if there are any thai readers, please let me know if the terms used here are incorrect! i'd be happy to change them. i did my research but it may be wrong (i'm not thai, so please correct me)! thank you!

*

When did Sanders know he was in love with Becks?

The first few months they lived together, Sanders will admit—he made every effort possible to stay away from Becks. He'd wake up extra early to go for his run and to shower, just so he could leave before Becks wakes up. He'd return home nearing midnight so he didn't have to run into her. Sanders's allowance the first few months at Bellevue was spent on food from the convenience store—he didn't want to cook in his own kitchen for fear of his roommate. Rosen complained about him crashing in his dorm room so often, and Sanders would say, "There's a lunatic in my house. She's going to kill me in my sleep."

The few times they actually did run into each other, they spoke less than five words each.

(Sanders was doing his laundry. Becks came in. "I'll come back later," Becks mumbled.

"It's fine, I'm done," Sanders said. Rushed out the door. He wasn't done with his laundry.)

But what broke the ice—Sanders went home early one day. He was pissed he was tiptoeing around his own space, that he couldn't use his own kitchen or television. So instead of hanging with Rosen and the rest of his friends from volleyball, Sanders headed home, took a shower, plopped on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table.

Becks came home about an hour later, and instinctively, Sanders turned his head, jaw almost dropping.

There are gloves hanging on the side of her sports bag.

Becks's eyes were wide. She scrambled to toss her bag behind her. "You—you're here."

"I live here," Sanders said.

"I know that," Becks said, flustered, jaw tightening. "You don't—come home this early."

"I'm allowed to. Are those boxing gloves?"

"No." Becks kicked her bag.

Sanders stood up. "Oh." A smile spread across his face. "You box."

"No, I'm in table tennis."

Sanders snorted. "You're a terrible liar. What, you punch people for fun? That why you choked me when we first met?"

"It's not for fun," Becks snapped, grabbing her bag and turning away from him. "It's a sport. Dumbass."

Sanders grinned and followed her. "You any good?"

"Shut up."

Sanders was laughing. He didn't know why. "That's so cool. When's your next match? Can I watch?"

How did Sanders know he was in love with Becks?

It could've been when she was scolding him after a volleyball game, when he had a huge, red gash open on his knee, and he was limping, and Becks had to carry him home on her back. She was yelling at him.

"You should've been more careful!" she snapped, eyebrows furrowing, dabbing at his wound with a cotton ball.

It hurt, but Sanders was smiling.

"Stupid, stupid boys," Becks muttered. Put more force in her actions. "Such big babies."

"Ow!"

"Sorry!" Becks squeaked. Blew on his wound gently.

Sanders sucked in a deep breath and watched her while she bandaged it carefully, a soft smile gracing his lips.

But when did he know he was in love?

Circle one.

A. When Becks's name took up more and more space in Sanders's prayers. (Lord, I pray for Becks's safe match today. Please don't let her get hurt. Lord, please bless Becks with a good day today. Lord, please help Becks win today's match. It's important to her. Lord, please heal Becks's injuries.)

B. When he started dropping by the convenience store after his run to get the milk she loved. (He was already home one day. Took off his shoes and everything. But he forgot the milk. He ran back outside.)

C. When he spent Christmas back at home and hadn't mentioned her to his moms. He'd told them about everyone in college but Becks. He was afraid to say her name out loud. Like his parents would know, would hear it in his voice, would see it in his face.

D. When he finally said it out loud. (His moms heard it in his voice. His brother saw it in his face.)

E. When Becks kept laughing loudly in his ear, in a phone call, while he was out with his friends for game night. It's a laugh that sounds similar to coughing, but high-pitched, and it makes you laugh, too. It's wheezing, and raspy, and it's not so easily earned—just one of the few moments when she finds something really funny, and it comes out. Sanders can't remember what she was laughing about (he doesn't care), but he remembers his head being filled with her laugh.

F. When he finally took her to meet his moms. (And they loved her. Adored her, even. Sanders wouldn't bring just anyone to meet his moms. And he trusted their judgment. The sigh of relief he let out when they said she was lovely was loud. Loud, and happy.)

