Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Appa, I get that the company is up and running now, but do you really think I should be changing schools so last minute? Does this mean anything for my tennis scholarship or my chances of being Valedictorian to get into Harvard?" 

I am beyond frustrated with myself and my parents. Them, for wanting to be good parents, but at a terrible time. Well...they're always great parents, but this situation has me on edge for the first time in my life. Frustrated with myself for being frustrated at them for wanting a better life, but at the expense of my last year. I'll have to start all over again in the friends department for sure.

I blow a breath on my hair as it falls in my eye while I clear out my desk. I stop to grab the hair tie on my mousepad and tie up this ridiculously long hair my mother refuses to let me chop to at least my bra strap. Something about it being a Korean thing that I always tune out.

I look over my shoulder at my dad, thankful for his height and big frame as he helps me clear off the tops of my empty bookshelves. 

"Ciara, you know I would love for you to finish the school year here. But your mother and I don't think the Hollow is safe anymore with all of the drive-bys and kids bringing guns to school more often."

He shakes his grey and brown hair, and his Nigerian accent gets deeper as he continues to see the logic in his decision. "Besides, the very close encounter you, Lincoln, and Ellis had near that Haitian gang was more than proof enough that this place isn't conducive for us anymore."

I look up in time enough to see Lincoln Clay staring me down with those big brown eyes of his across the driveway to his bedroom window, urging me not to leave. But my mom and dad are right, it's getting scarier and scarier here in Delray Hollow, and Frisco Fields is the best choice for us to move to, while still giving me a familiar environment for my Senior year.

The reason for the move? My parents' financial tech firm, Smartfin, has finally taken off ever since they moved to New Bordeaux, Louisiana, when they were 18 and pregnant with me. It's the few trips they've made across the United States these past few years to California and Seattle that helped to stabilize their partnerships with Amazon, HP, and, hopefully soon, Samsung and Apple.

I stop what I'm doing when my father speaks again, this time softer as he looks at me. "You were always happy, Ciara. Even during our bouts of homelessness or uncertainty of how your mother and I would pay our bills, you were that light that kept us going. For the past few years, I've seen that light dwindle bit by bit, and it hurts."

I go to hug my father as tears well up and drop. I take in his smell and then look around at the pink room that has been my sanctuary for my entire 17 years of living, and this August will start a new chapter for me and my family.

My dad pulls away with a smile, and I turn to see what has him smiling so much. My grin widens as my mother stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

"Robert, when I sent you up here to help her, I didn't tell you to make her cry."

"Dae, you know I would never. Plus, I'm glad to be leaving with all these hormonal teenage boys sniffing around my daughter." My mother laughs and gets in our hug. She is around the same height as me, standing at 5'9", and her onyx black hair mirrors my own in its length to our lower backs. She fits in perfectly to my right, cocooned inside my father's arms.

It's always been us, and...I guess Ellis and Lincoln too, since they're always over here, to my dad's annoyance. But my parents were all I've ever had for a long time.

We release each other. "We have to get moving since the truck will be here soon, and I'm anxious to get Stella acquainted with the new house. She's never been anywhere but here."

Mom strokes my hair and rubs my back a bit, "That cat of yours will be fine, Ciara. Stella has always been resilient, ever since you found her."

On que, Stella jumps onto the empty wooden dresser near my door and somewhere, somehow, her extremely short white fur is covered in dusty bunnies.

Movers come in to bring my bookcases and bed down the tight staircase around the corner from my room. My eyes stay on my adorable and defiant feline.

"Ma'am! I just cleaned you last night, how did you even find the dust when I cleaned everywhere in here!"

I sigh, and my parents grin while leaving to check on everything in the truck. I get the last few things out of my nightstand, and I forgot to pack my photo album. I sit on top of the wooden furniture and move through the photos: friends and more friends. Giorgi, Nicki, and Danny still attend Frisco Fields High, which means I still get to see everyone at once, including Lincoln and Ellis, since they're all in the same family *ahem* business together. 

The thing about the mafia is that you don't say anything about the mafia. I had no idea Sammy Robinson, Ellis and Lincoln's pop, was the leader of the black mob.

Danny and Nicki's dad controlled the Irish mob. Giorgi's father ran the whole thing here in Louisiana; anyone a part of organized crime belonged to him. Sort of found myself catching on as the years went by, and this grew as a call for concern to my parents, the more I began to sit in on meetings and stakeouts with the boys.

The Haitian gang my dad brought up earlier is a part of the problem. They just got here and want to establish their own rules, and that is that there are no rules when it comes to power.

Not to mention, they want to take over everything Sammy built here in the Hollow. Sammy reported this to Sal Marcano, Giorgi's dad, and if anyone knows a thing about the mafia is that there are rules.

I keep flipping the pages and land on a few photos of these girls I met during tennis camp in Baton Rouge. One was pretty short, if I remember correctly, she came to at least to my chest or neck. Pale skin and two-toned brown and silver hair, which I thought was pretty awesome. Her understanding of all types of history was quite amazing, and she always had a book or two laying around our shared room.

Violet, I think, was her name. I sort of made fun of her for being a bit violent after matches she would lose, but only because she always had to buy new rackets when that happened.

The girl in the middle stood a bit taller than I, and I always remembered her being so put together. She kept her hair in shoulder-length braids and always had a leadership-type attitude. Her swings rivaled mine and were flawless. She rarely failed, and the match between her and I was a showstopper. So many scouts there, and we both knew what was on the line, but I had something to prove, and I did it. The scout from Harvard contacted me and my parents immediately.

Rhiannon! I smile as her name comes to me, and it's all flooding back as I remember them both being students of Frisco Fields High. Maybe this move won't be all bad. I'll be able to walk in knowing a few people. I jump off the nightstand as the movers comb over my room, and the silence brings me back to my senses.

A small tear drops as I usher Stella into her carrier, and I grab the last duffel bag I have before meeting my parents and, surprisingly, half the neighborhood at the moving truck and our cars. 

I put my duffel bag and Stella into the backseat of my very obnoxiously pink Wrangler that my parents bought with the first check from their Amazon deal. I've picked up extra shifts from the Pizza shop across from the bar that houses Sammy, Ellis, and Lincoln for a year now to afford any mods for my baby.

I shake hands and hug Mrs. Steel, the kids who gave me company during volunteer time at the soup kitchen, and others who shaped me and helped me stick to my goals along the way.

Ellis Robinson, my bestest-estest friend in the whole wide world since we were literally born, gave me the tightest hug, and I tried very hard to keep from crying. We did all of that two days ago.

"Ellis, don't get into too much trouble. I need you alive here with me. I'm only across the river and don't think that you and Lincoln can have movie nights without me anymore." I sniffle a bit and chuckle.

"Oh, please Smith, like you would let us live that down. And look at that, the next movie night starts in...ten minutes." He fakes his countdown on his wristwatch.

I give him a sorry smile, "Don't do that, Ellis...."

He returns it, "I'm sorry, Cee. I'll come and visit when you get settled in, or, at least, I'll have Lincoln drive us."

"You already know he will. Be good, Ciara, we're all gonna miss you." I lean back from Ellis and look up at the big and tall form of Lincoln Clay. Ever since the Robinsons adopted him, we developed a friendship that slowly felt like it was starting to turn into more. Now, it just seems like it's going to fizzle out before it can start.

He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I lean into him and soak in that musky amber scent that stays on everything he touches. 

I release him and stand next to my mom as Dad addresses the small crowd. "Thank you, everyone, who has helped us from the start, when we had nothing. I remember when Dae and I first got here, and it was a newfound sense of freedom and happiness, but it was also scary in not knowing how to survive or what to expect. Today, we start a new journey, and one we are all extremely excited to start. Thank you all."

Everyone tells us goodbye once again, and I hug Sammy, my would-be second dad, like my life depended on it. I settle into my car and follow my parents in their cars over the bridge, and into our new future.

Frisco Fields looks really different when you're able to get on the other side of the security fence.

Gargantuan mansions line the streets, and they all belong on the cover of a magazine. Ivy builds up beautifully on one brick home, and the architecture of each home is different yet blends in well to make the neighborhood cohesive.

People running and dogs off leashes in the many different parks that we drive past. Community pools that looks so clean and blue that you feel like you could drink the water. All of this was now available to you because your parents made a few good calls in life.

State-of-the-art security cameras and police presence are no doubt installed not just to stop regular burglars but the Earth's constant barrage of foreign invaders.

This new wave of small aliens that have been robbing people left and right for small petty things like chickens, fruits, and their want of shiny things has now turned to grand theft auto and public disruptions. They've just started to become more of a nuisance than a threat since they first touched down a month ago in New York.

Stark Industries has started to dole out high-frequency sound alerts, that has helped in deterring these little gremlins from setting foot on many lawns. Even small robots and drones that could help move these aliens when detected to a less unpopulated area.

Last I heard, the Guardians were working on getting them under control from their hive in space, but who knows how long that will take?

We finally slow down, nearing the top of the hill across from a black brick home, whose backyard faces the entire city of New Bordeaux. A few cars sit out, and I spot a middle-aged dark dark-haired woman talking animatedly on the phone behind her wrought-iron fence.

0214, my birthday, my dad puts into our gate, and the black fence opens up to a beautiful brown stoned home that makes you feel like you're home is in the middle of a California vineyard.

We sit back and direct the movers in telling them where everything goes, as we don't lift a finger. Except for Daddy, he handles the big flat screen with another mover because he didn't trust the one who almost dropped Mom's Kitchen Aid stand mixer on the porch.

I grab Stella from the car and notice a handsome blondie on the other side of the white picket fence sitting underneath a tree with a knife and something small in his hand. He looks at the movement coming in and out of the house, but he doesn't notice me.

"Hey, what do you have there?"

He stands with a bit of grace, and boy, is he tall, but not taller than Lincoln. His blue eyes are striking, and his smile is very kind. Jeesh, this is my neighbor? He almost reminds me of Thor when the local news got a glimpse of him with his new eyepatch.

"Hi. This is a small bear cub I've been working on for a bit. Every time I think I've got the details just right, my eye catches something else wrong. Oh, but I'm Liam Mairi."

I smile and reach for his hand, "Ciara Smith. Obviously, my family is moving in, but I'm not new to the area. How long have you been doing this?" I point to the bear.

"Since I could hold a knife properly. My dad introduced me, and whittling has been my favorite thing to do since."

I shift Stella to my other arm, "I'm sure your parents get tired of the wood shavings everywhere, huh?" I give Liam a small smirk as I spot a clump of it on his crotch area.

He blushes as he tries to wipe some of it off his black shorts. "Sometimes, but I think they've gotten over it. Sloane, my sister, still puts up a fuss, but I ignore it just to tease her."

He smiles softly at his telling, and I honestly can't get over how nice he is. You would think someone who looks like that would be a complete jock or a jerk, but that's not the case here.

"Who do you have in the carrier?"

Now it's my turn to smile widely. I sit the carrier down and cautiously open it up to grab my baby girl from her canvas prison. I gave her a quick wipe down in the car from her roll in the dust, and now she looks halfway presentable.

"This is my lovely Stella." I scratch her chin and adjust her in my arms.

"She's very gorgeous, and I realize she only has one eye. What happened?"

"Long story but-"

"Mairi, are you running your lips again?!?"

Liam smiles as his eyes look over my shoulder, and my head whips to the space behind me. My eyes squint to make out the large figure on the other side of my yard. The white fence stopping him from crossing. His brown curls flow down his forehead, and his sides are nicely shaven.

Another stupidly good-looking neighbor? My dad is already protective of me around boys from the Hollow, and these two aren't helping Day 1.

The large, brutish figure crosses his massive arms in the sleeveless white band t-shirt, and while they are nice to look at, I turn back to Liam with a raised brow.

"Be careful, sweetheart, those Mairi's will talk your ear off if you let them, and that one is the most talkative of all." His half-hazard smile is on full display, and I sense a long-time friendly teasing bout happening before me.

Liam leans over the fence a little bit. "Oh, Garrick, how nice of you to join us. This is our new friend, Ciara Smith."

Chapter Text

I fully turn toward the boy named Garrick who Liam seemingly has a brother-like relationship with. I put Stella back in her carrier, and I grab Liam’s dry hands, from working with the wood, to pull him over the fence.

“You’re going to fully introduce me to this ‘Garrick’ person and then give me your number. Hm, who is he to you?” Liam looks down at me from smirking at Garrick, and I notice his dimple as we cross the driveway.

He ignores my question and looks down. “I see a box labeled, ‘chocolate stash.’ What’s that about?” My face turns red, and he just shrugs as it’s picked up by my dad.

“Uhhhmmm…” I can’t think of anything I willingly WANT to tell a cute teenage boy about my stash of chocolate.

He puts his hands up in a mock surrender. “This IS a no-sugar neighborhood. HOA rules. Hope you like Stevia. The last person with a Pop-Tart got a warning letter.”

My jaw dropped, and he actually doubled over. The scoundrel had the nerve to double over as we’re going to go talk to his friend. We keep walking, and Garrick’s grin turns into a small, genuine smile as I release Liam’s hand and grab hold of his. 

“Garrick Tavis.” Whoa, talk about a firm handshake. Up close, I see just how thick his muscles really are.

“Ciara Smith, as you just heard. Yeah, and your friend Liam here, yeah, he’s now called Lieam. Nice house, what does your family do?”

I glance up at his home, and it boasts an Italian-style build. Juliette balconies on two of the upstairs windows and a beige/tan exterior. The red tiled roof screams vacation, and the topiaries lining the front porch would suggest that they keep a regular two-week schedule with a lawnkeeper.

“I’m surprised this one didn’t tell you everything in your short time together. We’re in politics, nothing too crazy, Legs.”

My eyebrow raises, but Liam’s shoots up to his hairline, probably appalled that his friend would call me that. I glance down at my uncovered legs, and the sun is hitting them just right. What’s the point of hard-earned toned legs if you can’t show them off every now and then?

“Politics, huh? Anything specific?” I look back at Stella and make sure that she’s okay, and she looks content. Probably best to keep her out of the way for now while the house is in chaos.

“Yep,” he unfolds his hands and uses them to lean on the fence, “but nothing that you need to concern yourself with now. What’s your story?”

Okay deflection. “We just moved from Delray Hollow, been there all my life, and now we’re here. Parents wanted a change of scenery and a bit more…security.”

It was now Garrick’s turn to look skeptical. “I’ve only been here for a short time, but Delray Hollow to Frisco Fields seems like a big jump, plus one that comes with a crazy Jeep fresh out of a Barbie movie. What’s the real story, Smith?” He points his chin at my baby.

I feel like I should be more offended, but I keep my cool. I don’t know either of these people from a can of paint, and I’m not about to divulge my entire life’s story the moment I meet a new neighbor. This type of wealth is new to us, and when you’ve had to survive for so long, you get paranoid and would rather keep things to yourself in fear of people using it against you somehow.

“The real story? We’ve been blessed, and that’s as far as I’m willing to go. Are you-”

“Ciara, honey, c’mon, we’re going out to grab dinner! Oh! Hello, who are you two?”

My sweet mother crosses the lawn, and my dad settles things up with the movers. Liam is the first to greet her and introduce himself, and then Garrick, who surprisingly matches Liam's infectious smile and kind and gentle demeanor.

Mom leans from the fence, and I walk to her right side as she wraps an arm around my waist. “So, are you boys students at Frisco Fields High?”

“Yes, ma’am, we are. Seniors, actually.” Liam explains to my mother.

She claps her hands together, “Oh good! See, honey, you’ll already have two capable strapping young men here who can help get you through senior year. It won’t be too bad.” She squeezes my shoulder and lifts her eyebrows repeatedly in pointed looks from Garrick and Liam to me.

I laugh internally and roll my eyes, leaving it up to my mom to try to get me to flirt with a couple of well-to-do, probably intelligent boys next door, while my dad is quite literally on the opposing side of this topic.

“Mom, I already have friends here, y’know? Giorgi, Danny, and Nicki?”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t have more Smith,” Garrick speaks, and now it’s my turn to smile lopsidedly.

“I’m sorry, I completely forgot. Well, it was nice meeting you both, but we’re gonna head to dinner in a little bit.” She walks away to grab Stella and place her inside the house.

“Laim, you’re great, you know that, right?”

He smiles brightly, and honestly, it’s too cute for someone who looks like they can challenge Captain America to a fight.

“Well, we have just met, but I-”

“Beat it. Tum-Tum's hungry, and it’s been an emotionally draining week. School starts tomorrow, and I have to get ready.”

His shocked face gets Garrick to laugh, and I chuckle a bit as I walk him back over to his side of the fence.

“See you tomorrow, Smith!” Garrick exclaims as he retreats into his abode. I say goodbye to Liam and make my way in to meet my parents. What I’m not prepared to see is Dad’s curious look. He’s putting on his shoes at the front door. “And just who were those two on my lawn already?”

“Dad, only one was on our lawn, and they’re Liam and Garrick.” I sit next to him on the bench where Mom makes us take off our shoes. I lay on his shoulder and stretch my legs out.

“You just know how I feel about boys being on my lawn. I trust you to focus on your school work, but the boys not so much.”

I smile, “Thanks for trusting me, Dad. Besides, boys are stinky sometimes.” I screw my face up and we both laugh as mom meets us at the door and we head out to fill our stomachs.

