1
Caleb
By the time Blake knocks on my apartment door for the third time, I’m already deep in the red.
"Dawson!" he yells, his voice muffled by the heavy oak. "If you make me late because you’re in there pouting, I’m telling Coach you cried during film this morning."
I drag a hand over my face, the stubble on my jaw a dry reminder that I didn’t have time to shave this morning. I stare at the microwave clock for a second longer than necessary.
6:42 PM.
I’ve got maybe four minutes before Owen gets out of the shower, realizes I’m not in the kitchen anymore, and starts yelling my name like the building is collapsing.
"Caleb!" he shouts from down the hall, right on cue. "Did you put my hoodie in the dryer?"
I close my eyes briefly, the dull throb of a tension headache pulsing behind my temple. Then I yank open the front door.
Blake is leaning against the frame, his truck keys looped around one finger and a grin already in place. He takes one look at me and laughs. "Wow. You somehow look worse than I thought you would."
"You’re annoying."
"And yet, here you are." He pushes past me without waiting for an invitation. "Still coming."
It isn't a question.
I shut the door and glance automatically down the hallway. The apartment is clean in that rushed, surface-level way it always is when I’m trying to play parent, student, and athlete at the same hour. A cereal bowl in the sink. One of Owen’s school binders open on the counter next to my stats notes. A pair of sneakers—size nine and growing—kicked off by the couch. My practice bag is a dead weight by the door.
Blake notices. He notices everything, he just pretends he doesn't to keep his "fun guy" persona intact.
"You know," he says, surveying the room, "for a guy who claims he never has time to breathe, this place is weirdly not disgusting."
"That’s because I cleaned."
"Obviously. For me?"
"For the thirteen-year-old who has to live here."
"Aw." Blake puts a hand over his heart. "Look at you. Practically domestic."
I ignore him and cross back into the kitchen. My phone lights up on the counter with a reminder: *Sign Owen’s field trip form.* I grab the paper, scrawl my name, and leave it where he’ll see it.
"This is exactly why you need to come out tonight, C," Blake says, his voice dropping the playfulness for a second.
"No," I mutter. "This is exactly why I shouldn’t."
Before he can argue, Owen comes flying out of the hallway in wrinkled athletic shorts, his hair damp and sticking up in a dozen different directions. He stops when he sees Blake, his eyes narrowing. "You’re early."
"Good to see you too, menace," Blake grins.
Owen looks at me. "My hoodie."
"In the dryer," I say.
"Did you actually switch it over?"
"Yes, Owen."
He studies me, looking for the tell. At thirteen, he’s in that awkward, beautiful stage where he looks older and younger every time I blink. Too tall, too much sarcasm, but still too much kid in his eyes when he’s tired. He finally mutters a "fine" and heads for the laundry.
"He gets meaner every time I see him," Blake whispers.
"He learns from experience."
"He learns from you."
I check the time again. **6:45.** I shouldn’t go. I have a paper due Monday. I have an 8:00 AM practice. I have a draft stock to maintain that feels like a physical weight on my shoulders every time I step onto the ice. Lately, my head has been so loud with "what ifs" that I can barely hear the whistle.
I’m still producing, still playing well, but I’m *tight*. Half a second late on the read. Thinking instead of reacting.
*You’re pressing, Dawson.*
*You need sleep, Caleb.*
As if it’s that easy.
I grab my wallet. "What’s the plan? You said Owen is good?"
Owen calls out from the hall, "I’m thirteen, not five."
"Debatable!" Blake yells back. A sock flies out of the hallway and smacks him in the shoulder. I exhale a laugh before I can stop it.
"I'll be back before it gets too late," I tell Owen, standing by the door. I wait until he looks up from the armchair. "Phone on. Charged."
"You act like I’m the one who forgets to plug it in," he rolls his eyes. "That happened to *you*."
"One time."
"One time is all it takes for the house to burn down," he says with a dry smirk that is far too much like mine.
I point at him. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone."
"Caleb," he groans. "I know."
Something in my chest loosens. Just enough.
The elevator ride down is quiet until Blake leans against the mirrored wall. "You’re doing too much again. Thinking."
"I don't do it for fun, Blake."
"I know. That’s why we’re going."
The air outside is biting, the kind of late-fall cold that forces you to wake up. We pull up to a side street crowded with student housing, the smell of woodsmoke and cheap beer already heavy in the air. Music leaks through the walls of a nearby house—one of those off-campus hangouts that has grown too large for its floorplan.
Warm air and the scent of liquor hit us the second the front door opens. The place is crowded. I hang back half a step behind Blake, my eyes automatically scanning the room—exits, faces, layout. Old habits.
"There," Blake mutters.
I follow his line of sight toward the kitchen.
Three girls stand near the counter. One blonde, one redhead, and one brunette turned partly away from us. She’s wearing a soft gray sweater that slips over one shoulder, her hair falling in chestnut waves.
My body locks before my brain catches up. It’s not a conscious choice; it’s a physical rebellion.
The shape of her profile. The low, easy sound of her laugh.
*No. No fucking way.*
Blake is still moving, oblivious. "Okay," he mutters. "Don't let me look stupid."
I barely hear him. My feet have stopped. The brunette looks up.
The room doesn't just go quiet; it ceases to exist. The bass in the floorboards thins out. My pulse slams once, hard enough to make my ribs ache.
Grace.
She looks older. Softer and sharper at the same time. She’s only 5’1” and from my 6’3” vantage point, she looks as delicate as she did three and a half years ago, but there’s a new steadiness in her hazel eyes. A guard she didn’t used to have.
She’s prettier. The thought hits me like a cross-check to the throat.
"Grace," Blake says, his voice sounding like it’s coming from underwater.
She blinks, her eyes flicking from Blake to me. For a heartbeat, she looks like she’s seen a ghost. Then, because she’s Grace—calm, composed, stronger than people give her credit for—she pulls herself together.
"Hey," she says. Her voice is smooth, but I can hear the tension vibrating underneath it.
Blake grins, totally unaware of the landmine he’s just stepped on. "Told you I'd make it. This is Caleb." He looks at me. "And Caleb, this is Grace."
I nearly laugh. It’s a bitter, jagged sound that stays trapped in my throat. I drag my tongue over my teeth and don't take my eyes off hers.
"Yeah," I say, my voice rough. "I know Grace."
The air in the kitchen shifts. The other girls go still, sensing the sudden, localized storm front. Blake’s grin fades as his eyes dart between us. "You two know each other?"
Grace’s fingers tighten around her plastic cup.
"Something like that," I mutter.
I know two things in that second. One: I should have stayed home with Owen. Two: Whatever I told myself I’d buried three and a half years ago is currently standing ten feet away, looking at me like she remembers every single thing I tried to forget.
**I am ready for Chapter Two from Grace's POV! Send it over whenever you're ready.**