G. When she tried to cook for him and the food got burnt. (Sanders hugged her. He was still laughing. "Thank you," he said, kissing her hair. Becks huffed, annoyed at her failed attempt, but she hugged him back.)

H. When he bought her the pink gloves, the pink hand wraps, and she was trying so hard to hide her excitement. Sanders was grinning. "Come on, try it on," he said. She grumbled, "This is stupid. This looks stupid." (She tried them on, anyway. Was jumping on her feet when Sanders paid for them.)

I. All of the above.

It could've been between any of those moments, any and all of the moments they shared together. It could've been then.

But it hurt the most when they—when Becks pulled him to his bed. Stripped off her clothes. Sanders said it out loud.

Becks only responded afterwards. "I'm sorry."

Sanders smiled. "It's okay. I'm not expecting anything. But I meant it. I do. I do love you."

Becks had tears in her eyes. "Sanders, I'm sorry."

Sanders already knew there was someone else. Becks cried about it when he forgot to message her on her birthday. (She waited the whole day.)

"It's okay." And it was. He kissed her forehead. Helped her dress up. "Don't feel bad, Becks. I'm fine. I promise. Don't worry about me."

Sanders can learn to live with it. He can learn to live with it as long as he's not living with another dude who messed up his routine, stole his coffee, pissed him off by ruffling Becks's hair. They didn't eat breakfast together! How messed up is that?

"Very," Rosen says flatly. And then he lets out a noise of surprise, dodging a spike. "Dude! That could've hit me!"

"Sorry." Sanders shakes off his hand. His palm stings. He bends down. "Serve."

Rosen sighs loudly and serves the ball.

They're doing drills. In the morning, after their team run, they have to do team workouts, and then drills. Sanders hates drills. "You can't seriously be in a bad mood because Becks didn't eat with you, right?"

"The other dude has to leave," Sanders declares. "I don't like how he and Becks seem close. They apparently have a history together and I don't like it."

Rosen laughs. "Please. Everyone knows you and Becks are a package deal."

"Right?" Sanders says exasperatedly. "It's Rush and Becks. It's always been Rush and Becks. Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"Who does he think he is?" Rosen repeats flatly, sending the ball down with a hit.

Sanders catches it with ease, bending down on the floor. They continue their drills, and Sanders tries to think of a hundred and one ways to (kill) get Maxon Finlay out of his apartment.

(Other than accidentally setting the house on fire, he comes up with none.)

When Coach blows the whistle for lunch, Sanders sits next to his bag and grabs his towel, wiping it across his face. A fish gives him a water bottle, and Sanders thanks her with a wide smile as he reaches for his phone. There's a text from his mom. Sweetheart, you'll be home for Siam's birthday dinner, right? Becks can come, too.

Right. Sanders sighs and types his response. Yeah, mom. I'll see you later. Love you.

He closes his message window and dials Becks's number, leaning against the bench as the phone rings. Rosen sits next to him, downing his water. "Get lunch with me. Some of the fish want me to treat them."

"So treat them," Sanders mutters, ending the call. He dials it again.

"They want Rush to come, too." His friend says his name in a high-pitched tone, rolling his eyes. "And I'll be broke, bud. Help me out here."

"And I'm broke from all the money I spend on Becks's food, but you don't see me asking you for help," Sanders says, tossing his phone inside his bag. He stands and stretches, slinging his towel over his shoulder. "I'm going to the gym. I'll see you later."

"Don't skip your afternoon training, asshole!"

Sanders grins and flashes him the middle finger.

Sanders scrunches his nose as soon as he walks in the gym, the smell of sweat so potent in the air. A student and a coach are sparring in the ring, but there are other pairs sparring on the floor, too. The rest of the students are doing drills on double end bags, speed balls, and punching bags—the squeaks of shoes are loud, but the hits are louder.

Adan sees him first. She's facing a speed ball. "Hey, Rush!"

"How many more rounds left?" he asks, tossing his bag on a bench and sitting next to it.

"One more for me," she says brightly, rolling her arm, continuing with her drill. Her face is red from the sweat, but Adan's still full of energy. "Two more for Becks, I think. She's with Coach Rock. Becks! It's your boyfriend!"

The whole gym must have heard her. Sanders grins.