“Mom, I have to go! Yes, I grabbed the extra rice. I made it, and the parking lot is swimming right now. Love you, bye!” 

There are so many students in the parking lot making their way to the three-story beauty of a school. Why does a school need to be so big? I’ll tell you why. 

Frisco Fields High receives a large amount of donations from past alumni and the parents of children who have gone on to do bigger and better things. Better teachers and coaches. StarkComms technology is rooted in every square inch of the school, from the auditorium for theatrical performances, the computer and engineering labs, and the agricultural and science rooms.

I see an open spot next to a beautiful blacked-out Wrangler, and it looks like Princess Bubbegum and Marceline attend this school. I peek over since the doors have been removed, and the leather matches the exterior. No rubber ducky in sight on the console. Party pooper. I take from the five I do have and place a glittery pink one on their dashboard. I quickly adjust my high ponytail in the mirror.

I hop out and smooth my hands over my black pleated skirt. I adjust my light, blue cardigan, and check my stocking for tears. Good, everything is as it should be. I grab my brown leather backpack and my pink gym duffle bag from the back seat and pull up this semester's schedule on my phone. 

                       Frisco Fields High School

2024-2025       Student Class Schedule  

Smith, Ciara            ID: 490567

1st Period -   Room 205: AP English Literature/ Homeroom : Kaori

2nd Period -  Auditorium 101: AP U.S. Government & Politics: Devera, Markham

3rd Period -   Room 207: AP Statistics: Melgren

4th Period -   Room 308: AP Biology/ Lunch : Nolon

5th Period -   Room 209: AP French Language: Carr

6th Period -   Study Hall/ Free Period

7th Period -   Gym.: Varsity Tennis: Emetterio

Perfect. It’s…7:30 and I have time to go to my locker, drop my bags off at my locker and set my books up, and find out where my English class is.

“Okay, Ciara, you have plenty of time to make it, no pressure. It’s everyone’s first day back.” I whisper to myself as I join the slew of students going into the school through the many front doors of the building.

Thankfully, my Dr.Martens aren’t making me uncomfortable around my ankles, and it's one less thing I have to worry about. I lift my eyes from my phone and really take a good look at the people around me, and my goodness!

Is everyone at this school this freaking attractive!

Not only does everyone’s face make them look extremely marketable, but they’re actually all fit and toned like athletes. I did forget to mention that Frisco Fields High rarely ever sees a loss in any sports match-ups in Louisiana and most state competitions. Hollow High has come up against them from time to time, and every time we would get our butts handed to us. I've even lost a few hands over the years. But now I get to be a part of this undefeated empire.

I thank a brown-skinned, brown-haired boy who opens the door for me, and he will actually not leave my side. He adjusts the backpack that he’s holding over one shoulder and moves his disheveled hair from his eyes, opening his mouth.

“You know,” I say cautiously, stopping him before he speaks, “you don’t have to walk with me. I thought this was just, like… a polite door-holding situation.”

“Normally, yeah. But I had a good feeling about you.” He gives me a sideways look. “And by ‘good feeling,’ I mean you didn’t look like you were about to shove someone into a locker, which is rare before first period here.”

I snort. “That’s… your bar?”

“It’s early. My standards are still loading.”

We pass the counselors, and my mind begins to race. I’m not #1 anymore, Salutitorian, sure. But, I need to be #1, not because of being placed in Harvard, since I have my scholarship, but because I’ve worked so hard to get there. It wouldn’t be fair that I lost my spot just because I had no say in our move.

I have to find out who the Valedictorian is and do my own snooping. What classes do they take? How do they study? Any personal teacher-student relationship I need to know about? Always nice to have a teacher in your back pocket in times when you may have to retake a test or give your grade a little boost.

I shake my head and look for the 400 hallway on the first floor that houses senior lockers, still unable to stop the small smile tugging at my lips that Ridoc is providing right now.

“I’m Ridoc, by the way, Gamlyn,” he added. “But most people just call me ‘a bad idea with great comedic timing.’“

I blink at him as we take a right corner, amused. “Is that on your student ID?”

“Nah, wouldn’t fit. So, I just have ‘public menace’ on mine.”

“So… are you like a senior too? Since that’s where I’m headed, to the lockers.”

“I am, and pretty much all of my friends are. Moved here from the Midwest about seven years ago, and I have never seen you around these parts, Beautiful.”

An amused grin stays on my lips until I finally see my locker, #414. I was beyond elated when my parents and I came to the open house, and they had full-length lockers. I always thought that was something you only saw in movies. Having to squat or bend down to my bottom locker at Hollow High was such a pain.

I go to arrange my locker. “That’s because I just moved to this side of town.”

To my utter surprise, he was #410. His smirk grew as he saw my realization. “Well well, looks like you’ll have the pleasure of my company all year long.”

I don’t hide my eye roll, and that only makes him smile more. I finish arranging my things and grab what I need for AP Lit. and AP Gov. 

I shut the locker to find 3 more figures surrounding Ridoc.

The first I notice is a man, the tallest and leanest of them, and then-

“Rhiannon and Violet!!!” My mouth speaks quicker than my brain since I truly did not expect to see them so soon, or if at all, in my senior year. Both Ridoc and his friend give me a weird look at my outburst.

Both of the girls' eyes search my features, and Rhiannon acts quicker than Violet, who follows suit.

“Oh my goodness, Ciara Freaking Smith! I can’t believe you’re here! You know, I still think about how you beat me at camp. Best match up of my life.” Rhiannon beams.

“Wow, you’re really here. Come to lead our women’s tennis team through nationals or just take your place as Valedictorian?” Violet hugs me, and I feel the wrappings underneath her shirt. I forgot that she has Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. It seems like forever ago when Rhiannon and I were encouraging her to finish camp, late one night, as we wrapped her joints for the tournament.

I felt so bad for her that night. She had a flair-up that morning, and the camp leaders were extra tough on us that day. All Rhiannon and I could do for her that day was be by her side and let her cry out all of her frustration.

“Sort of both, as we were moving, my coach got in contact with Coach Emeterrio, who looked at my stats, and now I’m the automatic Team Captain. Are both of you still playing?” My smile is hopeful.

“Uh, before you guys go off on a tangent, I’m Sawyer.” I momentarily take my eyes off the girls and shake Sawyer’s outstretched hand.

“Nice to meet you. Please keep this one on a leash.” I unabashedly point at Ridoc, who does nothing but give me a wolfish grin. Sawyer smirks, “No promises, c’mon Gamlyn, we gotta get to class.”

“Nice meeting you, 414.” 

“Goodbye, Public Menace.” I wave and await the girls' answers, but judging from their looks, I already know the answer.

“About that…I want to become a historian. My dad is one, focusing on ancient intellectual Middle Eastern history. He’s taught me so much, and my mother threw me into a sport she thought I would be good at, while I had no choice. Probably to make me more like Mira and Brennan. Anyway, so, when my dad found out, he just kept pushing me to study history, and I love it.”

Rhiannon smiled, “After our match, I kept going, but something was off. That was also the year I was trying any and everything under the sun to get some type of sense of what I wanted to do, and when Violet invited me to her house, her sister was there and we talked for hours about the military.”

My eyes go wide. From tennis shoes to combat boots, didn’t see that one coming.

“The military is a big step,” she scratches the back of her neck, “but I’m sure that the same attitude you had on the court will carry you through you’re whole military career. It’s all just sort of a shock, but I’m happy for both of you, honestly.”

I shut my locker and view my schedule one more time, great. I only have 5 minutes to make it to my Homeroom on the second floor. I spot a staircase close to our lockers, and I thank God for it.

Violet pushes my hand down to view my schedule and smiles, “No way, we all have the same 1st period.” I whip my head up to Rhiannon for confirmation, and she just grabs my hand as we rush up the stairs to AP English Lit.

I feel as bright as a big red tomato when we get to class, and most of the seats are taken. Of course, with 5 minutes to spare, I would be the odd one out. I don’t want to be split up from my friends, but while they led me into class, they took their seats as if they’d been assigned to them for the past three years.

Ridoc and Sawyer look at me, shocked, as Violet and Rhiannon take their place in front of them, a few chairs back from the classroom door. I notice Violet leaning in to listen to a guy with close-cropped light-brown curls and a neatly trimmed beard. He’s very cute, okay, maybe even hot, with his tan skin and sandy-brown eyes. Nice job, Sorrengail.

I scan the left side of the room, near the big window that overlooks two Olympic-sized swimming pools, and Garrick and Liam are separated by another individual.

He has kind eyes and a generous smile as he spots me, almost amused, probably because I look a bit anxious. I smile back at him. His cloud-like curls are black, and his skin is a warm brown color. Weirdly, his features are sharp and strong yet also make him look soft. 

I move to that side of the room as I see the only desk available is the one directly behind him and Garrick. I pass a girl in the front row with bright pink hair and intense green eyes. How anyone can sport a black leather jacket in this heat is beyond me. Someone next to her whispers in her ear. She’s curly and blonde with blue streaks running through her hair.

I take my pointer and middle finger and point them repeatedly at Lieam, who just gives me a sheepish grin. As I pass Garrick’s desk, I make a point to hit it with my hip on the way back to my seat, and that’s where I make eye contact with the most handsomest man I think I’ve ever seen face-to-face.

I can't! I'm just a girl!  So grateful that only I can hear my inner monologues.

His perfectly sculpted crossed arms are shown off in a tight black shirt, and his eyes are a bit narrowed and bored like he wished the seat on his right would stay empty for the rest of the school year.

The beautiful dark hair is slick and curly. I should feel ashamed that I want to run my fingers through it, but I couldn’t care less. I catch myself from doing a double-take at the boy who sits in front of my desk. They have got to be related somehow.

He’s pushed Garrick’s desk up a bit to accommodate those long legs of his, and when my eyes roam back up, he’s scratching his dark stubble with a small uptick to one side of his grin.

I bite my cheek and take my seat confidently, fixing my materials, and that’s when I look up from my binder to see virtually everyone staring at…not me, but him. Well...the girl with the half-shaved pink hair is obviously glaring at me, for what, I’m not sure.

The guy with those luscious full lips doesn’t look at me at first, like he’s more interested in the clock than my eyes being clearly glued to him.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” he says dryly, voice low and casual, like he’s had this conversation a hundred times and none of them ever mattered. Then he turns his head just enough to meet my gaze, his expression unreadable, but the corner of his mouth staying up.

“But…I’ve been stared at worse. Usually by people with less interesting faces.”

A beat passes, and he shifts just slightly in his seat, voice dropping like the punchline to a joke I’m not in on yet.

“Xaden Riorson. Since you’re clearly gonna keep looking, you might as well know who you’re looking at.”

Chapter Text

I blink as the classroom noise levels return to normal. Our teacher, Hiro Kaori, is still not present 2 minutes after the bell rang. Garrick and the boy in front of me look back at the two of us and then proceed to chuckle and whisper to each other.

Is he serious right now? He's smoking hot, downright beautiful, might I say, but my mind is so preoccupied with acing all of my classes, which leads me back to finding the Valedictorian, that I have no time for this.

The only thing I could think to offer was a small nod. "Cool, Thanks for the warning." I open my binder and begin rummaging around my backpack for my new set of pens, not looking at tall, dark, and broody to my left.

I feel his eyes on me as I silence my phone before class begins. Voice quieter now, edged with lazy curiosity. “So that’s it?” he says. “No freak-out, no sudden fascination with my backstory?” I turn my head to him with a slightly raised brow. A smirk ghosts across his lips as he watches.

“Damn. You really must be new.” 

"Tempting, but I have enough backstories from the people I've just met today to hold me over until Fall break."

My pen clicks shut like a signal of the end of this conversation, but before Xaden can fire something back, Kaori enters the classroom and drops a stack of papers on his desk at the front of the room.

"All right, settle down-take a seat, phones away, eyes up."

Xaden leans back in his chair, the slightest huff of a laugh leaving his lips, and I notice his eyes glance my way once more as I finally rest on Kaori.

“Welcome to your last first English class of high school. Congratulations—you’ve almost survived public education. Now, let's get through roll call, and we can begin." A few students laugh, and others groan. He sets down his alarmingly super-sized cup of coffee and picks up a black dry-erase marker after we prove that we're all present. He writes three words on the board: Voice. Vision. Violence.

“That’s our theme this semester. Literature isn’t just about what’s written—it’s about who dares to speak, how they see the world, and what it costs them.”

He paces slowly in front of the whiteboard, talking as he walks. “If you came here expecting book clubs and feel-good takes, you’re in the wrong room. If you’re ready to question, argue, unravel, and maybe—maybe—get wrecked by a sentence you’ll never forget... then sit up.”

Our teacher stops to look at us all before moving the stack of papers he came in with to the boy Violet was talking to. “The syllabus is now being passed around to you. No, I’m not reading it to you—this isn’t kindergarten. But I will tell you this:
You’ll be reading stories by people who had to carve out space in a world that didn’t want to hear them. You’ll be expected to do the same in this classroom. If you have an unpopular idea, share it. Great ideas should not be afraid to be loud.”

"Do be sure to have your writing prompt ready to be read aloud tomorrow." The room rustles with backpacks and complaints as everyone gets up to utilize their 10 minutes in between classes to the fullest.

The boy who looks like Xaden turns to me fully. His smile is infectious as I now feel the corners of my mouth growing taught. Liam turns to our conversation as he stands.

"I'm Bodhi Durran. This idiot's cousin, Riorson, is on my mom's side." He points his chin to Xaden, who looks like he would rather put his hands around Bodhi's neck than give away that information to a stranger. But their genes are very strong; they honestly could go for brothers.

Garrick laughs softly as he looks at Xaden and then at me. "Nice to have you with us here, Legs. Don't mind this one, he's broody to all the pretty girls." I blush a little, but my amusement comes from Xaden's discomfort. I see Rhiannon lift her head at me, and I toss my head to tell her to leave without me.

Xaden goes to slap Garrick behind his head, but he misses by mere inches. Bodhi chuckles and throws his backpack over his shoulder, "What's your next class...Ciara, right?"

I get up and put my backpack on with a nod, "Ciara Smith. Valedictorian, now Salutatorian, Team Captain of the Women's Tennis team, and public servant." Surprise crosses his and Garrick's faces while Xaden's is bored and indifferent, but I could have sworn I saw his eyebrow jump. I notice the pink and blonde-haired girl waiting at the door, and the green-eyed one looks agitated, lips curled up in a sneer. Imogen and Quinn, I think?

"I've got AP U.S. GOV with Devera and Markham, and then AP Stats with Melgren." 

"No way! Let me see." Bodhi grabs my phone, and our fingers brush slightly. Rough hands, but again, he looks really strong. Liam knocks his arm with the back of his hand. "I told you she had a lot of classes with us."

"Oh! So you're the girl who just moved into our neighborhood? Your schedule looks mostly like ours. The school looks big on the outside, but there are only like 120 of us per class. We don't take Biology, French, or Varsity Tennis, of course. But for your free period, you could-"

"Bodhi," Xaden speaks his name like it's a warning, and Bodhi stops talking immediately and gives me a small smile. "See you around, Cap." The boys walk away, and those girls who were sitting at the door walk with them out of the room.

Liam staggers a bit, but I just shoo him away with my hand and a smile. I sort of need time to decompress. As soon as I walked through the door, it's been nonstop, not a moment to myself.

I open my Messages to see that Rhiannon included me in a group chat. There, she and Violet, Ridoc, Sawyer, a girl named Jesinia, and Dain, who is the guy Violet left the room with, all have some sort of chaotic energy.

IRON SQUAD

Ciara: Y'ALL..... someone tell me why the only open seat in AP Lit was next to the school’s most broody brochure model😒

Ridoc: I GASPED WHEN I NOTICED THAT WAS THE ONLY SEAT LEFT

Violet: STOPPPP. Xaden is legit loco. He spends all his time sparring in the gym.

Rhiannon: omg was his voice deep?? did he look at u???

Ciara: He looked. He smirked. He speaks like a sentient leather jacket.

Ciara: Anyway, I told him I wasn’t interested, and he looked a bit personally offended by my emotional stability.

Jesinia: Queen behavior. Jesinia Neilwart, by the way, and I approve of the emotional stability against leather jackets.

Ciara: Ciara Smith 💖

Sawyer: emotional stability 💀💀💀

Ridoc: pls date him so I can live through you. PLEASE!

Ciara: STOP, this is not a meet-cute, he’s cute but not that cute.

Ridoc: Don't go letting everyone know you're a liar Smith, and on your first day.

Ciara: 🖐🏼 Talk to the hand Gamlyn.

I shake my head and walk down the stairs to the first floor, where there are 2 auditoriums. I spot Liam and instantly know it's the right class. It feels like I'm on a college campus. Seniors and juniors crowd into the room, which has plenty of seats for everyone, and I tap Liam, who was headed towards Vi and Sawyer. 

Violet smiles as we sit to her left and introduces me to Dain. Ridoc and Rhiannon close us in, and I get a sense of comfort from being claimed by a group of friends already.

The class settles in, and I feel something pulling me to look back. My eyes squint in confusion and roll in annoyance as I see Dark & Broody two rows behind me, looking at me directly. Bodhi smiles and Garrick smirks. I nudge Liam with my shoulder, and he leans into me.

