on. Her lips are this pretty, pink color. Her cheeks look flushed. Her eyebrows are even, framing her small face, and her eyes are big, and wide, and pretty.

Sanders thinks she's beautiful. She's always beautiful. Whether she's dolled up, or in hideous neon green joggers, or with drool on her cheek.

He's helpless. Fucking—fucking helpless.

"Can we go?" she asks, blinking at him. She's looking at Sanders. Not at Maxon.

"Oh," Sanders chokes out. He stumbles over the coffee table. "Yeah. We can."

Maxon's staring. He says, "You look nice, Cal."

Shut up, Sanders wants to say.

But his statement makes Becks smile. "Thanks, Maxon. Bye, Suho. See you guys later."

"Have fun!" Suho calls after them, the grin apparent in his tone, and they step out through the front door and it's suddenly very awkward.

Sanders doesn't know what to say. They're walking to his bike. It's awkward, fuck, how is it so awkward? Why is it so awkward? It's not like he's going on a date with any other dude, he's with Becks, this shouldn't be awkward—

"Oh, um," Becks starts, fiddling with the helmet in her hands. She has her own helmet on the bike. Of course she does. They bought it together. "I can't—my skirt..."

Right. Sanders clears his throat. They've never had this problem before, but at least Sanders knows shit. "Here." Without an ounce of hesitation, he puts his hands on her waist and hoists her up.

Becks yelps at the sudden touch, slamming her hands down on his shoulders. "What are you doing?" she squeaks, blinking.

"This is a side saddle," Sanders says, taking off his jacket and spreading it on her thighs. "You need to sit like this. Hold on to me and to the seat, okay?"

Becks nods mutely.

Sanders's lips twitch. He takes the helmet in her hands and leans down, placing it over her head, carefully brushing the loose strands of hair away from her face. "You look pretty," Sanders murmurs, securing the helmet. His eyes flick up, and he catches Becks looking away just in time. She's embarrassed. Cute. "You did this yourself?"

She's still not looking at him. "What? The makeup?"

"Yeah."

"Yes. Been practicing," she mutters, swallowing hard.

Sanders grins. "Okay." He stands up and puts on his own helmet, and straddles the motorcycle. He starts the engine and reminds Becks, "Hold on to me, babe. Don't fall."

"Don't kill us," she counters weakly, wrapping one arm around his waist. Sanders looks down—her fingers are clutching his shirt.

Sanders laughs. Those little Sanders in his head are slowly coming back to life. "I'm a confident driver," he says, and then they're off.

The night is alive. It's cold, and it's loud, and from a block away, Sanders can smell the grilled meat, oyster omelettes, and fried fish cakes. The market is bustling with life, and it looks crowded, but Becks gasps, giving him back his jacket, eyes wide and staring. "It's amazing! I've always wanted to go here!"

Sanders knows. That's why he brought her here.

He puts on his jacket. "You ready—"

But she's already grabbing his arm and pulling him along, smiling widely. "Come on, I'm hungry!"

Sanders laughs. "'Course you are," he mutters fondly, under his breath, and follows after her.

It's hard to navigate in a big crowd, with a narrow walking path, but Sanders keeps his hand on Becks's shoulder and presses his chest against her back as they walk so he doesn't lose her. She's bouncing, jumping on her feet, head turning left and right, and she spots beef first—of course she does—and pulls Sanders along, tugging his jacket.

They get flame-torched beef cubes with cumin. Becks is chewing loudly, eyes wide. "This is so good!" she yells against the noise, mouth full of food.

They get iron eggs, sausages with sticky rice, grilled abalone, a huge fried chicken chop, pork belly, shrimp and sweet potato balls, and seafood porridge (Sanders doesn't know how Becks can eat this much, but it's making him happy. How she doesn't care what or how she's eating when she's with him).

She has sauce on the corner of her lips. Sanders wipes it with the pad of his thumb and leads her to the dessert.

There's a stall that sells penis waffles—there's ice cream on top. Becks is scrunching her face, like she's embarrassed, but she eats hers, anyway. Hers has chocolate ice cream. "This is disgusting," she says flatly, licking at the head.

It's stupid. It's so, so stupid, and immature, but Sanders can't help the laugh that bubbles out from his chest as he licks his own penis waffle. "It's tasty," Sanders comments, nodding.

"You're such a loser," Becks grumbles, rolling her eyes.

The vendor is watching them with a smile. Sanders winks at him.

They also have tofu pudding with adzuki beans and peanuts, and fish cakes, and Becks keeps pushing the end of the stick in her mouth to grab a fish cake stuck in the middle, and Sanders clicks his tongue, snatching it from her. "You're going to hurt yourself," he mutters, pushing the fish cake to the tip with his own stick. He gives it back to her.

Becks is smiling. "Thanks."

He only eats one stick. Becks has six.

"I'm full, fuck," he grumbles, scrambling for his wallet to pay the vendor.

"But I wanted a milkshake," Becks mumbles.

"A milkshake sounds good," Sanders says, pulling her along. "Take me to the milkshakes."

He orders one with two straws. Becks blinks at him. "Sanders," she says, embarrassed, pursing her lips. "We're not gonna share—"

"Look how fast I can drink this," Sanders says, putting both straws in his mouth.

Becks huffs and pushes his shoulder weakly. Sanders grins and slides the milkshake to her. "I was kidding. We're sharing this."

Becks leans forward and takes a sip. Her eyes are big. She's staring at him.

"You really are beautiful," Sanders murmurs, mesmerized.

Big mistake. Becks spits out the milkshake in his face.

Becks gasps. "Oh my God, Sanders." She sounds horrified, but then a laugh escapes, and then she's laughing. "Sanders, holy shit, I'm so sorry—"

His eyes are closed, face scrunched together.