Becks is sparring on the floor with her coach. The timer reads two minutes and forty-one seconds. "He's not my boyfriend," Becks breathes out, trying to catch her breath as she keeps punching the mitts.

"Keep calling me that," Sanders says to Adan.

She shoots him a wink, and Sanders focuses his attention on Becks.

She's mesmerizing when she's boxing, Sanders thinks. She's quick on her feet, easy, light—like she's dancing. She keeps moving, eyes focused, holding her arms up. She sees a hit coming from her coach and dodges it, bending down on legs, shifting her body quickly, before he can even stretch out his arm. Becks is right-handed, but her jabs are equally as powerful as her straights. The coach is ruthless—he's spewing out instruction after instruction under his breath, and Becks follows them without even thinking about it. Jab, straight, hook, straight. Straight, hook, straight. Jab, jab, straight. Jab, uppercut, hook, straight.

The timer rings loudly, indicating the end of the round—a thirty-second break. Becks exhales heavily, and her arms drop.

Adan steps back from the speed ball and sits beside Sanders, panting heavily as she grabs her water bottle. "She's been doing four rounds instead of three."

Sanders's eyebrows raise. "That's twelve minutes. With just thirty-second breaks."

Becks is tired. She looks so tired, like she's ready to lie down on the floor. Her coach stretches her arms behind her back while she tries to catch her breath, shutting her eyes, hanging her head.

"Coach likes to push her," Adan says with a grin. "She can do it. She can do five."

"Please tell me she has not been doing five."

Adan laughs, slapping a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, Rush."

Becks jogs to them. Her hair is sticking to her forehead. Today, she's in a big shirt and basketball shorts that reach her knees, and she's wearing the pink and white gloves. Sanders uncaps his bottle quickly and gently brings it to her mouth.

"You good?" Sanders asks, furrowing his eyebrows when he pulls back.

"Three minutes," she says, panting, leaning forward to wipe her head on the towel on Sanders's shoulder. "Three minutes and then I can eat."

Sanders grins. "Do your best, I'm watching."

Becks doesn't acknowledge that. She returns to her coach just as the bell rings, and she touches her gloves to his mitts, palms down first, and does the same thing with her palms up. She gets into her proper stance, ready and focused.

Sanders's eyes stay on her the whole three minutes. Adan doesn't even comment on it—it's not unusual.

As soon as she's done, Becks slumps down on the bench, closing her eyes. Her cheeks are red.

Sanders takes off her gloves and sets it aside. He takes off her hand wraps, too, and Sanders notices there are gashes on her knuckles already. He brushes his thumb over them and smiles at her. "You can't even move your arms now?"

"Chicken," she whines. "I need chicken."

Sanders laughs. He grabs her bag and zips up her gloves. "We'll get you your chicken."

"Carry me."

"I can't, you'd be too heavy. I'd be bedridden for days."

Becks glares at him. She pushes her bottom lip out, and Sanders's smile grows. He grabs her hand to help her up. Her palms are rough, sweaty, and calloused, but Sanders thinks it's warm. It's warm. He wants more, but he lets go. "Come on, Your Grace."

Adan follows them while they walk (and they walk very slowly—Becks walks sluggishly, like her legs are barely working). Becks stuffs her face with two cups of rice and five, maybe six drumsticks. Sanders can watch her all day. Adan snickers at him; he must have a silly grin on his lips.

When they're done, Adan goes ahead. Sanders slings an arm around Becks's shoulder. "Want to go home and sleep before training? Or play video games? We can get ice cream—"

Becks's phone rings. She fishes it out of her pocket, scrunching her nose, and Sanders catches a glance at the contact name. The picture is of the two of them together, making silly faces and peace signs. They look younger.

Sanders's jaw tightens. "He has your number?"

"He's had it since high school," Becks mutters, answering it. "Hello?"

Sanders huffs loudly, pushing his tongue against his cheek. He watches his best friend with narrowed eyes, and when she turns away from him, Sanders places his hands on her shoulders and turns her around.

Becks's face is red. "Why would I go all the way over there to eat with you?"

"We already ate," Sanders says, but he knows Becks can eat more if she wanted to.

Becks doesn't hear him. "What? Beef? Your treat? I'm coming—I mean, sure. I would love beef."