"Your friend is going to quite literally get on my nerves. Bodhi and Garrick, cool. Xaden...notsomuch." He laughs as he pulls out his phone, no doubt typing in their group chat.

"He's chill, just a bit...intense." His phone vibrates, and he laughs lowly.

"See, look." I lean into him to see his messages.

LUNCH TABLE 404

Liam: Stop staring.

Broodlord: Not until I'm done assessing a threat.

Ciara grabs Liam's phone and devilishly smiles as she types. No doubt the boy above her, seeing her move.

Liam: Threat? Please, babes. Trust me, I'll give you something to assess.

G-Force: Liam, I know you've got some sass in you, but I didn't think you were this sassy?

EasyBreezy: Geez! You almost made me spit out my drink. 

Broodlord: 🔪🔪🔪

G-Force: Oh, just 👩🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 already.

I look up in time enough to see Xaden side-eye the hell out of Garrick. Devera and Markham walk onto the presenting stage, and we all quiet down and prep to take notes.

I grab my lunch from my bag on the way out of Biology. I've got 3rd lunch and it's the last lunch period of the day. I spot an open circular table that sits in the middle of the lunchroom, and I pull out my bento that my mom packed for me.

"Ahem, this is our table."

I shove the delicious meat into my mouth before looking back and almost SQUEALING as I see Nicki Burke stand before Danny, her brother, and Giorgi. I drop my chopsticks and twirl Nicki in my arms.

"I am so so so so glad to see you guys, this school is a bit weird, okay maybe not the school but some of the people in it." I hug Danny and Giorgi as Nicki goes to sit her tray down next to my food. Danny sits to my left, and Giorgi sits on the other side of Nicki. 

"Oi, you didn't think we'd leave you high and dry on your first day love, didya?" Danny's Irish accent is coming in thick. "I honestly wasn't sure. This school seems so big, and I didn't see any trace of you all here. My schedule is stacked on top of things I have going on outside of school."

I open my phone, and Giorgi grabs it first, viewing my day. "Sheesh Smith, all this along with tennis and studying, did you get another job around her too?" Giorgi passes my phone to Nicki, and I dig into my rice balls.

"No, my parents don't want me taking on too much and not being able to enjoy my last year. I'm still trying to get acclimated to our new...status in life." 

Nicki's eyes widened, "Oh hun, I'm sorry we didn't even ask about that. How was the move? Are your parents going to be at home less?" I twirl the thoughts and emotions in my mind. While we were halfway through visiting family in South Korea, my parents received a phone call that made them jump for joy. They talked with me outside of my grandpa's house, and it felt like my world was crumbling, but getting blessed in the same moment. I only had two weeks from our visit to pack up and start a new life, and it felt like not enough time to enjoy Ellis and Lincoln for our last summer.

"Ciara?" Danny places his hand on my shoulder, and tears drop that I didn't know were forming. Also, a terrible time to look over my shoulder and see Xaden Riorson staring at the back of my neck. My eyes quickly scan for Garrick, Liam, or even Bodhi, and they're nowhere to be found.  

I turned back around as quickly as I had looked and tried to smile. "I'm okay. I'm happy for my parents; they've been working so hard for this, but it feels like I was blindsided, and if I had known, I wouldn't have gone to Korea and instead spent time with those two idiots." I sigh and pop a grape into my mouth. "But, I'm choosing to be grateful, and take advantage of Coach Emetterrio in honing my skills, and just the regular tutors." My eyes grow as big as saucers now that I remember.

"Do you all know who the Valedictorian is in our class?" They all stop to look at me quizzically.

"Cher, we thought that it would automatically be you. Isn't it you?" Danny wipes pasta sauce from his mouth.

I shake my head, "No, they told me where I ranked when I did my open house, but, for some reason, I didn't think to ask them who it may be." Giorgi pursed his lips. "Honestly, it should be you. I've never seen anyone study for as long and hard as you do. Maybe it's Violet?"

"No," Nicki stated, "she's good, great even, but sometimes she's unfocused. I've been in a few classes with her and seen a few bad grades here and there."

The lunch bell rings and the lunch room moves with one mind. I clean up my mess and ponder, "Thanks for that guys, glad to see you all before the day ended. Now to survive the rest."

AP French with Carr was surprisingly easy, maybe it's because Sammy taught the three of us everything he knew, and we always spoke it when we were around him and Perla, his late wife.

Now, my first-ever study hall. Hollow High didn't have anything like and I wasn't sure what to do with a free hour when I saw it on my schedule. However, I could study, but I figure I'll work on my Calisthenics instead. 

I go to the gym and grab my bag as I quickly change into shorts and a tight-fitted cropped tee. I turn my music on and let Hulvey permeate through my earphones. There are small gym studios with mirrors labeled A, B, and C. I choose the latter since it's at the very end of the hall, and hopefully no one else has the same idea today.

I open the double doors and walk to the left of the studio, headbanging to the music, in my zone already. I start with push-ups, making sure to lower myself slowly and focus on keeping my elbows tight and back straight. I stop before I reach failure, and that's when I move towards the wall for handstand kick-ups.

I let a quick breath out, "Okay, okay," finding my rhythm with the song as I turn around to face the rest of the studio. Before I go to bend over, I let my eyes look up and there he is, a-freaking-gain.

His white, sleeveless shirt is sweated out, and his arms are soaked as well. I notice the punching bag behind him is starting to settle, so he's been watching me for a bit now. This makes me look around and notice that not even his friends are here...

I pull out one of my earbuds, the music still thrumming in the other. “You’re here,” I say, not quite a question.

He doesn’t move. Just blinks, then runs a hand over his face and into his messy hair like I’d interrupted a thought.

“This is your spot?” I ask, glancing around until I see the obvious signs — the way his water bottle sits on the windowsill, the tape on the punching bag that probably only he uses, his name on the whiteboard with the number of wins against Garrick and Liam, almost laughable.

His jaw flexes as he exhales slowly through his nose. “Usually.”

I nod, swallowing a tight breath, my voice sounding small. “You...want me to leave?”

Xaden doesn’t answer right away. He watches me — not in a checking-you-out way, but in a studying-you-like-a-chessboard way. Calculating. Not hostile, just… walled off.

Then finally, with a shrug of one shoulder: “Do what you want. Just don’t get in my way.”

I arch a brow at that, his tone clipped but not cruel. I grab my water bottle from the floor and mutter just loud enough, “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

I turn away and resume my handstand practice, silently daring myself not to look at him again. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. But I feel his eyes on me, even as the punching bag starts to thump again behind me — a steady rhythm that somehow syncs with my heartbeat.

I get lost in my exercise, and the world around me moves. Unfortunately, one of my earphones falls out as I go into my handstand. The thump of the punching bag stops. Not abruptly, just… fades out.

I stay upside down, holding the handstand, stabilizing through my core as I slowly shift the small dumbbells in each hand to tap the floor beside my ears. Control. Balance. Discipline. I lower one weight at a time, keeping my form tight. Five… six seconds more.

I drop down lightly onto my feet, breathing through my nose as I shake out my arms. When I glance in the mirror, I catch him.

Xaden’s still by his bag. But he’s not hitting it anymore. Just leaning one shoulder into the wall, towel slung over his neck, arms crossed. Watching. Quiet. Too quiet.

His jaw ticks as he meets my gaze in the mirror, but he doesn’t look away.

“Didn’t peg you for a calisthenics type,” I say without turning around. My tone’s light, but my heart’s doing something ridiculously funny in my chest. I walk over to my bag, grab a resistance band, and loop it around my wrists.

“I’m not,” he replies after a beat. His voice is gravelly from exertion, or maybe something else.

“Could’ve fooled me. You’re standing there like you’re judging my form.”

A faint smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Just making sure you don’t faceplant.”

I scoff. “Nice of you to care.”

He pushes off the wall slowly, wipes his face with his towel, and tosses it over his shoulder. “Didn’t say I cared.”

His words land sharper than they need to, but I catch the flicker of something in his eyes — a hesitation, a small retreat. Like, he doesn’t know how to be anything but defensive.

I glance back at the mirror. He’s walking toward the exit now, grabbing his water bottle on the way. But right before the door, he pauses.

“You hold those longer than most guys on the football team can even manage a plank,” he mutters without turning around.

Then he’s gone.

And I’m left staring at the door, unsure if I’m supposed to be flattered or challenged.

Chapter Text

The house smells like rosemary and roasted garlic by the time I walk in. Mom is in the kitchen, already starting on dinner, while Dad hums some old-school song as he dries dishes. It’s the kind of familiarity that wraps around me like a blanket — one I didn’t realize I needed after today, but I welcome it in this new house.

The inside is tastefully done, I'll give the previous owners that. Beautiful doorway arches, built book nooks in almost every room, wood accents that bring in warmth, so much attention to detail that you forget that it's not a cottage, but it's way bigger than you could have imagined you would live in.

“You survived Day One,” Mom calls over her shoulder. “Do we need to move again, or was it tolerable?”

I drop my bag at the massive cream colored kitchen counter and lean on my forearms. “I didn’t get shoved in a locker, so that’s a win.” I grab a banana and smile.

Dad chuckles. “I know that would never happen. You'd send them flying before they could reach their arms out.” I nod in agreement. "You aren't wrong, I even wish I were able to work on my fighting techniques, but someone was preoccupying the equipment." My mind trails off.

I help set the table and we eat, swapping stories — Mom asks about my classes, Dad jokes about finding me a tennis rival to keep things interesting. I ask them about work, and they both have completely different stories to tell. I smile as they wait for the other to finish, truly happy that I get to see my parents joyful over work that they've been wanting to do. Dad, as Founder and CEO, and Mom as Chief Strategy Officer.

They return to me and my day, but they don’t press, not when I go quiet at the mention of the team. Not when my thoughts drift back to a pair of storm-dark eyes watching me from the mirror.

After dinner, I head upstairs and flop onto my bed, finally exhaling, a few boxes still untouched. I shoot a quick text into our group chat.

AIN'T NOBODY MESSING WITH MY CLIQUE

Ciara: Alive. Barely. I deserve a medal.

Seconds later, the screen lights up with a FaceTime call. I grin, already knowing who.

“About time,” Ellis says, his curls are all over the place, like he just woke up from a nap, as he waves dramatically. “How’s Frisco Fields? Did they bring out the band and bouquets to mark your arrival?”

Lincoln leans into the frame behind him, hoodie up, eyes tired but still gentle. “Or did they tremble in the presence of greatness?”

I laugh. “They stared. A lot. Not sure if it was the greatness or the new girl nerves. Got hit on and now my nickname is Legs? Overall, this school is weird, but the teachers are intense.”

Ellis makes a face. “Probably both. You know, the richer you get, the weirder you get, since people think rules don't apply to them. Just don't forget about us little people when you're the Queen of the World and inducting the Avengers into the Hall of Fame.” I choke and laugh along with him. The weight of the day begins to wash over me little by little.

Lincoln just watches me for a moment. “You alright?”

His voice is low, grounding. He’s always been the calm one — never rushed, never loud unless he needs to be. I bite the inside of my cheek before nodding. “Yeah. It’s nothing. I’m okay.”

There’s a beat of silence before Ellis breaks it with a gasp. “WAIT A MINUTE. You found him?”

I blink. “What?”

“The one. Every new school story has one. A school jock that all the girls fall for, but you're the one girl that's like, I'm different, only to find out that she isn't so different than the other girls for wanting him?”

“Ellis,” I groan, burying my face in a pillow. "Please, I beg of you, stop. I am INCREDIBLY sorry for making you watch all those rom-coms last year."

Lincoln laughs quietly and amused. “She’s not answering, so you know what that means, Ellis.”

“Which means yes,” Ellis declares, and they both share a laugh. I bury my head further into the pillow, and Stella jumps onto the bed to give me comfort during these trying times.

But when I lift my eyes to the screen again, Lincoln’s looking at me — really looking — and something about it makes my throat tighten. I wonder if he knows. If he ever guessed that I wished we had happened.

That maybe I was waiting for him to make the first move. And he never did.

I never told anyone I’ve never been kissed. Never slept with anyone. Not because I was waiting for some perfect storybook moment — but because… I don’t know. It just never felt right. Even when boys called me beautiful, even when they flirted or stared too long. I always held back, for my own personal reasons and others.

“You’ll find your place there, Cee,” Lincoln says softly. “It’s what you do. And if anyone gives you trouble—”

“I’ll call Ellis and he’ll come beat them up,” I finish with a smile.

“Darn-tootin' I will,” Ellis grins.

We talk a while longer, until their screens blur and freeze, and the call ends with sleepy goodbyes. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, the room suddenly too quiet. And for a brief second, I wonder — if I hadn’t moved… would Lincoln and I have ever happened?

But I shake the thought away.

New school. New start.

And maybe… something unexpected is waiting for me, if I just open up....

Dear Diary,

Today was in some ways awkward, but hopeful. Not bad, I will say.

From Ridoc and his bad flirting, to seeing Rhiannon and Violet again, and meeting a bunch of new faces since we got here, I've actually had fun. 

Frisco Fields is so different from Delray Hollow. Bigger hallways. Louder lockers. And a lot more people who care about what kind of water bottle you carry. (Note to self: don’t pull out the dented pink metal water bottle that Ellis bought when you were 12.)

Coach Emetterio introduced me like I was Venus Williams herself. I guess my old stats carried more weight than I thought. I’m grateful — don’t get me wrong — but I can feel my team's stares already. Aura's, “let’s see what she’s got” line. Luca's, “she better be good” comment. Pressure? Yeah. But pressure makes diamonds. (And sometimes mental breakdowns, but I’m praying for the former.)

Anyway… that’s also not why I’m writing.

There’s this guy.

"Ugh!" I rolled my own eyes just now.

"Ciara, honey, are you okay?" My mother's concerned voice rings out.

My cheeks blush, and I quickly call out, "No, just finishing up some homework. See ya in the morning!" I rush to close my door and get back to my desk.

I don’t even know him — not really. I’ve just seen him. Everywhere. 1st period, 2nd period, 3rd period, 3rd lunch and even the fudging gym. He was there before me, shirt drenched, gloves still on, watching me through the mirror while I was mid-handstand.

But here’s the thing — it's not even about the muscles, while they are a plus. Or the quiet stare. It's something in his presence. Like he’s carrying too much but would never ask for help, too guarded, like, why am I a threat? And yet, the room bends a little when he walks in, I've noticed in our shared classes. Everyone sort of slows down and stares, and a few girls swoon when he walks past.

And me?

I didn’t say a word, but I guess I'm no better since I did completely stare at him as soon as I saw him.

But later on, I acted like he wasn’t there; it's always him staring at me. God, help me. I don’t want to fall for a face. I want more than that. I deserve more than that. I know what this world expects of girls like me — flirt, hook up, pretend you don’t care when they stop texting.

But I do care. I want more than a moment. I want the kind of love that doesn’t vanish when the lights turn off. I want something that honors what I believe in.

It’s not that I’m afraid of love. I just don’t want to lose myself chasing it. I wish I could tell Lincoln that. Tell him I used to wonder what it would’ve been like… if he’d asked. If I’d said yes. But maybe some people are just meant to stay part of the “what if.”

Who knows? Maybe the boxing guy is just another hallway stranger. Maybe nothing will ever happen. But even if something does… I hope I stay grounded.

Anyway. Time to shower and get ready for Day Two. My arms feel like spaghetti noodles. 

Love,
–Ciara

As I put down my flat iron and check my hair for any flyaways, my mom yells from downstairs. "Ciara, Liam is a the door!" My face scrunches in the mirror, and I grab my backpack and give Stella a few scratches before I leave my room.

Dad is eating breakfast and watching the news, and I yell out for him to have a good day. As I go to the door, Mom is talking to a blonde-haired girl next to Liam. I'm guessing that's his sister, Sloane, he was telling me about.

"Hey Liam, Sloane, right?" Liam beams brightly, and Sloane nods her head and tilts it to my Jeep. "Yours? She's pretty. With all these boys around, you forget to like the more girly things in life."

Liam chuckles, "I should have asked yesterday, but I was wondering if you wanted to go to school together. Garrick leaves early to get some time in the gym before school, but I just can't be bothered to get up at 5 am."

I kiss my mother goodbye on the cheek and move to close the door behind me. "Nice to meet you, Sloane. I don't mind. Let's get going, and then I can tell you about how your brother came to be known as Lieam."

Sloane branches off from Liam and me as we head to our lockers. My steps falter as I spot Imogen and Quinn leaning on my locker. Liam notices my steps fall out of sync with his, and he looks up, already assessing for conflict. Quinn looks to the pink-haired one, and she looks over her shoulder at me.

"Good, you're here." Imogen leans off my locker and faces me, fully crossing her arms over her chest. Looking at both Liam and me, her grin tilts a bit.

I nod slowly, cautious. “Morning to you, too.”

She grins. “So...Delray Hollow. The tennis girl who gets named captain, day one. Who also happens to have inside jokes with Garrick, laugh your way through class with Bodhi, and now Liam and Sloane are catching rides with you, like you know who we all are.”

Quinn nudges her. “Imogen—”

Imogen waves her off. “I’m just saying. For someone who just got here, she moves fast.” My jaw works, and I am restraining myself from going back into that world of having to prove myself to others. 