Becks is still laughing. She puts a napkin to his face and wipes it clean gently. "Sanders, you—" she snorts, catching her breath. She's wheezing. "I'm so sorry—"

Sanders opens one eye. Becks's whole face is glowing, and her mouth is wide open, little rasps of laughs coming from her chest. Her hand drops to her side, and her head falls on his shoulder. Her body is pressed to his as she giggles to herself.

Sanders wipes the rest of his face clean. Becks is still laughing. Her breath fans his neck, and it sends shivers down his spine. "Okay," Sanders says, shaking his head. He can't believe Becks just spat on him. He's smiling like a damn fool. "You, uh, you good there?"

Becks sits up. She's still grinning. She purses her lips and nods. "I'm sorry," she tries to say with a straight face. And then she bursts out laughing again.

Sanders feels his body grow warm. Chest, hands, neck, body—heart.

But Sanders is selfish. He wants more. He wants the real thing. He wants more than what Becks is willing to give him.

Sanders stands up and grabs the milkshake, handing it to Becks. "You can finish that at the arcade. Please don't spit on me again. Horrible experience. One over ten."

Becks is still giggling. She skips after him.

(Sanders wins most of the games. He doesn't dare try losing on purpose. Becks will kill him if he does.)

On the way back, they're walking next to each other, and Becks is whining about losing the game with the zombies, how rigged the crane machine is, how she's going to beat him next time at air hockey, but Sanders is looking at her hand. He's been looking at it for the past hour, strategizing how he's going to hold it, how his fingers are going to walk towards hers. He keeps thinking, and thinking, and thinking—and it's making him nervous, making him lose his mind.

So he stops thinking. Just grabs it. Curls his palm over hers, brushes his thumb over her skin, brings her hand into the pocket of his jacket.

Becks stops mid-sentence. She stops walking, too. She's staring at him, blinking. Her hand in his is unmoving.

Sanders sighs. "Is it too weird?" he asks quietly. "You really can't imagine being with me?"

He didn't mean to say that. He didn't mean to—fuck, he's not supposed to say that—

"No," Becks answers, looking down at her feet. She's suddenly finding her sneakers very interesting. "No, um, I was just surprised."

She doesn't answer the second question.

Sanders swallows thickly. "I know you agreed to go out with me because of Maxon," he says, and his fingers are hugging her fingers. Keeping them warm. "Because I said I'd tell Maxon if you didn't."

"That was a lie," Becks says, meeting his gaze.

"What?"

"I know that was a lie," she mumbles, heaving a deep breath. "Sanders," she says. Whispers. "You wouldn't do that to me. You wouldn't hurt me like that."

One little Sanders up there is typing on Google. What the fuck does that mean, he types. The other little Sanders are hovering over the computer, curious to know, too.

Sanders searches her face. "So why did you agree?"

Becks—a faint flush rises to her cheeks. She stares at the wall behind him. "I just...wanted to try. Give this a real shot. I don't know. I wanted to know what it was like to go on a date with you."

"And what is it like?" Sanders asks. He can't help but ask. He wants to—he needs to know.

Becks looks at her shoes again. She's swinging one leg. "I don't know," she mutters, embarrassed. "I feel happy. Warm all over. I laughed a lot, what do you think?"

Sanders's mouth slowly pulls up at the corners. Triumphant. Glory. Sweet, sweet victory. "That's because I fed you a lot."

"S'not just that," Becks mutters. And then she groans loudly. She covers her face with one hand. "Ah, I can't do this. Can we go home? Please? I'm sleepy."

Sanders can't help but laugh. He's so—he feels tingly. He wants to dance. Macarena, the Dougie, anything. Fucking anything. "Okay," he says, starting to walk. He keeps her hand in his pocket. "Let's go home."

And if it were anyone else, Sanders wouldn't have given a fuck. He would've kissed her just as he was removing her helmet. It would've been so easy to lean down, say goodnight to her lips. It would've been so, so easy.

But this is Becks. And Becks might have admitted that she liked the date, but it doesn't mean her feelings for Maxon are gone. Or that she'd appreciate Sanders kissing her. (Again.)

So he stands up and helps her jump down the bike.

Becks faces him. She clears her throat. "Before we go in, I just wanted to say thanks. For, um, for today. I had a great time."

"I'll kiss you if you keep talking," Sanders says.

Sanders can see the exact moment her eyes widen. Her entire face goes red. She rushes inside the apartment, and Sanders laughs, following her inside.

Suho is asleep on Maxon's shoulder when they step through the front door. Maxon gives them a smile. "How'd it go?" he asks them.

"Good," Becks says, ducking, rushing to her bedroom.

Sanders can't stop smiling. He shakes his head in amusement and leans against the counter, fishing out his phone. He messages Rosen. Becks loved the date. Tell me one successful thing you've done . No, anything u say will not be valid. only becks loving the date with me is a sign of success . marriage is back on, i love being married

He messages Adan, too. U know who had a good time with me? Yeah. Becks. She loved the date . with me!!

And Suho. Even though he's on the couch. Literally in front of him. Your mom and i have decided to get back together . you have no choice but to be our son.

Maxon joins him in the kitchen. "You look happy," he says, grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator.

"Because I am," Sanders says, grinning at him. "Dude. I can't believe..." he pauses, laughing once. "I can't believe you're so blind."

Maxon blinks. "Huh?"

"Nothing." Sanders shakes his head, heading to his room. "Nothing, it's your loss," he says under his breath, shutting his door closed. Flops down on the mattress.

He silently thanks God. He doesn't know how many times he prayed, for the past week, for this date go well. Under no circumstances should Becks come home sad, or angry, or disappointed.

"Thanks, my man," Sanders whispers to the ceiling. "I owe You."