"I'm coming, too."

Becks hangs up and looks at him. "Maxon didn't say—"

"Come on, where is he?"

Maxon is waiting near the soccer field in his uniform. Sanders puffs his chest out. He thinks he looks better in his volleyball jersey. "Hey." He smiles at them, eyes darting between Becks and Sanders. "I didn't know you were with Rush."

"I'm always with her," Sanders says.

"He wanted beef, too," Becks cuts in softly, shifting her weight from one foot to another. "Um, should we go?"

Becks eats less servings than Sanders thought. He raises an eyebrow and fills her plate. "I thought you could eat more than that."

"I'm actually full," she tells him, biting her lip.

"Already?"

Maxon is watching them. "Can I ask you guys something?"

"Yeah," Becks answers.

"No," Sanders says.

Maxon tilts his head to the side and points a finger at Becks, and then at Sanders. "Are you guys together?"

Becks coughs. "No," she chokes out, face heating. "No, we're like siblings."

That stings. Sanders pretends it doesn't. "We're not like siblings," he says, crossing his arms. "But we're not together." Yet.

"Shut up." Becks hits his arm.

Maxon keeps the smile on his face and nods. He flips over a piece of beef from the grill and drops it on Becks's plate. "Cool. That's, um, cool."

Sanders leans in close enough to whisper in Becks's ear, "Siblings don't fuck."

Becks hits his arm again, gasping at his crudeness. She pinches his waist and avoids his eyes, focusing on her food.

Sanders laughs.

*

Sanders prays for a good dinner with his parents. Well, his parents and his dad.

His door opens. Becks comes in, and Sanders sucks in a deep breath. "Oh, Christ. You—what happened to you?"

She's in a normal—a normal-sized shirt and shorts. Her hair is combed, and—and a little bit straightened. Becks's hair is never combed, never straightened at home. At home, she's always in hoodies with holes or in big shirts with washed-out stains, in loose sweatpants or joggers, knitted socks. At home, Becks doesn't care what she looks like—no, she usually doesn't care what she looks like, whether she's at home, or in school, or somewhere else. But today, she...she looks like she took a shower, did a skincare routine or some shit, actually put on something...nice.

Sanders doesn't like it. She's not like this at home.

And her hair isn't in frizzy curls. Sanders loves the curls.

"Do I look fine?" she asks him flatly.

"Well, you usually look like an animal," he says, biting his tongue. His fists clench behind his back. "You...um, it's different. You look different."

Becks stomps her foot impatiently. "Good different or bad different?"

Sanders wants to say it's bad, but he doesn't want to hurt Becks's feelings. "Good," he says. And it's the truth. She does look good. It's just...Sanders isn't used to it. "You're always beautiful. What's the occasion?"

Her face brightens. "Thank you. And nothing, I just wanted to look less like an animal."

"I think it's in your genes, babe."

She rolls her eyes and hops on his bed, crossing her legs underneath her. "Are you going to your moms'?"

"Yeah." He sighs and faces the mirror again, buttons up his shirt. "We're having Dad over."

"Oh, shit." Becks comes up behind him and hugs him around the waist. Sanders's body feels...warm. He exhales heavily at her touch, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sanders. It'll be fine. You can call me if you need to escape dinner or something."

Sanders knows that. He turns around and hugs her. Buries his face on her shoulder. She smells like her body wash. Almond and vanilla orchid and cashmere musk. His brain is dancing again, and his stomach is coming alive with butterflies. When will the butterflies go away? They've been there since...since Sanders knew. "Can I just stay here?" he mutters, hugging her tighter.

Sanders wants more. His fingers are itching. The universe is kind enough to give him chances like these, Becks is kind enough to give him her warmth, and every inch of her skin he can touch, but he's selfish, and—and he wants more.

"We'd be here for hours," Becks jokes, her breath greeting the skin on his neck hello. How are you? What's your name?

"That's the point," Sanders whispers.

Why is her body so familiar, but his insides keep melting like ice cream on a porcelain bowl when she's this near? Why can he hear her heartbeat, can feel it against his own, but it's not beating as fast as his is? That's unfair. That's fucking unfair.

"Sanders," Becks whispers back.