Liam steps forward slightly, jaw ticking. “Imogen, don’t do that. There's room enough for all of us to be cool.”

“Do what?” she says innocently. “Point out facts? I didn’t say she was doing anything wrong. It’s just...interesting. You know, how quickly some girls get comfortable.”

My heart pounds, but I keep my face even. “Garrick, Bodhi, nor Liam and I are a thing. And even if we were, I didn’t realize any of them came with a sign that said Property of Imogen.”

Quinn winces. Imogen’s smile slips.

Liam, backing me up without hesitation, says, “Garrick’s not with anyone. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Imogen ignores him. “You know, it’s fine. Every school has its storybook transfer with the shiny hair and the mysterious past. Just don’t get too comfortable thinking you’ll rewrite our chapters.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, finally opening my locker. “I’m not here to rewrite anything. I’m here to win against my own expectations and move on.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Let’s go, Im,” Quinn finally says. She gently tugs her friend back.

Imogen hesitates, her mouth pressed in a tight line. She looks me up and down one last time before saying, “This school’s only so big, Ciara. You might wanna pace yourself.”

I smile politely. “I’ll try not to lap you.” Liam tries to suppress a laugh and fails, coughing into his fist. Imogen storms off, Quinn glancing back at us with an apologetic look before following.

“So,” Liam says once they’re gone, glancing sideways at me. “That went well.”

“You think that was well?” I roughly open my locker and pull out what I need to get started for the day.

“Could’ve been worse. You could’ve punched her.” I chuckle.

“Tempting, but what would that prove?” I mutter, slamming my locker shut. "C'mon, walk me to 1st period." I bump my shoulder playfully into Liam.

As we step through the threshold of AP Lit with time to spare, Rhi and Vi greet us with a smile. "Ooh, look who's early and escorted," Violet teases as she removes her cream-colored hoodie. Ridoc gives a huff and crosses his arms, "First Liam, then Garrick. What's next, Bodhi gonna write you poetry and then Xaden gonna take you out on a picnic?"

Rhi rolls her eyes. “You don’t even like poetry.”

“That’s not the point,” Ridoc says with dramatic flair. “I flirted first. I made the jokes. I laid the groundwork. And yet here she is—walking in with Captain Cheekbones over there like some romance novel cover.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Captain Cheekbones?”

“You heard me,” Ridoc mutters, pointing at Liam’s face, “This is betrayal, Liam.”

I smirk as I go to take my seat to unload. Broodlord is there, talking to Garrick and Bodhi. “You’ll live, Ridoc.”

“Will I?” he says, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I should’ve known my flirty banter wasn’t enough. I should’ve learned the art of Tyrrish charm.”

Bodhi, flipping through his copy of our summer assignment, Wuthering Heights, mutters under his breath, “I could write poetry.” I chuckle.

“No one asked you, Bodhi,” Ridoc snaps, clearly spiraling. Sawyer shakes his head and looks back at his phone.

I laugh, but I leave my desk again to kneel in front of Liam as he gets situated. "You're Tyrrish?" Looking up at him with an expectant answer, I try to sound casual, but curiosity practically drips from my words.

A small smile grows on his lips, " I am. I wasn't sure when to bring it up."

"Say something in Tyrrish." I blurt. "Something real, not just gibberish." I point at him, and my finger connects with his nose, poking it a few times for fun.

He chuckles lowly, and his voice is smooth and slow, "Nyke ēdruta se skoros māzis daor.” (I’m tired and nothing makes sense.)

I squint at him. “Wait—what did you just say?” He chuckles, brushing his hand through his hair. “Something deeply profound.”

“That sounded like an ancient curse or something,” I joke and adjust my squat.

“It is. The eternal curse of AP Lit before 9 AM.” I roll my eyes, but we can't help but share a laugh. I'll be so glad when 8 am classes are no longer a thing for me.

Bodhi makes a chuffed noise and speaks, “Ao iksā ñuha jorrāelagon lōgor.” (You are my favorite distraction.) Garrick rolls his eyes and drops his head to the desk, looking at Bodhi, “Biarvose. Iksā arlinnon, hāedar.” (Please. That was totally lame, dude.)

I blink, "What did you say?" Garrick just shakes his head and says, "Don't. Actually, we'll teach you if you want to learn." I nod enthusiastically, and from just barely around Bodhi, I see Xaden's frown, or at least I thought I did, maybe it's his usual bored look. He's scrolling through his phone, and I see his eyes barely leave it to look at me. Lines barely appear between his eyes, but again, I could have just seen things.

I turn to Liam, "Are you all from here, like first generation or what?" Liam's mouth opens, but then it closes as he looks at Garrick for approval. I frown, but I don't push.

"Alright, alright settle down." Kaori comes in, and I go to take my seat.

"Pull out your writing prompts for your homework and let's begin. First up, Ciara Smith."

I focus on my stance, my form, my breathing. 

The bag and I are locked in. Punch, jab, dodge, repeat. Until I feel it.

Someone watching. 

"Okay, killer, and here we thought you were just tutu's and smarts. You're making the rest of us look bad." Bodhi calls from the bench as he puts his duffle bag down. "I'm getting sore just watching you."

I keep punching, "Sorry, wouldn't want to be a distraction."

Bodhi stops walking towards me and whips his head to Garrick, who doubles over. I stop and catch my breath with an open smile. "Liam is a great asset to have."

"Oh, so I'm not a great asset to have? Brutal. I'm telling your Coach that you're not setting a great example for the student body." 

I scoff and smile, "Yeah, okay." Bodhi grins like he's proud of himself. 

"How long have you been boxing?" Garrick begins to wrap his hands and Bodhi grabs the jump rope from the wall. I finish my rep, and turn to Garrick, "I have for about 5 years now with some friends. I was tired of not being able to defend myself, so I wanted to at least get the power and ability to strike right down without hurting myself. 

I go to unwrap my hands, but Garrick stops me. "Keep them on, Bodhi, get over here." My eyes go wide, and Bodhi's smile deepens. "Don't worry, Legs, do you trust us?" He gets into a crouched, guarded stance, his gaze narrows, and I can tell he's already analyzing any weak points I have.

"Sort of, it hasn't even been half a week yet." I square up and we begin to circle each other. Garrick barks an order, "Show me your jab, Legs." I step forward and throw it. Bodhi dodges, and Garrick steps up to me.

"Not bad, but you’re dropping your shoulder. Keep it up—there, that locks your core in and makes it harder for someone to counter.”

Bodhi and I trade a few slow jabs. He moves like he’s reading my mind, slipping each punch with barely a shift in his weight. Garrick's eyes are assessing.“Good. Now snap it back as quick as you throw it—don’t leave it hanging. Think… whip, not push.”

I try again. The smack of glove against glove is sharper this time. “There you go,” Garrick says, and I feel a little spark of pride. Bodhi grins and taps his jaw with his glove. "Right here, Legs. Garrick’s been dying to see me get clocked."

I throw a jab, catching him lightly on the chin.

"Better," Garrick says, nodding. "Now step into it, don’t just stand flat-footed." He nudges my lead foot forward and shifts my weight. "See? More balance, more power."

Bodhi winces dramatically after the next hit. "Ow. She’s already better than you, Garrick."

Garrick smirks. "Give it a few more minutes, and she will be." He gives me a short nod. “Alright, combo: jab, cross, hook. Don’t rush it—make each one count.”

I throw the sequence. The first two land against Bodhi's guard, but the hook sails wide. “You’re turning too early,” he says, stepping in close enough to adjust my stance. His hands are firm but quick, moving my elbow, shifting my back foot. “Let the pivot happen with the punch, not before. Power comes from the ground up.”

When I try again, the hook lands solid.“That’s it,” he says, the faintest hint of a grin on his face.

Bodhi whistles. “Uh-oh, she’s got the Garrick seal of approval. Watch out, Frisco High.” I can’t help but smile, even as sweat drips into my eyes. Garrick backs up, still circling. “Again,” he says. “Let’s build the muscle memory.”

And just like that, I’m back in it—focused, balanced, and a little more dangerous than I was ten minutes ago.

Luca, Nadine, Aura, Aurelie, Cianna, and Nyra look at me as I stand next to Emetterio. The sun sits low but hot over the Frisco Fields High tennis court, the glare bouncing off the fresh white lines. Coach blows his whistle once, sharply, and the six girls huddle closer, rackets in hand.

"Alright, ladies, doubles drills today. Captain," Coach says, glancing at me, "run ‘em through warmups." It still feels strange, that word—Captain— among those I barely know, but I nod. "Got it."

I clap my hands once. "Okay, pair up. Luca and Nadine, you’re together. Aura with Aurelie. Cianna, you’re with Nyra." Predictably, Nadine’s eyebrows lift. "Why do I have to be with Luca? She never stays back court when she’s supposed to."

Luca tilts her head, smirking. "Maybe I like winning points instead of babysitting the baseline."

"Enough," I say, not raising my voice but making it clear I’m not asking. "This is a communication drill. If you’re talking more than moving, you’re doing it wrong."

Aura and Aurelie exchange a look but don’t argue. They’re the quietest pair—solid players, but Aurelie gets lost in her own head, and Aura follows her own lead too easily. I make a mental note to keep them engaged

Coach leans on the fence, arms folded, watching without interfering.

"Alright," I call. "Serve to your partner, then run the point like it’s match play. Switch sides after every rally. And remember—we’re working on coordination, not ego."

The first few minutes go exactly as I expect. Luca calls for a lob, charging the net like it's hers alone, and then ignores Nadine’s signal, sprinting forward for a drop shot. Nadine rolls her eyes so hard I can see it from across the court. Aura misses a volley because Aurelie hesitates at the last minute and shrugs when Aurelie stares at her. "What? It was out." Nyra watches a ball sail past instead of chasing it down.

I jog over to Luca and Nadine first. "Luca, you’re fast, but if Nadine’s already at the net, you’re crowding her space. Nadine, if she goes rogue, call it out loud—don’t just glare."

Then to Aura and Aurelie: "I don’t care if you mess up, but you have to commit to the swing. Trust yourself and trust each other."

Finally, I stop at Cianna and Nyra’s side. Cianna’s got sweat at her temples, Nyra barely winded. "Nyra, you’ve got reach. Use it. And Cianna, keep pushing her—it’s the only way this works."

By the time Coach blows the whistle again, everyone’s moving better, even if a few glares are exchanged between points.

Coach nods at me as the girls grab water. "You’ve got them working," he says low enough for only me to hear. "Not everyone can handle that mix of personalities. Keep at it.

By the time the final bell rings, my shirt’s sticking to my back, and my patience is running on fumes. Luca’s ego could power a small city, Aura’s sarcasm should come with a warning label, and Nadine’s glare says she’s still replaying every ball she missed.

Coach thinks I’ve got them under control, but I know better—right now, we’re a half-dozen solos pretending to be a team. How this is a Varsity team at an elite high school is beyond me. If they don’t learn to play for each other instead of against each other, we’re dead the second the season starts.

Chapter Text

The air gets a bit cooler as we hit September. I get to school early today because I want to get some practice in with my planches. I love pushing my muscles like this. Danny introduced this world to me when we would all hang out at his dad’s workshop, and I fell in love with how in tune I was with my body. It makes you present and keeps your worries of tomorrow away as you try not to face plant.

I smile a little at the disappointed text from Sloane. I truly underestimated how much she loves my truck. We play a bunch of Spice Girl and Gwen Stefani to the point that Liam has gone from squeamish to now singing along. I have had to make him use a blanket or something when it comes to his wood shavings though.

As I enter the school, a few people are already there, eating breakfast and studying. I even catch Violet there with Jesenia as I pass the library. When I enter the main gym before getting to the personal spaces, I'm grateful that Garrick and Bodhi have taken the time these past weeks to train me. Imogen and Quinn are there sometimes, but I'm sure it's just to keep on eye on Garrick.

I have studio B in mind, to avoid running into the boys. Muscle memory surely must have kicked in because I’m startled when I see Garrick and Xaden there, shirtless, duking it out against one another. The faint smell of chalk and leather mats nipping at my nose.

So much power. They move with such fluidity that it seems choreographed. Xaden lands an uppercut to Garrick’s stomach, but he seems only a little affected by it as they continue. Punch, kick, dodge, grab, pivot, a dance that I could stand here and watch.

But I don't.

I move away from their sparring match and enter into my own world on the left side of the studio. Might as well just stay, I guess. I do a couple of stretches and begin working my way into my L-sit. My legs are definitely on fire when I point my toes and try to hold them for a couple of minutes. I bring my legs toward me and rise up into a handstand. Wobbly at first, but I straightened out. I remove my right hand after I feel stable enough to do so, and I hold it for 2 minutes.

Until I notice a pair of black boots near my hand, and I immediately bring my feet to the ground and look up.

“You’re wasting your time,” he says flatly.

I blink at him. “Pretty sure holding my own weight isn’t a waste.”

He tilts his head, that bored mask still in place. “You’re strong. But that won’t help you when someone’s actually trying to take your head off.”

I cross my arms. “I’m not exactly sparring with assassins in the hallway.”

“You may be surprised, we do live in a world where aliens are a regular thing,” he mutters. Then, without waiting for an answer, he jerks his chin toward the center mat. “Come on. Garrick’s done. You’re with me now.”

“I’m in the middle of—”

“Now, Smith.” His tone is infuriating, like he knows I’ll cave just to prove him wrong. Garrick’s already stepped to the side, watching like this is going to be the best entertainment he’s had all week.

Xaden circles me slowly, and I can feel the weight of his stare. He’s annoyed at training me, but you can't be that annoyed when you want to train someone out of the blue. And now I’m going to let him, even though I'm now frustrated that he picks and chooses when to be involved, because I also hate that part of me that wants to see what he’s like up close, even if he is a jerk most of the time.

I step onto the mat, rolling my shoulders back like I’m not already bracing for him to try and humiliate me.

“Rule one of fighting,” Xaden says, circling me, “your opponent doesn’t care how perfect your form looks, but you need to, to not get hurt.”

“Rule one of calisthenics,” I shoot back, “strength is useless if you can’t control it.” That earns me the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile—more like an I’ll let that slide… for now.

He raises his fists. “Come at me.”

I hesitate for half a second, because Garrick is leaning against the wall like this is his personal arena match, and because the smugness radiating off Xaden is enough to fuel the lights in the entire gym.

“Tick tock, Smith,” he says, tilting his head, that infuriating smirk locked in place. I launch forward, aiming for speed rather than power, but he deflects my strike like it’s nothing. He doesn’t even look strained, just bored.

“Sloppy,” he mutters. “Again.”

I grit my teeth and try a different angle. He catches my wrist mid-swing and twists—not enough to hurt, but enough to pull me off balance. I stumble, and his smirk deepens.

“Gravity’s not going to give you a break just because you can do a handstand.” I snap my arm free and feint left, then sweep my leg low. His eyes flicker, and he jumps back just in time, expression sharpening.

“Better,” he says, like he’s handing me a scrap of approval. It makes me want to wipe that almost-smile off his face. I rush in again, this time throwing my weight behind a punch. He blocks, but I feel the shift in his stance—just enough to know I made him work for it.

Our breathing picks up, the space between us shrinking with each exchange. Garrick’s quiet chuckle from the wall only fuels my stubborn streak. Then, in a blur, Xaden hooks my ankle with his foot, and I’m on my back, staring up at him. He doesn’t move away.

“You’ve got balance,” he says, voice low, “but you don’t know how to use it against someone bigger, faster, stronger.”

His shadow falls over me, his hair damp from earlier sparring, and I hate the way my pulse spikes.

“Guess you’ll have to teach me, then,” I say, forcing the challenge into my voice.

His smirk returns in full force. “Oh, I will. Because now I’ll be taking over your training during the Free Period.”

He offers me a hand, and I take it—only for him to yank me up so fast I crash into his chest. His eyes flicker over my face before he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets like nothing happened.

“We start tomorrow,” he says, already walking off.

Garrick just grins. “You’re in for it now.” I roll my eyes. "Whatever, I'm going to my locker."

After I change, I sit in the big lounge area of the gym and adjust my flats. As I go to stand, the double doors leading away from the small studios open, and Xaden walks through, still towel-drying his hair. 

“You were… decent in there,” he says, like the words taste strange coming out of his mouth.

I blink. “Wow, that almost sounded like a compliment.” I open my compact mirror and fix my gloss. I spy some lint in my hair and try to fish it out, annoyed at each unsuccessful grab.

“It wasn’t,” he fires back automatically, then scowls. I undo my hair from my bun to finally pull the lint out. Yes! I raise a brow when I notice he stops talking, and I see his throat bob. “Okay, maybe it was. Don’t get used to it.” He looks at me quickly before looking away and taking a swig from his canister.

A smile tugs at my lips, but before I can tease him, he leans against a plush armchair, crossing his arms. “By the way… You can stop asking around.” My eyebrows knit. “Stop… asking around about what?”

“The class Valedictorian.” His mouth tilts into that infuriating half-smirk.

"Why?"

“It’s me.”

"broodymcbroodingsonsaywhatnow?"

The pieces slam together in my head so fast it’s almost embarrassing. Teachers always use him as an example for best practices. He reads books that aren't on the same subject as our current class, like he's multitasking. Always, always finishes a test or quiz early. The way he always seems ten steps ahead and can defend his position against anyone's argument to near perfection. My jaw drops just a fraction. All the things I was used to back in the Hollow.