Sanders hums. Tightens his arms. "You're the only one who calls me that."

"I'm the only one who's allowed to call you that. Aside from your family."

Sanders hums again. "VIP. You have a membership card. Special privileges. Invites to exclusive events and discounts and promos, other offers and perks."

Becks is laughing. It's not the high-pitched laugh, the wheezing one, but it's still a sound that fills up his head. His brain is dying. "You're annoying. You know your moms will slap the shit out of you if you're late, right?"

He sighs. He needs to go. Thanks, universe. "Wish me luck. Order in, okay? Don't skip dinner."

"Yeah, I got it. Tell Siam I said happy birthday. I sent him a gift."

He's still melting. "He'll love whatever you got him," he mutters.

Universe. Hello? More, please.

Becks is laughing again, but she's pushing him. "You gotta go, Sanders."

Sanders sighs. He drops a kiss on her hair, leaving it there for one, two, three seconds, and reluctantly steps back. Becks follows him to the front door, and Sanders notices Maxon isn't home yet. He doesn't want him to come home.

"Call me if I need to head back," he tells her. "I'll take the bike."

"Go. Drive safe." Becks pushes him out the door.

Without the weekend traffic jam, the drive home is less than the usual forty-five minutes—Sanders makes it in thirty. He parks his bike, takes off his helmet, and runs a hand through his hair. The front door stares back at him, and there's a dead lightbulb on the porch. Sanders will have to change that before he leaves.

There's noise from inside the house. He texts Becks, lets her know he made it safely, and pockets his phone before stepping inside. He takes off his shoes.

Hathai, from the dining room, sees him first, and almost immediately, her face lights up, and a smile graces her lips as she walks over to hug him. "You're late," she tries to say sternly, but she's already pulling him to her arms.

"And you're stunning."

"You're forgiven."

"Mâae," he says, chuckling and shaking his head. "Where's Siam?"

"Fetched his father." Hathai rolls her eyes, leading him to the kitchen. "How's school? How's Becks? Why didn't you invite her over?"

Mahika, who's in front of the stove, briefly looks at him to send him a flying kiss. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Mom." Sanders grins at her. "You, uh, you good? You need help?"

She waves him off. "Sit down and rest. This'll be done by the time Siam comes back. You're hungry, right?"

Sanders makes a show of clutching his stomach and grimacing. "Very."

"Where's Becks?" Hathai demands again, putting her arms on her hips. "I told you she can come. We have enough food to go around and you know Siam, ah, Siam adores her."

Sanders snorts. "I didn't invite her. Dad is coming, and...well, the things he said about her last time..." Sanders doesn't want him near her ever again.

Mahika clicks her tongue and sighs. "I told Siam he shouldn't..."

"It's okay." Sanders shrugs. "It's his birthday. He can do whatever he wants."

"Come, come." His mâae drags him to the living room. "Tell me about school. How's volleyball? Are you eating well? How are you and Becks? Is she eating well? How are you two?"

Sanders can feel his mouth twitching into a smile. "Um, we're still...the same."

Hathai raises an eyebrow. "Meaning you're still hopeless?"

"Mom!"

"I told you to make your move." She clicks her tongue, huffing. "Look at your mother and I. Where would we be if I didn't ask her out? Divorced. Single. Miserable and alone, only having to look after two gremlins."

Sanders chokes out a laugh. "I'd like to correct that as one gremlin and a puppy. I'm the puppy, Siam is the gremlin. Puppies are cute."

"You are not cute."

"And," he continues, shooting her a pointed look. "That's ridiculous, Mom."

"But true!" Mahika yells from the kitchen. She peeks her out from the doorframe and shows him her shining, expensive ring, wagging her eyebrows.

Hathai laughs and blows her a kiss.

Sanders snorts. "Plus," he says, leaning against the couch, "I've been making moves. I've been moving for two—three years now, I've been dancing, shaking my butt and all that. I want to marry her, wife her up, I want kids with her, I want the wedding bells and diapers, and the honeymoon—ow!"

His mom slapped his arm. "No kids yet," she hisses, narrowing her eyes at him. "I said make a move, not propose, boy. You're barely an adult. Why aren't you together yet? What's taking so long?"

"Mâae, you're more invested in my potential romantic life with Becks than Becks is."