“Oh,” I manage, brain scrambling to catch up. “Uh, that’s… I mean—” My tongue knots itself into a thousand useless shapes. “I was gonna say maybe we could… you know, study. Together. For… school. Obviously.”

He pushes off the chair, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Smooth, Smith.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but he’s already walking toward the hallway that leads to the cafeteria, tossing the words over his shoulder like a parting shot. “Come on, Salutatorian. We’ve got AP Lit with Kaori in a few. Don’t make me sit through his Brontë obsession alone.”

I’m still standing there, hair undone, wondering if this is a dream, as I rush to gather all my things and catch up with him.

I feel more at ease as I've walked the halls with Ridoc, Vi, Rhi, Dain, and Sawyer over these past few weeks. There are still some things I'm trying to get used to, like the hierarchy here, but on the flip side... I couldn't care less. My grades are looking great, but apparently still not better than our class Valedictorian, Xaden-freaking-Riorson. I've tried to improve my study habits, but it's starting to get to me that everything I've worked for will be washed down the drain.

I have to find out his tricks soon and hopefully get some type of leverage, or I'll be introducing the Valedictorian at graduation. My mind then jumps to the progression of the team, and its getting better. I even got Nyra to smile at one of my jokes. Luca still needs help with her ego, but at least she listens when it matters.

"Helllooo? Earth to Ciara," Ridoc waves his hand in my face. "You've been quiet since we left Kaori, and you haven't said a word about anything. What's going on in that brilliant, overworked head of yours?"

"Probably rattled by the fact that she was paired up with Xaden during that chapter analysis they had to present today," Sawyer speaks up, and I ram him with my shoulder, possibly making him double down on his theory.

"Please, no one is intimidated by Riorson. He's actually gotten better," Dain scoffs at my observation, "He has! Day one, he was all business, now...he's all business plus a smirk every now and then, with a few surprises," I mutter. "And…he's helping me in the gym now with my boxing."

Now it's time for Rhiannon to give me an amused lifted lip. "Yeah, I'm sure he's helping you alright. If I had someone as fine as him, helping with close combat, I'd be quick to their defense too."

"I am not—"

"Oh, Xaden, can you show me how those big muscles of yours throw a punch?" Ridoc clasps his hands together and bends his knee behind him. I go to swat at him, but I miss. We walk past the cafeteria to make it to the hallway that leads to both auditoriums.

Violet laughs, "But can we get back to the question at hand? We were talking about Homecoming next month. Rhi is taking Tara, and Sawyer is taking Jesinia. Dain is with me, and Ridoc is always a wildcard. Who are you taking, Cee?"

I smirk. “Still trying to decide who’s worthy of my company for Homecoming.”

“Oh?” Vi raises a brow. “So you’ve got options?”

“Obviously.” I shrug, letting my voice drip with mock arrogance. “I mean, Ridoc, you’d be my first pick—" Ridoc grins like he’a already won—until I add, “—but I might have someone else in mind.”

That earns a chorus of curiosity from the group.

"My money is on Liam," Sawyer says with a straight face.

"I call Bohdi. Same hotness, more approachable. Plus, it may get the attention of Xaden, hmmmm." Ridoc tries to pry it out of me, but I don't dignify it with a response.

"I would say Garrick, if a certain lioness wasn't always prowling around him." Rhi guesses. Imogen throws a sneer whenever she sees me, because I may not have stopped joking and talking to Garrick. Just last week before class, he and I rocked out to Linkin Park, I had my air mic, and he had his invisible guitar. Still didn't help on the Imogen home front.

“So, who?” Rhi prodded.

I just smile. “Maybe… just maybe...I may be thinking...Xaden.” I shimmy a bit into a dance, expecting to see their faces of awe, but they didn’t even try to hide their collective wince. Tough crowd.

“Seriously?” Vi mutters. Dain shakes his head, and Violet wraps her arm around his bicep.

"I thought he got on your nerves?"

"Do you even have his number?"

"He's not friendly at all."

"I meeeannn....He's not easy to get along with, but can't it be a keep your friends close but your enemies closer type of thing? There's a method to the madness, besides, he's...quirky, and broody, and maybe even a little arrogant, but I guess he isn't that bad...right?" I am not doing a great job at convincing myself of his qualities at all.

Ridoc groans. “You cannot be serious. He’s—”

We round the corner toward the auditorium before he can finish. And there, framed in the soft morning light from the glass doors, is some girl in a cheer squad outfit—red and tan, glossed lips curving into something like triumph. She's leaning against Xaden, voice low, one manicured hand brushing his arm and going across his chest. Garrick and Bodhi both look squeamish.

From where I stand, it looks like she was trying to close the distance for a kiss. But Xaden wasn’t leaning in—he isn’t even smiling. I look, and when I think of taking my eyes off them, his gaze meets me, dark and steady.

Heat pricks the back of my neck. I duck my head and step sideways into the classroom, letting the group’s chatter swallow me up before anyone could notice.

"Talk about awkward." Understatement of the year, Vi, my entire plan just went out the window. Liam waves at us as he pushes through the swarm to get to us, and I wave back, a little somber. The plan: Find Frisco High's Top Dog, get close, figure out their habits, beat them at their own game. Some would say I don't need to worry about being #1, but when I've expected it for so long, can you blame me for wanting to get back there?

"Who is she?" I ask anyone, really. "That's Catriona Cordella, her older sister, Syrena graduated last year. She and Xaden have an on-and-off-again thing since middle school, and it isn't pretty. He leaves, she follows, she pokes, until he gives in. I can never fully understand why he just won't leave?" Rhi and Vi look at each other in confusion.

"And she's cheer captain. Pretty nasty too, her tongue is quick, and she isn't pleasant to be around. If you need help taking her down, Smith, I've got you." Ridoc taps me on the back, and I nod.

A couple of student helpers both have boxes in their hands, and we have to pull from them. "There are numbers in the box, and only certain people will get one! They are your partner for today's class only!" We grab our usual seats around the middle of the auditorium, and Markham and Devera look heated from where we sit.

"Yes, dude! I got 69, my lucky number." Ridoc punches the air, and everyone in our row groans. Sawyer looks at his slip, "28 for me."

"I have 82. There are too many students in here." I say as my fingers now play around with the paper. Rhiannon and Violet don't have a slip, so their partner could be anywhere. 

"Morning, everyone. You're probably wondering what the number in your hand means to you. Since there are exactly 120 of you, half of you received a number and the other half didn't. This will correspond to your partner's seat. So, if you got your seat number, come up here and we'll work it out. But find your partner before we begin.”

I look at the back of my seat, 54, and I realize we're numbers 50-56, taking up the whole row. Looks like I'm going up. Great.

I move along like all the others, Ridoc and Sawyer leave the row with me, while everyone else in our squad awaits their fate. I tuck my hands close to my pleated skirt so as not to flash anyone. 

I look to the left section, and it's a no-go; it ends at 79. I go up the stairs. Please, for the love of God, be Bodhi or Garrick even, just not...

"What number do you have, Legs?" Bodhi looks hopeful, but I can tell that it's not him since he's first in the row. Garrick looks at me, and I give him a slow, solemn shake of my head. He chuckles and taps Xaden. Bodhi whips his head towards his cousin and back to me with a glint in his eyes. 

A boy with black hair and dark brows just stands there, making this moment even more awkward. "Uhm, is your seat 81? I'm Pryor. I wasn't sure if I should interrupt." Thankfully, Garrick gets up and accompanies him. "That's me, hope you know what you're doing, Pryor."

Bodhi finally gets up to go look for 32, but not without chuckling in my ear as he walks past me. I huff. I look at Xaden as he leans on his fist, looking at me sideways, waiting for me to take over Garrick's seat. I wish I could wipe that stupid bored smile off his face. Not only did he know I was asking around, but he chose to play dumb every time I was near him.

I lift my head to the ceiling and send up a prayer, and sit next to him. I am not gonna be on someone else's Hit List for 'appearing' to be messing with their man. I cross my legs so as not to touch his as I realize how wide he's spread his own. Ego much?

I notice the same cheerleader he was standing in the hallway with about two rows back. She was trying to kiss him, but he turned away, and now her eyes are narrowed at me. He straightens up and leans back to rest an arm on my chair.

I instinctively lean forward, away from his warmth, not to get too comfortable with it. I immediately facepalm myself when I do. This isn't going to help me get closer to him to learn his study tricks, gotta build trust. So I lean back, and he looks a bit shocked that I do.

"So, Smith,” he says quietly, voice low enough that only I can hear, “looks like we’re stuck together for this.” He nonchalantly flips open his notebook and grabs his bag. I see a set of keys, but my attention is drawn to Markham.

The auditorium doors slam shut, and Markham’s voice cuts through the chatter. “All right, find your seats and settle in! Today’s debate partners, as you can see, were drawn at random, so if you’re unhappy with your match—” his gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on a few disgruntled faces “—tough luck.”

I clear my throat, trying to push past the nervous flutter in my chest. “Yeah, looks like it.” I glance toward the cheerleader, who’s still watching us like a hawk, lips pressed in a thin line. I lean into his personal space, and I make the stupid mistake of glancing down at his full lips. He smirks, but I don't give him time other than to rebut, "Looks like her eyes are stuck on you though."

Before he can answer, Devera steps up with a clipboard. “The topic is posted on the screen. One of you will be arguing for why it was necessary, and the other for everything that is wrong with it. We will be grading you how well you demonstrate facts and your understanding of the conflict. You’ve got ten minutes to prep before we start. We will be finishing tomorrow, so don't worry if you don't go today.”

The projector hums to life, and different U.S. conflicts appear on the screen. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo—Fair or Exploitative? is there, and I share with Xaden that I think we should cover that one.

Xaden’s eyes meet mine, a challenge sparking in them. “I’ll take against.”

“That’s fine,” I shoot back. “Because I’ll win for fair.”

He chuckles low, leaning back in his chair like he’s already picturing my defeat.

Around us, the auditorium stirs with movement—students shuffling to sit beside their partners. I shift in my chair closer to him to go over notes, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Catriona watching. She’s now angled in her seat, one elbow on the armrest, chin propped in her palm, eyes locked on us.

I try to listen to Xaden go over his talking points, but Catriona chooses now to saunter down the aisle with the kind-looking girl I've seen around, dark eyes, and black hair. Was her name Maren? Catriona conveniently finds two seats directly in front of us, and Maren looks just as confused as we are. She bends at the waist, hair falling forward like a shampoo commercial, murmuring, “Hey, Xaden, you're sitting here?”

“She IS my debate partner,” he says flatly, not even looking up from his notebook. Her eyes flick to me, then back to him. “You could’ve asked to switch.”

“Didn’t want to.” He finally glances up, expression unreadable, slightly annoyed.

Jeesh.

Catriona’s lips press together like she’s trying to keep from saying something else, but instead she tosses her hair over her shoulder and turns to Maren. “These are fine,” she says, getting comfortable in her seat. Maren still looks like she missed an entire conversation, but sits anyway.

When Markham calls for everyone to get ready to present, the buzz of voices rises like a tide. Xaden and I stand, having already agreed to go early, moving down toward the open area of the auditorium for our turn. Catriona’s glare follows me the entire way.

Devera gives us both our own microphones. The second we face the room, Xaden’s expression shifts into that unreadable, brooding mask.“Ladies first,” he says, gesturing to me.

Fine.

I step forward, voice clear, “The Treaty of Gaudalupe Hidalgo formally ended the Mexican-American War and transferred over 525,000 square miles of territory to the U.S.—that alone is staggering. In exchange, the U.S. paid Mexico $15 million and assumed $3.25 million in U.S. citizens’ claims. It also promised to respect the property and civil rights of Mexican residents in the ceded lands, effectively making it one of the earliest expansions of citizen rights post-war. Yes, execution was messy—but the structure was fair.”

Heads nod in agreement around the room. But then Xaden takes the center stage, eyes set on me, cold and calculating.

He steps forward, voice calm but every word precise. No doubt waiting to tear my points apart with surgical precision. "Fair?” His tone is teasing—I feel a rush of heat. This should not be as attractive as I know it's about to be.

Get a grip Smith! His black shirt sleeve quarter zip shirt isn't helping either, showing off all those stupid muscles under all these lights.

“Let’s be real. This was manifest destiny disguised as diplomacy. Mexico lost over half its territory—including future California, Nevada, Utah, and more—for a pittance and while under military duress. The land grants that were supposed to be respected? Most were ignored. Mexican landowners were systematically dispossessed because they couldn't navigate U.S. courts or afford the costs of defending their claims."

I swallow and bring my mic back up to speak. “That’s a valid point—which is part of why I say flawed, not righteous—” I meet his gaze. “But without that treaty, there’d still be an active war. Also, many Mexican residents stayed and became citizens, even though they were a second thought politically. That laid the groundwork for multicultural communities—something subsequent conflicts built on."

“So,” Xaden counters, voice low, “does the structural fairness matter if the system fails to uphold it? The promises were broken the moment pen met paper.”

I let the moment hang before finishing, “Thoughtful systems can outlive bad implementations. You have to acknowledge intention and aftermath to be fair—or exploitative.”

The room erupts in murmurs. Devera calls time.

Xaden’s face is suddenly disarming. He nods toward me. “Not bad. Balanced.”

I exhale. “Thanks. Your angles were brutal but…good.” And for just a second, his mouth almost curves—before he looks away. The room is split when it comes time for votes—half murmuring agreement with me, the other half leaning toward him.

Markham claps once. “Good. Spirited debate. Riorson, Smith—excellent energy. That’s how you challenge each other without losing control.” As we head back to our seats, Xaden leans down just enough for only me to hear. “Smith, you almost kept up.”

I bite back a retort, catching Catriona’s gaze again. This time, her smile is gone entirely.

The small classroom smells faintly of coffee and chalk dust, and the blinds are half-closed against the mid-afternoon glare. Mr. Carr is already at the board when I slip into my usual seat between Violet and Ridoc. Carr is scribbling conjugations at lightning speed, muttering to himself in French like the chalk understands him.

“Salut, belle,” (Hi, beautiful.) Violet greets without looking up from her textbook, her French rolling off like she was born with it. With her family's background, she knows several languages.

I smile at Vi, "Hé bébé." (Hey babe.)

Ridoc leans back in his chair, grinning. “Yo, Ciara. How do you say, uh, ‘I’m starving to death’ in French again?”

Violet doesn’t miss a beat. “Je meurs de faim. Which you would know if you actually studied.”

“I do study,” Ridoc protests. “Just… not French. And not on purpose.” I smile, flipping open my notebook. “Speaking of studying—guess what I found out.”

Violet finally looks up, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Ridoc tilts his chair back dangerously. “You finally figured out who the secret Valedictorian is?”

I nod, lowering my voice like it’s classified intel. “Xaden Riorson.”

Ridoc’s chair slams down. “What? That guy? For some reason, I thought it was Vi or Jesinia. He barely talks in class, let alone raises his hand. I thought Valedictorians were supposed to be all… cheerful and involved and whatever.”

Violet smirks. “Apparently not. He’s smart, though. I’ve seen him correct Melgren in AP Stat. without even looking smug about it.”

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I can feel the small flare of competitiveness in my chest despite how much better Xaden and I's friendship is turning. “At Delray Hollow High, I was Valedictorian. Number one. Now I’m Salutatorian here. I just… wanted to know who beat me. If I’m going to be number two, I want to know who’s holding number one—and maybe know how.”

Ridoc whistles. “Still can’t believe you care. You’ve already got that Harvard tennis scholarship locked in.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just about tennis,” I say, twirling my pen. “I’ve been chasing the top spot since I was in middle school. I don’t like not knowing my competition.”

Violet gives me a sly look. “So… competition or something else?”

I roll my eyes. “Competition.”

Ridoc whistles. “Good luck. Pretty sure his GPA is powered by chaos magic. Wanda Maximoff is around here somewhere.” Violet grins. “Or, you know, hard work and intelligence.” She nudges me with her elbow. “So… are you going to ask him to study with you?”

Mr. Carr finally turns from the board. “D’accord, mes élèves. Aujourd’hui, nous allons pratiquer les conversations au marché.” (Okay, my students. Today we are going to practice conversations at the market.)

I make a face. “I… might have tried. Kind of. Okay, I stammered like an idiot.”

Ridoc laughs so hard that Mr. Carr looks up from the board, frowning. “Ridoc! Qu’est-ce qui est si drôle?” (Ridoc, What's so funny?)

Ridoc points at me. “Elle bégaye devant—" I hit my mark this time and kick him in his leg. Grateful that it worked to shut him up. Mr. Carr just shakes his head. “Vous les infants....” (You kids...)

Violet bursts out laughing, and I drop my head onto my desk with a groan. Ce sont vos propres amis qui sont contre vous. (It be your own friends against you.)

The final bell rings, and it couldn't come soon enough. The girls did a really good job today since we focused on stamina mostly. No complaints, no arguments today. I call that a win, but exhaustion is trying to claim me fully. I change in the locker room and make a stop at my regular locker to pick up my textbooks.