"Well, I didn't raise you to be a coward."

Sanders scowls. "I'm working on it—"

"Work on it faster, coward—"

When Siam comes back, his father in tow, the table is set, and dinner is ready.

"Son," Elijah says, tipping his chin at him. Whenever Sanders sees him...he wishes he could look more like his mother.

Sanders greets him half-heartedly. Out of politeness, Hathai greets him, too.

Sanders grabs his little brother in a chokehold as soon as he takes off his shoes. "Happy birthday, Siam! You're, what, eighteen?"

"Let me go, pîi-chaai, you're embarrassing me." He pushes him away, and Sanders laughs, shoving his hands in his pockets. His brother's cheeks are pink as he struggles to pat down his hair. He glares at him and huffs. "Can we eat, Ma? I'm hungry."

Mahika steps out of the kitchen with a polite, tight-lipped smile. "Hi, Elijah."

"Mahika." He doesn't take off his shoes. He heads straight to the dining table and pulls back a chair. "It smells amazing."

As soon as they're all seated—Sanders and Siam on one side, Mahika and Hathai on the other, and Elijah at the head—they put their hands out and say grace (Sanders's father excluded—he doesn't practice religion), and dig in.

Sanders elbows Siam. "What'd Becks get you?"

Immediately, his face flushes. Sanders snorts and takes a sip of his water. "Hand wraps," he mutters quietly.

Siam has been...well, smitten with Becks ever since Sanders took him to watch one of her matches. As soon as he's done with high school, he says, he's going to Bellevue, too. Boxing, too.

"Stop with your crush, dude," Sanders says. "She's going to be your sister-in-law. It'd be weird."

Siam chokes on his food.

Mahika and Elijah stand up at the same time, diving for the pitcher of water. Hathai stares at them, sighing.

"Sorry," Sanders's mom says, retracting her hand, sitting down. Hathai puts a hand on her leg and smiles at her.

His father fills Siam's glass. "Here ya go, kid."

Siam downs it. Sanders snorts again. "It's not a crush!" he protests. "I just think she's cool," he says quietly. "Boxing's cool."

Sanders grins. "Great."

Elijah speaks up. "For a man, sure."

It takes all of Sanders's energy to ignore that. He smiles at his mom. "Do we have cake?"

"You're not allowed sweets, my boy," his mâae says, clicking her tongue, waving a fork at him. "Your coach said so. You have a game in two weeks."

"Can I come?" Siam asks excitedly.

"If you don't have school," Mahika says.

"Sure, why not?" Elijah answers at the same time. He looks at her and lets out a humorless chuckle. "Come on, Mahika. The kid wants to watch his brother play."

"He can," she says slowly, frowning, "if he doesn't have school. He can't cut class."

Siam huffs.

"It's not like he's going to use any of his lessons, anyway," Elijah counters, shrugging, putting a finger over his beard. "He says he wants to go to Bellevue, too."

Sanders pushes his tongue against his cheek and drops his spoon on his plate. He fixes his dad with an icy gaze. "Are you saying athletes are stupid?"

"Sanders," Mahika warns, shaking her head, eyes wide.

"You use your bodies and not your brains," Elijah counters calmly, raising his eyebrows. "Isn't that right?"

"Elijah," Hathai snaps. "That's enough. You can't demean your son just because he didn't choose to become a lawyer like you."

"Stop it," Siam breathes out, shaking his head. "Stop it. It's my fucking birthday. Can we please not argue?"

Hathai purses her lips.

Mahika sighs and takes his hand. "I'm sorry, baby. We can finish our dinner."

Elijah doesn't say another word. Sanders lost his appetite and tinkers with his food.

He doesn't stay for cake. As soon as dinner's over, he hugs his brother. "Sorry," he mutters, patting his head. "Didn't mean to ruin your birthday."

"S'fine," he grumbles. "It's not like I didn't know what was going to happen as soon as I invited Dad over. I shouldn't have."

Sanders pulls back and ruffles his hair, putting his hands on his shoulders. "Your gift is in your room. Come watch me play. Becks is coming, too."

He grins and nods. "Okay. Drive safe, pîi-chaai."