I drag myself from the gym to my car in the front parking lot, and I could almost cry tears of joy when I saw my baby in all her pink glory. I want to eat, watch TV, shower, study a bit, and go to bed.

I throw both of my bags onto the passenger's side and I start the truck up and let the air conditioning comfort me as I close my eyes for a moment. But before I do, I see something on my dashboard that stands out entirely too much.

A small black rubber duck, sitting innocently a top of the console.

I sit up a little straighter and grab the duck, twisting it and examining it in my hands. I look up and there isn't anyone left in the parking lot save for a few athletes that I've gotten to know over the past month.

My gaze drops back down to the duck in my hand. Where did this come from?

I smile because I have a hunch, but it's not really much to go on. I check the seats, the floor, the glovebox—no note, no explanation.

My smile threatens to get bigger, as it tugs at the corner of my lips despite my tiredness. It's ridiculous, but the little duck feels like a secret message. For a moment, the stress of the day seems to fade, replaced by a faint spark of curiosity.

Chapter Text

The Soup Kitchen is a mess when I go back to Delray Hollow on Saturday. Father James is a Catholic Priest, and he helps run the show for the most part. I was usually the one who greeted those coming in and served the morning crowd. Now? At 7:30 am, it’s like another hurricane crashed through here and had a personal vendetta.

Dishes in the sink, old food in the kitchen, the front room’s trash is overflowing, and tables are sticky and grimy with residue and trash on them. I’m trying to wrap my mind around how this place got like this in a matter of weeks.

I find Father James in the back stock room with the double doors wide open, receiving a food truck, clipboard in hand.

”Ah, Ciara. So glad you could make it.” He hands the clipboard back to the delivery driver after signing it.

”Hey, Father. Why does the kitchen look like this? Have you been away for a while?” He orders a few other volunteers to help bring in the crates to the kitchen.

”I have. As soon as you left for Frisco Fields, an opportunity for mission work came up in Guatemala, so I went with a few others. Left Reggie in charge, but apparently that wasn’t the best decision. Just got back from the trip 2 days ago when you called.”

We pick up some crates ourselves and begin to walk back to the kitchen area to start cleaning and prepping.

”I’m happy about the mission, but not about the current state of this place. I guess it’ll be you and me getting it clean while the others start cooking.” I place the brown crate on the kitchen counter and then move the trash can to the fridge to begin cleaning.

”Well, actually, we got some new volunteers this year.”

I stop what I’m doing and smile, “Really, any teenagers? Who is it?” I’m always excited when new people come and volunteer. For me it’s always been a way to give back, and it reminds me of when my family had to visit this particular kitchen a few times. It’s a reminder to stay humble and bring a bit of peace to those around you.

”Teenagers, and I think at least one of them is from Frisco High.”

Okay, that can either be really terrifying or awesome. It could be someone I-

The first thing I notice is pink. freaking. hair….

”Hello? Father James?” She walks through the back double doors, lost a bit as she comes closer to me, still roaming around for him until her eyes land on me.

I try to muster up a smile, but I’m shamefully failing. “Imogen? Hi, Father James is right here.” My hands suddenly feel like they need to be doing something, and I move to continue cleaning the fridge.

”Imogen, hi. Where is your friend Quinn?” He goes to shake her hand, which she warmly receives.

”She’s out with a cold. Happy to be here. Where can I start?”

“I’m going to put you with Ciara. She’s helping us get this place back up and running properly since she’s moved away. She’ll help you feel out the flow of the kitchen, and hopefully, in 10 weeks,  I can sign off on your volunteer form.”

My heart jumps. 10 Weeks! What do ya mean, 10 weeks? Like, she won’t be gone until mid-November, 10 weeks. I’m spiraling, help!

 Shake my head and just smile.

“I’ll leave you two to it. Focus on housing the food first, and then move on to the front room so we can open up properly. Be careful and grab some water every now and then. Stan is working on the AC, and we only have so many fans back here. That storage room can be a death sentence, it might have been a bad day to wear jeans.”

I nod, “Uhm, okay. So, I’m currently cleaning the fridge out since there’s mold on some of the vegetables, and next we’ll have to clear out the freezer—What are you doing?”

Imogen is moving around the place lazily and looking at every corner that has dust and trash around it. She whistles, “Boy, this place is kind of a dump.” I close my fist.

”It’s actually not. At least not when I was here. Father James left for important work, and we both came back to all of this.”

”Calm down, Smith, I meant nothing by it. You’ve actually caught me on a good day.” She says nothing else for a moment as the guys come in with more crates and she begins to organize produce, from canned goods to boxed goods.

It’s weird having someone I barely know, who practically hates me, in a town I’ve called home all my life.

We don’t say anything for a while, until I look up from the freezer and see that she’s almost done processing the food. I walk into the storage room to find small crates that can fit in the fridge shelves and the storage shelves.

”Here. Use the tape and the marker to write down the expiration dates on the boxes, put like exp. dates in the same box. If it’s a sole item, place it directly on it. I’ll put the veggies and fruits, and meats in the fridge, and you can work on the dry goods. Replace old expiration dates with the new ones.”

“Okay.” She begins boxing like items before labeling.

what?

No smart quip? No hassling back and forth as we’ve been doing these past few weeks? Pure compliance, wow.

She labels the items I need for the fridge and then moves on to the dry goods. We get done with everything in an hour and a half. By the time the last box is tucked away, my hair is damp at the nape of my neck, and there’s flour dust on my forearms from one of the open bags in storage. The air smells faintly of onions, canned tomato, and bleach. I glance over to where Imogen is stacking the last of the labeled cans. She’s quick, I’ll give her that—efficient without being told twice.

I grab two paper cups from the dispenser by the sink, fill them with water, and slide one toward her.

“Here. Hydrate before you turn into one of those wilted spinach leaves we just threw out.”

She smirks faintly, accepting it. “Thanks. Didn’t realize how much work goes into keeping a place like this running. You don't see it much in Aretia.”

I lean my hip against the counter, taking a sip from my cup. “Most people don’t. But for some, it’s the only hot meal they’ll get all day. So… even if it’s exhausting, it’s worth it. Is there a reason there aren't many soup kitchens in Aretia? I'm not familiar with where it is.”

Imogen looks at me for a second longer than feels casual, then busies herself wiping the counter with a dish towel. “It's the capital city in Tyrrendor, next to Coatia and Italy. There is hardly any homelessness there, thanks to our king."

“Well, I've been doing this since I was able to work. My parents and I came here a few times when things were… tight. Before my dad’s company took off, I figured if we needed help once, I could return the favor to others. Your king must be great, but why are you over here? Bodhi and Liam wouldn't answer me either. Is it really that secretive?”

Her hand slows on the countertop, her voice quieter. “That’s… decent of you to return the favor. And yes, it's an important issue, one that isn't up to us to tell.”

I give a small laugh and let the issue go. “I'm not really all that great. I just don’t like seeing people hungry, I know the feeling.”

Before she can reply, Father James calls from the front, “Ciara, doors are opening at ten! Need you at the greeting station, make sure the tables and floors are clean.”

“Coming!” I set my cup down, then glance at Imogen. “You want to join me or stay back here?”

She hesitates, eyes flicking toward the muffled chatter outside. “I’ll… join you.”

And so she does. We're going to tag-team the benches and tables. I grab the cleaning supplies from the back, and Mrs. Thomas comes nearer before I can reach the tables. "Ciara Smith, honey, it is sooo good to see you again! How is school?" I hug her and sway as my smile gets bigger. She is always so nice to me and my parents, and she and her husband always welcomed others to their home for a meal whenever they could. She knitted me a few gloves over the years, and I still have them all.

"School is great. I'm the team captain of the tennis squad, and I'm still Harvard-bound. I've made a lot of friends, and some are still in progress. How's Thaddeus and his treatment going? I'm sorry I wasn't able to see him before we left."

She goes to hug me again, and I know she needs it. When we part, I take her in; her brown skin was always so brilliant, and not a curly hair out of place. When Thaddeus, their 16-year-old, well..., now 17-year-old, got sick, I tried to keep him company and bring him books I knew he liked from the school library, but the chemo got harsher, and his energy just kept getting more drained until seeing him was hard to do.

"One day at a time, cher. There are days when I see lots of energy from him, and others when it is so bad, he shuts down, and we don't see him until dinner. I'm just glad he is still with us." I hug her again. "Everything will be alright, God's got him."

When we pull apart, my eyes wander to the wall by the register. A faded Polaroid still hangs there—me, Thaddeus, and Mrs. Thomas, all grinning like fools after a bake sale. I hadn’t realized she’d kept it up.

“You still hiding those ginger snaps from the regulars?” I tease, and she laughs, shaking her head.

“Girl, you know some recipes are classified.” She thanks me and pats my arm before heading toward the kitchen, and I walk over to Imogen. The rag in my hand catches on the grooves of the old wood as we start wiping every nook and cranny.

It’s quiet for a while—too quiet—until Imogen says, “So… the Garrick thing.”

I pause mid-wipe, glancing up. “The what thing?”

She rolls her eyes like I’m playing dumb. “Bumping his desk with your hip and laughing about it in AP Lit.? You two looked—” she tilts her head, “—friendly.”

I straighten, meeting her gaze. “We are friendly. Garrick, Liam, Bodhi—those guys are my friends. That’s it.” My voice stays even, but the firmness in it makes me tense.

“It didn’t look like just friends.”

"Maybe you’re looking for something that’s not there,” I counter. “From what I've gathered in these short weeks is enough to joke around without it meaning anything. Not every smile or nudge is some hidden confession.”

The air between us is tense enough to taste, but I keep wiping the table, letting the rhythmic circles of the cloth ground me.

After a beat, I add, softer, “If you actually paid attention, you’d see we treat each other the same. Garrick, Liam, Bodhi—doesn’t matter. It’s called friendship, Imogen.”

She hums like she’s unconvinced but not looking for an argument—until her lips curl into a faint, knowing smirk. “Right. Just like you and Xaden?”

The cloth stops in my hand for a fraction of a second before I continue wiping. “Exactly.” No denial. No fluster. Just steady and certain.

Her smirk falters, just a hair, before she turns her attention back to her side of the table. The silence now feels less sharp, like we’ve both agreed—without saying it—that maybe this conversation shouldn't be the battle we think it should be.

For the next hour, we stand side by side at the entrance, handing out trays and greeting people by name—some of them lighting up at seeing me, others teasing me for having been “too fancy” at my new school to visit.

I watch Imogen at first, ready for her to pull a face or roll her eyes, but she doesn’t. She smiles—not big or fake, just enough to show she’s listening. She even helps a man balance his tray when his hands shake too much.

It’s not much, but I catch the difference. And I don’t call her out on it.

Every volunteer has packed up and left for home. Ellis was able to stop by, and we talked for a while about school. Sammy still has him and Lincoln doing missions for the Black mob, and I pray it doesn't get them hurt one day.

Imogen loads into a metallic gray Ford Mustang, and it almost seems as though she's following me. Even when I head through the security post to get into our neighborhood, she's able to get through as well. So, note-to-self, Imogen lives here too. I wonder if Bodhi does as well?

As I slow down to my house and let her pass me up the hill, that’s when I see it—parked across the street like it belongs there.

A black Jeep Wrangler.

I’ve seen it before, sitting next to mine in the student parking lot at school, each morning. Gone by the afternoon.

Leaning against it is a broad-shouldered man who looks uncannily like Garrick—same sharp jaw, same way of standing like the world can’t surprise him. He’s deep in conversation with a blonde woman in a crisp military uniform, her posture ramrod straight, hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun. He doesn't seem like he would gift a black-rubber duck, and ew!, to a student?

I slow to a stop at the gates of my house, eyes narrowing. Their conversation, from what I can see behind the wrought-iron fence, is a bit heated.

I type in the code, and the gates open up. I park and look across the lawn, Liam’s lounging near the big tree again, lazily bouncing a ball off the siding. I call out in a whisper-yell, “Liam!”

He glances over, his knife stops moving, and he brushes off his shaving to jog to the fence that separates our yards. “Yeah?”

I tilt my head toward the Jeep. “Who are they?”

He follows my gaze, and something subtle shifts in his expression—just enough to notice if you’re looking for it. “That’s… uh, my mom. Colonel Mairi.”

“And him?”

“Darian Tavis, Garrick's father.” He says the name nonchalantly.

“Should I get to know him since we're neighbors? Should I get to know your mom? Is he a teacher at our school?”

Liam shrugs, eyes flicking briefly back to them before he looks anywhere but at me. “No, he isn't. But you wouldn't need to get to know them unless you’re a High-Ranking officer in the Tyrrish territories.”

That catches my attention. “Like… Tyrrendor? Your home?” I press, remembering what he refused to tell me in passing weeks ago.

His jaw works, but the words don’t come. Instead, he pushes off the fence. “I should go help my dad,” he mutters, already retreating toward his porch without answering.

It’s not like him to dodge. Not like him at all.

I glance back at the Jeep. The blonde woman’s gaze sweeps the street like she’s cataloging every detail, every person. Darian Tavis stands still, but there’s a weight to the way he watches her—like he's also assessing every car driving by and person walking on the sidewalk.

And now I know Liam knows exactly whatever it is that's going on. I hate that he won't talk to me, but I won't push him again. He was my first friend in this neighborhood, and I enjoy our car rides together.

I grab a roll of kimbap from the fridge and head up to my room. I drop my bag onto my bed and pull out my notes, setting myself up at my desk. I’ve barely flipped open my notebook when my phone buzzes.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Unknown: Library. Tomorrow. 2 p.m.

I blink. My thumbs hover over the keyboard before I type back.
Me: Who is this?

The reply comes almost instantly.
Unknown: Guess.

I roll my eyes.
Me: I’m not playing twenty questions. Who is this, and how did you get my number?

Unknown: Trade secret.

Me: Creepy.

Unknown: Efficient.

That’s when it clicks—the smugness, the clipped confidence that somehow still carries a smirk.
Me: Xaden. 🙄 Let me guess, Liam?

Unknown: Bingo. Don't text too enthusiastically. I immediately change his name, with a tilted smile.

Me: You do realize tomorrow is Sunday? Regular people do normal things on Sundays. Sleep. Relax. Church. Not... study.

The Dictator 📚: Good thing you’re not “regular people.” Plus, I saw you're grade in AP Stat. a 97? We can definitely do better than that.

I narrow my eyes at the phone. WEcanDefINitElydObeTTerthanThat....jerk.
Me: Oh, so now you’re my academic savior?

The Dictator 📚: Better than watching you cement second place before finals this winter. At least put up a fight.

My jaw tightens. Of course, he’d go there.
Me: Is this about you keeping your little “Valedictorian” crown? 

The Dictator 📚: What crown?

Me: Don’t play dumb.

The Dictator 📚: I never play dumb. I don’t have to 😏Would be nice to have some competition, but I can see that the competition is average at best.

I grit my teeth.
Me: Fine. I’m studying because I plan to beat you.

The Dictator 📚: Mm. Sure you are.

The way he says it—typed it—tells me he’s just enjoying the game.

Me: What about Catriona?

This time, there’s a longer pause. Too long.

The Dictator 📚: What about her?

Me: Just wondering if she knows you’re arranging private study sessions with other girls.

The three dots blink. Then stop. Then blink again. When his reply comes, it’s smooth, but something feels… off.

The Dictator 📚: She doesn’t need to know. Nor do I care.

For half a second, it’s like the mask slips—something heavy is there—but then he shuts it away.

Me: What a doting boyfriend you are. 

The Dictator 📚: Only to the one that matters. Focus. Tomorrow. 2 p.m. Don’t be late.

Me: Bossy.

The Dictator 📚: You like it.

I feel heat in my cheeks, and then I toss my phone onto the bed, half tempted to skip the session just to spite him. But my stupid curiosity—and my stubborn need to take that number one spot—has already decided for me.

If there’s a more painful way to spend a Sunday afternoon than willingly meeting Xaden Riorson in the library, I haven’t found it. Curse my stubbornness.

Frisco Fields Public Library is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every squeak of your shoes against the polished floor. The air smells faintly like dust and old paper, the way all proper libraries do.

I spot him immediately. Not because I want to—please—but because he’s sitting in the far corner like he owns the place, long legs stretched under the table, dark hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he types something into his laptop. He doesn’t look up when I approach. Of course, he doesn’t.

“You’re early,” I say, dropping my bag on the bench opposite him with a satisfying thump.

“You’re late,” he counters, glancing up at me for exactly one second before his eyes return to the screen. “Two minutes and forty seconds.”

I resist the urge to glare. “You timed me?”

“I time everything,” he says, like it’s a perfectly normal human trait. “Sit. We’ve got a lot to cover if you want to avoid embarrassing yourself in AP Stat. again.”

I drop into the bench, putting both coffee cups on the table. “I stopped for coffee," I pass him a cup, and he glances up, taking it in. Before I can roll my eyes, he sips it and puts it back down. “Hmm. Strong. Bold. Exactly like your strategy.”

I raise an eyebrow while pulling out my notebook. “Flattery won’t save you from losing your spot, Riorson.”

“Save me?” He leans back, stretching, eyes locked on mine. “You already know it’s going to be a battle. You just want the trophy.”

“And I’m going to take it,” I say, opening my notebook and lining up my pens like a general preparing her troops. “Every last point. And for the record, a 96 is not THAT bad, and I’m only here because I plan to beat you. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

He leans back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And yet here you are, at my table, on my schedule.”

“This is the library’s table, Riorson.”

“It’s my table now.” He slides a thick textbook, The Practice of Statistics for the AP Exam, toward me. “Page 372,” he says, voice calm but sharp. “And don’t think I’m going easy because you brought coffee.”

I shoot him a look, but open to the page anyway. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.” His eyes meet mine for the first time, and it’s like he’s cataloguing every reaction, every twitch. “We both know why you’re here, Ciara.”

“Ciara…? First name basis now, Xaden?” I say his name slowly, playing with it, and his left eye quivers slightly. He recovers, and that slightly bored expression he usually has in the auditorium is back on his face.

“I think I should be for someone who wants to take my spot,” he says, like he’s stating the obvious.

“Maybe,” I answer smoothly. “And when I do take it, I expect a polite congratulations.”

He smirks, leaning closer across the table, voice low. “Polite? I was thinking more… glittering crown ceremony. You know, royal fanfare. Applause.”

I snort, but my fingers are already moving over my notes, pencil scratching out formulas. “Gold? Or plastic?”

“Gold,” he says, tone teasing. “And I’m debating between diamonds or rubies for the centerpiece.”

I keep my voice even. “Rubies.”

His smirk deepens. 

I roll my eyes and force my attention back to the equations in front of me. But every so often, I can feel his gaze, like he’s watching to see if I’ll crack.

When I ask him about Catriona—purely to poke at him—he pauses just a little too long before answering.

“Again, what about her?” he says, careful, measured.

“Just wondering if I have to protect myself from another girl who thinks I'm stealing her man by close proximity.”

He raises an eyebrow. I tilt my head, "Apparently, Imogen has the hots for Garrick and does not like us bantering." Now is my chance to see him annoyed, "They're both old news, and I'm done talking to Garrick about. They're both too stubborn to actually go for it."

"Don't deflect Xaden, Catriona?"

For a second, his expression shifts—something heavier there, something that doesn’t match his usual armor—but it’s gone before I can catch it.

“She doesn’t need to know,” he says, voice smooth again.

“Interesting,” I say, pretending to be focused on my notes even as my mind spins.

“Focus,” he says, leaning forward, his tone returning to that infuriating mix of authority and mockery. “Again, page 372, confidence interval calculations. We’re not leaving until you get this.”

I want to tell him I could leave right now if I wanted to, that I don’t take orders from him. But the truth? I’m already working through the problem, pencil moving fast. Because I am going to beat him. Even if it means enduring this ridiculous, infuriating, annoyingly magnetic study session every Sunday until finals.

"Fine. No mercy?"

“No mercy,” he echoes, voice almost a growl. And just like that, the game is on.

Hours pass like minutes. We argue over formulas, trade challenges, and tease each other relentlessly. Every correct answer earns a grin, every mistake earns a playful jab. But underneath it, there’s a tension that isn’t just about stats.

By the time the library lights flicker, signaling closing, I realize two things: one, I might actually beat him if I keep this up. And two, these study sessions—they’re not going to be just about AP Stat anymore.

Because when it comes to Xaden Riorson, the battle lines blur between rivalry… and something dangerously more personal.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria is its usual chaos on Wednesday—plastic trays clattering, the buzz of a hundred overlapping conversations, someone blasting music too loud from a phone they thought was subtle. I stab my salad, half-listening to Danny and Giorgi argue about which teacher is secretly the most evil, while Nicki scrolls through her phone, occasionally laughing under her breath. This feels peaceful and more like times of old.

But my gaze gets snagged on the far corner of the room.

Xaden is sitting alone at a table by the windows, one AirPod in, a thick Physics textbook propped open in front of him. He didn’t look lonely exactly—more like he prefers it that way, the kind of presence that dared anyone to intrude. His tray is untouched, coffee cooling at his elbow.

I chew on my bottom lip. Ever since Sunday, since the not-so-subtle way he needled me about wanting the #1 spot, I couldn’t get him out of my head. He knew. And worse, he doesn’t seem remotely threatened by my ambition, crazy, but he welcomes it.

“Back in a sec,” I say abruptly, sliding my lunch bag away.

Danny blinks. “Uh, where are you—”

But I was already threading through the tables, my converse squeaking faintly on the linoleum. My palms feel weirdly damp as I stop across from him.

“You planning to eat alone and intimidate the entire cafeteria,” I ask, “or can I sit?

Xaden’s dark eyes flick up from the page. Slow, assessing. The corner of his mouth tugs, just barely. “Didn’t think you liked being in my presence willingly.”

“Didn’t think you liked eating, period,” I shoot back, nodding at the untouched tray.

He arches a thick brow, closing the textbook with deliberate slowness. “You’ve been watching me that closely, huh?”

Heat flares across my face, but I don’t back down. “Only because it’s weird to watch someone treat food like a paperweight.” I pull out the chair that sits across from him and ignore the sudden hush of nearby conversations. People are definitely staring.

“You sure about this?” he asks, "You’ve got an audience.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Danny, Giorgi, and Nicki staring at me like I’d just announced I was transferring to Hydra High. I look coolly back at Xaden, “They’ll live.”

For a moment, silence stretches between us, broken only by the scrape of my fork against the bowl. Then Xaden leans back, folding his arms.

For real , what is with everyone staring when it comes to him?

“So,” he drawls. “This a social call or reconnaissance? Trying to size up the competition?”

I look him square in the eye. “Maybe I just thought you looked pathetic eating alone.”

“Pathetic,” he repeats, smirking. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you ditching your friends to come sit with me.”

I roll my eyes, but my pulse picks up. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not working.”

He tips his head slightly, studying me. “Not intimidation. More like…curiosity. You don’t usually make the first move.”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. He has me there. So I stab another tomato and say, “Fine. Curiosity answered. You’re still insufferable.”

“Most regular people with your strategy would’ve skipped lunch to squeeze in another study session.”

I smirk. “I'm not 'regular people', remember?”

That earns me a look—something sharper than a smirk but not quite a smile. I don’t know what to do with it, so I break the tension with, “You know, this feels like the Captain America v. Iron Man moment. Wow, I was only 11 years old when they destroyed that airport. My mom wouldn’t stop talking about how Cap went rogue, and my dad swore Iron Man was the real villain. It was like family dinner turned into CNN."

His brow lifted. “How does that remind you of us?”

My turn to raise a brow, "Oooh, there's an us, Xaden?"

He rolls his eyes, "Out with it, Smith."

I slightly cringe, "Oof, back to last names? But it's easy, I'm Cap."

Xaden laughs once, low. “Wrong. I’m clearly Cap. You’re Stark.”

I lean forward. “Excuse me? Stark is impulsive, egotistical, and obsessed with proving he is the smartest in the room.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Exactly. Tell me that doesn’t sound like you.”

My jaw drops. “That’s—no. No, I’m Steve. Cap was steady, dependable, focused on the bigger picture.”

“Sure, and let's say you're Cap, he was also completely incapable of compromise when it came to Bucky and him killing Stark's parents,” he fires back. “You dig in, no matter the cost. That’s you, Ciara. You’d rather throw yourself into a losing fight than...back down.” Something sparks in my chest. He’s not smiling now, not teasing—just watching me with that sharp, unflinching gaze.

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. So I shove back with, “Well, at least Cap fights for what is right. Bucky would have never gotten a redemption arc, a chance to be better, if he hadn't stopped Tony from killing him. Stark is too busy controlling everyone else.”

“Or protecting them,” he shoots back, leaning in. Our trays are barely a breath apart now. “Maybe you don’t like admitting that sometimes control is necessary.”

The air feels too charged, my heart thudding like a drumline in my ears.

I force a smirk. “Fine. Then it looks like we’re doomed to keep clashing....Stark.”

He rolls his eyes, since I don't let up that he is Iron Man, not me! “Correction.” His voice drops lower, deliberate. “Looks like we’re destined to. See you in the gym tomorrow....Ciara.” He gets up with his tray and leaves me to my thoughts.

The bell shrills just as I sling my bag over my shoulder, leaving AP Biology, still chewing on the ridiculous grin I wore after lunch. I refuse to admit—even to myself—that my back-and-forth with Xaden had been fun. Too fun.

I was halfway down the 400 hall to get to my locker before French class when I spot Liam at his locker, stuffing a folder inside. He looks up, seeing me, and his whole face brightens in that easy, golden-retriever way of his.

“Hey,” he greets, slinging his backpack up.

“hey....” I slow to a stop beside him, shifting my weight. I hesitate for a breath, then say in a rush, “Listen, I'm sorry. For snooping the other day. I shouldn’t have gone asking you about your move here or personal things.”

Liam blinks, then lets out a little laugh, shaking his head. “Ciara, you don’t have to apologize. Seriously. It’s fine.”

“I know, but still.” I hug my binder closer. “I’m happy to have you as a friend. Even if we didn’t ride together today or yesterday or Monday, I miss our morning sarcasm, Lieam.”

That earns me a real grin, dimples and all. “Yeah, about that—Sloane had to get to school early for test prep these past few days, so I drove her. She's still in the process of getting her license. I promise we’re back to carpooling tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to leave you to yourself.”

Relief loosens my shoulders. “Good. I was worried I’d been demoted.” I hug him, and gosh, does he smell like the early morning air when you stand on the beach near the ocean.

“Never,” Liam said, with a mock-serious shake of his head.

The we start walking toward the stairs to go up to the 2nd floor classrooms, the hum of voices swells around us. Just as I feel myself relax, two figures cut through the flow of students—Garrick and Bodhi, moving like they own the hallway. Both tall, both exuding that same mix of effortless cool and watchful calculation I’d come to recognize in Xaden.

“Uh-oh,” Liam mutters under his breath. “Incoming cavalry."

“Well, well,” Garrick drawls, giving Liam a quick shoulder bump before his gaze flicks to me. “If it isn't the Dynamic Duo."

Liam rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Relax, Garrick. Just walking to class.”

Bodhi with a lazy grin, like he’d slept through math. “Relax? Please. Xaden’s been walking around like he bit into a lemon since lunch. Gotta say, Smith, impressive work.”

Ciara blinked, pulse stuttering. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Bodhi said innocently, though his grin said otherwise.

Before I could press, Garrick tilts his head. “Speaking of surprises…Imogen mentioned you came out to the soup kitchen on Saturday. She would kill me for saying this, but she actually enjoyed her time there. ”

Heat creeps up my neck. “Yeah. It was nice. Better than her glaring at me all the time. We had a productive conversation.” I move to the other side of the hall to open my locker.

“Oh, a productive conversation with Cardulo?” Garrick said in a huff. “I would love to know how that feels.”

That earns a bark of laughter from Liam and Bodhi. “I'm sure you would, Tavis.” Bodhi clasps Garrick’s shoulder in mock sympathy. “Maybe you should get the info from Ciara about that soup kitchen." 

“Shut up,” Garrick says, but his ears go pink as he pushes past us toward the classrooms. I bite back a smile, glancing at Liam, who is grinning outright.

The mid-September heat still lingers as practice winds down, but the air is thick with something heavier than humidity—tension. Aura’s muttered complaints after a missed volley carry across the court, and honestly, it's grating on my nerves.

She runs a hand over her short pony, “Why do we even bother with these drills if the captain here is just going to nitpick every mistake?”

The words prick, but I keep my tone even. “Because the drills make us better.”

Aura tosses her racket from one hand to the other, eyes sharp. “Easy for you to say when you’re always perfect.”

The other girls shift uncomfortably. Nadine crosses her arms, Luca smirks like she’s hoping for fireworks. Aurelie, Cianna, and Nyra stand there waiting for the show to begin. Even Coach stays silent by the fence, waiting.

I nod once, stepping forward, my hand swiping my braided ponytail off my shoulder, fixing my visor. “Alright. How about this—you and me. One set. Everyone else watches. Now.”

Aura blinks, surprised, but her pride catches up fast. She grins, cocky. “Fine. And when I win, you drop the lectures.”

“Sure,” I say, calm but firm. “And when I win, you listen. Because this isn’t about being right. It’s about proving why trust matters out here, and that training is how you get perfection, as you put it.”

The court hushes as we take positions. First serve, I don’t hold back. The ball slices across the line, hard and fast, and Aura barely gets her racket on it. By the third rally, sweat beads at her temples, her footwork faltering against the relentless pace I keep pressing.

But I don’t taunt, don’t gloat. Each point I take, I call out what I see:

“You hang back too long—you’ve got to step in.”

“Watch the spin on the ball, don’t just swing at it.”

“Trust your instincts. Commit to the shot.”

The girls murmur from the sidelines, their eyes widening as Aura scrambles, pushes, and finally—finally—lands a clean winner past me. She throws her hands up, triumphant.

I catch the ball, nodding. “Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Aura blinks, thrown by the lack of smack-talk.

I walk to the net, meeting her gaze across the tape. My voice is steady, low enough for just her and the team. “You’re good, Aura. No one doubts it. But raw talent without trust? Without discipline? That doesn’t win championships. That just burns out.”

The silence that follows is heavy. For once, even Luca doesn’t have a snide comment. Coach finally blows the whistle, breaking the spell. “Alright, ladies, hit the showers. Good work today, hang back Aura.”

Aura lingers a moment, breathing hard, then mutters as we walk off, “You could’ve humiliated me.”

“I don’t need to,” I say simply. “You’re on my team. That means I want you sharper, not smaller.”

For the first time, Aura looks at me differently—not like I’m a rival, but like I’m someone worth following, and that's all I could ask for.

As I get out of the shower and start changing, the locker room gets quiet when the last of the team files out, laughter and chatter fading down the hall. Aurelie and Cianna offer me a goodbye, and I do the same as I tug my sneakers on, humming under my breath, when the door creaks open.

“Enjoying your little spotlight, Smith?”

I nearly jump. Catriona steps inside like she owns the place, crisp in her cheer uniform, hair still perfectly curled from practice. She leans against the row of lockers, arms folded, eyes glinting with the kind of practiced confidence that says she’s never once doubted she belonged anywhere.

“Didn’t realize you were in here,” I say evenly, standing.

She smiles—sharp, not sweet. “Didn’t realize you were so…persistent. Library dates, debate partners…” Her gaze hardens. “Leave Xaden alone.”

I blink, caught between disbelief and irritation. I just really want to go home. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She steps closer, her perfume cloying in the humid air. “You don’t belong in his world. Whatever game you think you’re playing, you’ll lose. He’s mine.”

Something in me snaps. “Funny,” I say quietly, “he didn’t seem interested in switching me out when you asked. Maybe because he actually wants to be around me.”

Her lips curl, the fake smile faltering. “You think this is about class projects or some silly crush?” She laughs, sharp and humorless. “You have no idea what’s at stake. Stay away from him.”

I shoulder my bag. “No.”

The single word freezes her in place. For a second, her polished veneer cracks. Then she lunges.

I drop my bag and sidestep, instincts kicking in before I even think. Her fist slices through the air, and I catch her wrist, twist, and shove her back a step. She recovers fast, pivoting into a low sweep aimed at my legs. I hop back, adrenaline spiking—because the movement isn’t random. It’s trained. Familiar.

We circle, breaths sharp, shoes squeaking against tile. She feints high, then snaps low again, and my body knows exactly how to counter—because I’ve been drilled on this before. So has she.

We freeze, realization sparking at the same time.

“You’ve trained with him,” I breathe.

Her eyes narrow, victorious. “Of course I have. He made me stronger. Smarter. Better.” She smirks, tossing her hair back. “You think he sees you as anything more than a project? A distraction?”

My fists clench, but I don’t move. “He sees me as an equal. Which is more than I can say for you.”

The door slams open suddenly, voices echoing from the hall—teammates possibly heading back for forgotten gear. Catriona steps away, mask sliding back into place like nothing happened.

She leans close as she passes, her whisper venom against my ear. “This isn’t over. You’ll never win against me.”

Her cheer shoes click down the hall, leaving me alone with my pulse still hammering, the phantom weight of Xaden’s training between us like a ghost neither of us can shake.

As I head to the truck, my head clearly still warped from what just happened, I feel my phone vibrate as I toss both my bags into the back seat.

BATTLE READY QUEENS

History Buff: ughhhh knees are flaring so bad rn 🥴 might skip tomorrow
Goddess: need anything??
Ciara: Tell me you’re icing them at least
History Buff: yeah but it still feels like they’ve been set on fire 🔥🦵🔥🦵
Ciara: Then I’m coming over
Goddess: same
History Buff: NO you guys don’t—
Goddess: too late. pants are on already.

Twenty minutes later, Rhiannon and I are on Violet’s porch. The door swings open before they can knock.

Mira Sorrengail stands there in full Army greens, tall, sharp-eyed, and smiling like she already knows both of our life stories. “You must be the friends,” she says warmly. “Come in—ignore my sister’s protests.”

From somewhere inside: “Mira!” Violet groans.

The living room smells faintly of cinnamon tea and leather polish. Mira waves us toward the couch.
“Feet up, legs straight,” she instructs, handing Violet an extra pillow. “And you—” she points at me—“you’re the tennis player, right, Salutatorian? I heard about you.”

I blink. “You… heard about me?”

“Mira hears about everyone,” Violet mutters, rolling her eyes like she’s suffered this her whole life. I hear a voice coming from her phone, and I recognize it to be Dain.