His moms kiss him on the cheek. Mahika is nagging him about eating well, taking medicine, getting proper rest and avoiding video games. She packs lunch boxes for him to bring home to Becks, too.

His mâae walks him to his bike. He'd have to change the lightbulb some other time. "I'm sorry about your father, sweetie. You know he can be..."

"Sexist, judgmental, a piece of trash."

"Sanders."

"Sorry." He's not sorry. He puts on his helmet. "I'm going. I love you."

She smiles and says the words right back, and waves at him as he speeds away.

His bad mood stays with him when he gets back to his apartment. Becks and Maxon are asleep on the couch. Becks is hugging her legs to her chest, curled up against the corner of the sofa, facing Maxon. Her mouth is half-open.

On the table are empty boxes of pizza and half-filled soda cups. The television isn't turned on—it's not even plugged in.

It looks like they fell asleep talking.

His chest feels uncomfortably tight. He shoves his keys in his pocket and briefly, just briefly, the awful thought of leaving Becks to sleep on the couch crosses his mind.

But her back will ache tomorrow, and...and she needs to rest properly. On her bed. And leaving her there...Sanders has never left Becks to sleep on the couch. No matter how many times she fell asleep on it.

Sanders sighs.

He bends down in front of her, tilting his head. His eyes roam over her face.

Becks isn't pretty. She's not the kind of pretty the word evokes, anyway. Her face is thin, like an oval, with a pointed chin. It seems too small for the rest of her body. Her eyebrows are thick, they're not shaved, and there are small hairs in between them that meet at the center. Her nose isn't high or perfectly-arched, and there are small pores dotting them, and her eyelashes aren't long, and with her eyes closed behind her glasses, Sanders can see the tiny birthmark along the line of her eyelid. Her lower teeth are crooked, and her lips are chapped—a result of her habit of pulling at the skin—and the feel of them, when they kissed, ages ago—they're not soft, and they were hesitant, but still, so, so warm.

Becks isn't pretty—but when Sanders saw her the first time, and all the times after that—he saw her and he heard bells. In his ears, ringing against his head.

Sanders slides his hands under her legs, fingers brushing her smooth skin, and scoops her up in his arms. Becks doesn't even stir.

Sanders looks at her. "You're lucky I love you. Else I would've left you on the sofa. And you're fucking heavy."

Becks doesn't hear him.

Sanders sighs and carries her to her room, gently setting her down on the mattress, tucking her inside the covers. Becks hugs her pillow almost immediately, burying her head on the sheets.

Sanders sits on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he reaches out. Brushes her hair away from her face. Traces her cheekbone, her jawline, the curve of her neck.

"Night," he whispers, finally drawing his arm away. Sanders shuts off the light and closes the door quietly.

Maxon is sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Oh, shit. We fell asleep."

Sanders picks up their cups and stacks them together. He doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to ask but...he wants to know. "What was she like in high school?"

Maxon stands and stretches. He's smiling. "Cal hasn't changed one bit. She's still goofy, and shy, and obnoxious, all at once. It's cute. We were just catching up and I was telling her that. Smart, too, but she...ah, she doubted herself too much. And she forgets to take care of herself. I think that hasn't changed."

Sanders picks up the pizza boxes and turns away.

Maxon catches his arm before he does. He's frowning now. "Hey, Rush. I'd like it if we all got along as roommates. Do you...do you not like it when I call her Cal? Sorry, I called her that all the time and I can't shake it off."

Sanders has a lot to say.

He can say that he wants to get along as roommates, too, but the thing—but the thing is, he didn't want a third roommate. He doesn't want one. He especially doesn't want a roommate who went to high school with Becks, who calls her by a stupid-ass nickname Cal, and ruffles her hair without second thought.

He can say that he's shit at change, so it's going to take some time before Sanders can fist-bump with him and yell, "Dude!" at the top of his lungs. He can say that he doesn't want to share his bathroom with him, that he doesn't want to get groceries with him. He can say that he hates having to leave space in the refrigerator for someone that isn't Becks, that he hates the contact picture on Becks's phone, that he wants him to leave and never fucking look back.

He has a lot to say.

He has a lot to say, but what comes out of his mouth is, "I don't care what you call her."

He turns around and takes out the trash.