"Well, you are rather loud on the phone, aren't you, dear sister?" Mira's smile is feline-like, and Vi shakes her head.

But I can’t help grinning—Mira’s presence is magnetic, grounded in a way that makes the whole room feel steadier. I like her immediately. “I think you might be my favorite Sorrengail,” I tease.

Violet throws an exaggerated look toward Rhiannon. “Great. One more person in the Mira fan club.”

Mira only smiles, setting down a tray of tea before sitting beside Violet. “That’s because you’re secretly the president of it.” Violet groans again, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward.

As soon as Mira ducks out to grab more tea, Rhiannon leans forward. “Okay, Ciara. You’ve been vibrating since we got here. Spill.”

I exhale, fingers tightening on my mug. “Catriona cornered me after practice. In the locker room.”

Violet winces. “Cheer Captain Catriona?”

“Yep. She told me to stay away from Xaden. Said he was hers. Then she tried to fight me.”

Rhiannon nearly chokes on her tea. “Fight you?”

“Yeah. And the scary part? I knew her moves. Because they're the same moves he's been teaching me. She’s trained with him too.”

For a moment, silence fills the room. Even Violet forgets her knees, staring at me like I just dropped a literal grenade in the middle of the carpet. Dain’s voice floats through her FaceTime speaker on the table: “Vi? Hello? You still there?”

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, then focuses back on me. “Do you realize what that means?”

I shake my head. “That he recycles sparring lessons?”

Rhiannon levels me with a look. “No. That you care enough to stand your ground against her. You wouldn’t have done that otherwise.”

“I wasn’t fighting for him,” I say tightly. “I was fighting for me.”

“Sure,” Rhiannon says, unconvinced. “Except you’re still shaking while you talk about it.”

Violet shifts, grimacing at her knees. “Ciara, we’re not saying you’re in love. But you wouldn’t risk a locker room showdown with Catriona Cordella unless he mattered to you. And he does matter. To you.”

My chest twists. “We were just studying. That’s all. And he's annoying with that stupid all-knowing smirk of his.”

Rhiannon smirks. “Studying, debating, nearly throwing hands with high school royalty—yeah, totally casual.”

Mira returns just then with cookies, arching a brow at our guilty silence. “What did I miss?”

“Ciara got in a fight,” Violet supplies, grinning despite herself.

“Locker room brawl, apparently,” Rhiannon adds.

Mira’s gaze lands on me, sharp but approving. “Good. Means you know when not to back down.” And the weight of those words lingers long after the laughter picks up again. Maybe I am Captain America, and this is a losing battle.

Chapter Text

I wake up groggily to my early alarm of 4:30 am. Rhiannon and I didn't leave Vi's house until 10 pm, after we talked and watched 13 Going on 30. So, I texted Liam last night that I had forgotten I had my training session with Xaden, so we couldn't carpool, but as I roll over the memory of Catriona’s sneer, her voice like a blade—stay away from him—is enough to make me stay in bed. For once, I can’t face the sparring mat, not with Xaden waiting there. So, I don’t go.

And I don’t text him, but Liam instead.

Which is why, as soon as I get to my locker, he ambushes me.

“Ciara.” I startle, and announcements for Homecoming's Spirit Week play throughout the hall.

His voice cuts down the hallway like a command, not a name. I barely turn before he hooks my wrist and tugs me into the narrow stairwell, the heavy door shutting out the rest of Frisco High's noise.

His storm-dark eyes are locked on my grey ones. “Why didn’t you come?”

“I—”

“Not just skipping. No text. No call. Nothing.” His grip wasn’t harsh, but it held. “That’s not you.”

I force my chin higher. “Maybe I didn’t feel like it.”

He studies me, the space between us tight. “Try again.”

“I’m serious.”

“Ciara.” His voice drops lower, softer, but the steel underneath it doesn’t waver. “Don’t lie to me.”

I swallow. The words I didn’t want to say fought to stay buried, but Xaden Riorson has a way of pressing until silence cracks. He leans in, close enough that I catch the faint spice of leather and mint clinging to him. “One more chance. Tell me what happened.”

My throat tightens, and then it spills out. “Catriona cornered me after practice. Said I needed to stay away from you and that I don't know what's at stake. Then she tried to knock my head off my shoulders.”

Xaden stills. Completely.

For a moment, there is no sound in the stairwell except our breathing. His jaw locks, eyes gone sharp with something I couldn’t name—something dangerous.

“She what?” His voice is so quiet that it's terrifying.

“I handled it,” I rush. “I don’t need you storming in—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Xaden—”

But he’d already released my wrist, stepping back, that unreadable mask sliding over his face. “You did the right thing telling me. Thank you. You handled it? How?”

I wasn't sure how to school my face in the moment. I've never seen Xaden so angry. "She thought she could catch me off guard in the locker room, thinking that I was a regular person, she was sorely mistaken when I shoved her with her wrist behind her back." A faint hint of a smile was threatening to spread across his face, but it didn't.

And before I can grab him, before I can stop him from whatever reckless plan is now sparking behind those eyes, he pushes open the stairwell door and strides off. 

My heart pounds all the way to class. I nearly trip rushing through the doorway, breath short. Ridoc’s mouth opens, no doubt ready to crack one of his obnoxious jokes about my dramatic entrance, but I cut him off, heading straight for Garrick’s desk.

“Garrick,” I hiss, low and urgent.

He looks up immediately, sharp-eyed. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I made a mistake,” I whisper, my breath catching up with me.

He stands, steadying his hands on my shoulders as he positions my back towards the window facing the outdoor pools. “Tell me.”

Bodhi and Liam have looked up by now, both frowning, confusion clear on their faces. Still, Garrick holds my gaze, his tone calm but edged. “Ciara. What happened? Are you hurt?”

My lips part, but the classroom gets extremely quiet before I can answer.

Xaden enters, his stride unhurried but every line of him radiating control on the edge of rage as he clenches and unclenches his fist. His gaze sweeps the room once, then locks on mine.

Heat rushes through me as his eyes burn into me, dark and unflinching. Now that I'm looking, it isn’t anger I see. Not exactly. It is fiercer. A look that says, without words—

I did what needed to be done......

My stomach drops. Because I know—whatever he’d done, whatever storm he’d unleashed—it was way too late to stop it.

By the end of 1st period, the whispers were already threading through the halls. How the cheer captain had been pulled out of her seat before class started. How her perfectly lacquered smile was shattered, her eyes rimmed red like she’d been crying. 

No one said Xaden’s name, but I didn’t need to hear it. I knew.

When the bell for 2nd period rings, I get up to speak with Kaori about our mid-semester test. I hear multiple boots walk behind me, and I almost screw myself over by narrowly missing Kaori's answer to my questions. As I exit, Xaden is already waiting in the hallway with Garrick, Bodhi, and Liam at his back, all looking at me. Ridoc, Sawyer, Dain, Vi, and Rhi look at me with wide eyes.

“Ciara,” Xaden said evenly, “you’re walking with them to class.”

My brows shoot up. I look at Rhi for help, and her face twists in the, what-can-I-do-against-him? way. Sigh, I'm on my own. “Excuse me? I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

“Not today.” His tone is iron.

“Xaden—”

“Not up for debate.” His eyes flick to Garrick, then Bodhi and Liam. “Make sure she gets there.”

Heat climbs my neck, half from embarrassment, half from fury. “I don’t need bodyguards!”

“You don’t get to decide that,” he says, low enough that only I hear. “Not when Catriona’s involved.”

My protest withers at the steel in his eyes. I huff, falling into step beside Liam, Garrick, and Bodhi as we make our way to the auditorium for AP U.S. Gov.

Garrick and Bodhi move to the row just above my regular seat next to Liam and Ridoc. They slide into their new spots as Xaden descends the stairs and takes the seat directly behind me. I ignore the weight of Xaden’s gaze burning into my back. I exhale, tension bleeding out of my shoulders—until I go against my own wishes and risk a glance upward.

Xaden is staring at me. His eyes lock with mine like gravity, unyielding. I try to look away, but Ridoc nudges me, eyebrows raised, then tilts his chin subtly back toward him. Yeah, he’s not taking his eyes off you, the gesture seems to say.

I flush, forcing myself to glance higher, three rows above Xaden.

Catriona sits there.

Her hair is immaculate, her cheer skirt smoothed into perfection, but her eyes—those eyes are raw, rimmed red as if she hadn’t stopped crying. And when they met mine, no amount of gloss or poise could disguise the hatred burning behind them.

I swallow hard. Whatever Xaden has done… it wasn’t enough.

Catriona wasn’t finished.

Not by a long shot.

The bell finally rings, scattering the room in a shuffle of notebooks and backpacks. Rhi is mid-rant about Devera’s obsession with “checks and balances” when I catch sight of Xaden standing near the exit, his usual entourage giving him space. He isn’t looking at anyone else except for me.

“Walk with me,” he says. Not a question.

I roll my eyes, but I match his stride down the hall. “Are you going to tell me why Catriona looked like she’d been dragged through hell and back?”

Xaden’s jaw flexes. “Handled.”

“Handled?” I hiss. “She looks like someone broke her in half.”

“Then maybe she’ll think twice before trying it again.” His tone was flat, final.

I stop short, yanking my arm free when he tries to keep me moving. “That’s exactly what I didn’t want, Xaden! I told you because I thought you’d be rational—not…” my voice drops. “…whatever you did to her.” Oh gosh, I didn't want any of this. She may be a pain, but now I'm Public Enemy #1.

His gaze softens for a fleeting second, but the steel is back almost instantly. “She crossed a line. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that alone, and I won’t apologize for making sure she knows it.”

My chest burns with frustration—at him, at myself, at the fact that part of me wasn’t even angry at what he’d done, only at being kept in the dark about what he was going to do. “You can’t just fight my battles for me.”

His lips curve, not quite a smile. “You don’t want me to actually fight them. Trust me on that.”

Before I can fire back, the late bell rings. Students are flowing past us to their next classes. Xaden leans closer, his voice pitched so low it's meant only for me.

“You owe me training from this morning. Studio C. Don’t be late again.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he is already turning away, sliding effortlessly into the crowd. Garrick and Bodhi fall in on either side of him, Liam trailing with a confused glance back at me.

I stand there a beat longer, heart hammering, before groaning under my breath. “Studio C,” I mutter. I grab my bag's strap tighter as I make my way to AP Statistics with Melgren.

The heavy door creaks as I slip inside, the smell of chalk, sweat, and mats grounding me instantly. The overhead fluorescents cast the room in a pale glow, but Xaden already stands in the center, jacket off, gloves on, and a look that promises zero mercy.

“You’re late,” he says flatly.

I roll my eyes as I grab my gloves. “You say that every time. I was in French class on the other side of the school.”

“Excuses don’t win fights. Shoes off. Gloves on.” His eyes sweep over my stance, sharp and unreadable.

I grit my teeth but obey, tugging on my sparring gloves. The mats are cool under my socks as I square up across from him. I've been bracing for this all day, the storm in my head begging for an outlet. Balance, knees loose, arms up. Garrick’s voice echoes in my head—Don’t telegraph your first strike.

“Same as last time?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. You’ve got too much energy wound up—you’ll make mistakes. We’re going full contact until you stop holding back.”

I snort. “You wish.”

I feint left, pivot on the ball of my foot, and snap a roundhouse kick that would’ve clipped his jaw—if he hadn’t ducked at the last second.

His smirk is infuriating. “Better. You're fighting like you’re angry,” he says between moves, voice teasing.

“Maybe I am,” I shoot back, twisting out of his grip. “At you. At her. At—”

“Good.” He catches my wrist mid-swing, tugging me closer. Our faces are only inches apart, his breath warm against my temple, and my body betrays me. Stupid teenage hormones. “Use it. Anger’s only a weakness if you let it control you.”

I yank free, planting both hands on his chest and shoving hard. He slides back half a step, surprised, and I pounce on the opening, sweeping his legs. For a split second, victory blooms in my chest— The weeks of drills show in every strike—my jabs tight, my footwork cleaner, combinations clicking together in a rhythm that used to elude me. He blocks two, slips one, but the fourth grazes his ribs.

A startled laugh escapes me. “Got you.”

Xaden’s answering grin is sharp, dangerous. “You think that counts?”

Before I can blink, he closes the distance. Our arms tangled, his weight forcing me back step by step. I twist free of his grip like Bodhi drilled into me, using my 5'9" frame to duck low, sweep his leg, and send him stumbling.

For the first time, Xaden hit the mat on his back.

I freeze, chest heaving, a wild rush of triumph flooding me. “Looks like it does count.”

But he's already up, moving with lethal precision. The shift in his energy makes my spine prickle—he isn’t holding back anymore for sure. His counterattack is relentless, testing every defense I have, every ounce of training Garrick has hammered into me. I parry one blow, roll with another, and barely dodge his grip. Sweat drips down my temple, muscles screaming, but I refuse to give in.

Finally, he catches my wrist mid-strike, spins, and hooks my arm behind my back. In one swift move, I'm pinned against the mat, his body hovering just enough not to crush me, his breath steady despite the fight.

“Better,” he says again, quieter this time. I notice my hair has come out of its braid, and the black inky tendrils are splayed across the mat. I watch his throat bob, and his arm looks like it wants to shift, but it doesn't. His eyes search mine, and for a moment, the air between us is hotter than the spar itself.

My heart thuds like a war drum. “You didn’t have to go that hard.”

“I'm sure you've wanted proof that you're stronger after all these weeks,” he murmured, still not letting go. “Now you have it, but strength isn’t enough if you lose focus.”

I jerk my arm, glaring up at him. “Get. Off. Me.” I hate the way my body is reacting to him. I look away from his eyes, a blush appearing.

His lips twitch, half amusement, half something else. Slowly, he releases me and offers a hand. This time, I take it—but only so I can yank him forward and make him stumble just enough to wipe that smug look off his face.

Xaden straightens, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “See you in the morning, Captain, and don't think about skipping out.”

My pulse is still racing, my palms sweating inside the gloves. I turn away so he doesn’t see the grin tugging at my mouth.

“Insufferable,” I mutter, taking a swig from my canister.

“And yet,” he calls out, “you keep showing up.”

The dining table is alive with color—deep red jollof rice, golden plantains, and a pot of egusi soup steaming in the middle while Dad slices into perfectly grilled suya chicken. The whole house smells like spice and roasted peppers, and I’m already starving.

“Sit, sit,” Dad says, waving me over with the carving knife still in hand. “Before your mother steals all the plantains again.”

Mom raises an eyebrow, elegant even in her work blouse. “You make it sound like I don’t share.”

“You don’t,” I say with a grin, sliding into my chair.

Mom pretends to look offended, but I catch the smile tugging at her lips as Dad sets the platter down. “Fine. I’ll leave the plantains to you two.”

We fall into easy rhythm—passing dishes, trading jabs, the clink of cutlery mixing with laughter. For a while, it’s just comfort food and comfort company, until Mom sets her glass down with that We-have-news look.

“Smartfin’s L.A. talks went better than expected,” she says. “The board is leaning toward Santa Monica. Robert still thinks downtown is better.”

Dad points his fork at her, mock-serious. “And Robert will be right, as always.”

Mom laughs, then turns to me. “What do you think, Ciara? Big glass towers downtown, or something modern by the beach?”

I lean back, considering. “Downtown feels… predictable. But Santa Monica? That gives off innovation, forward-thinking. If I were on the board, I’d vote west.”

Dad beams like I just won the case of the century. “See? Future lawyer already making stronger arguments than half the firm.” Heat creeps into my cheeks, but I don’t mind. “What can I say? Harvard Law won’t know what hit them.”

Mom reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “You’ve wanted this since you were, what, twelve? I still remember you writing mock contracts for us when we had a dream about buying a cabin.”

“And charging us five dollars for signatures,” Dad adds dryly.

I snort. “Hey, fair rates for excellent legal counsel.”

We all laugh, and for a moment the world feels small and perfect—just food and laughter. When the plates are finally scraped clean and Dad is stacking dishes, I head upstairs with my stomach full and my chest lighter than it’s been all week. I love my parents.

My phone buzzes the second I collapse onto my bed. Stella joins me and begins bumping her head into mine.

Lieam💛 : Heard you skipped training with Xaden this morning. You good?

I stare at the message, thumb hovering. Of course, Garrick would run his mouth. Still, I can’t help the little smile tugging at my lips

Ciara: Define “good.” Sore, tired, and kind of done with people today.

Lieam💛 :…so not good.  Want to tell me why you suddenly need bodyguards walking you to 2nd period??

Ciara: 🙄 Word travels fast.

Lieam💛 : not fast. I was there. I saw Xaden shove you at us like we’re your security detail. Since when do you need an escort?

Ciara: It’s… complicated.

Lieam💛 : That’s not an answer, Cee.

Ciara: (typing… deleting… typing again) Someone’s mad at me.
Ciara: Well. More like someone hates me.

Lieam💛 : name.

Ciara: Drop it, please. Xaden said he already “handled it.”

Lieam💛 : C I A R A.....I’ll make sure you’re not cornered again, who was it?

Ciara: …Catriona.

(read 9:47 PM — no reply for three minutes)

Lieam💛 : You fought with Cat?? as in—Poromiel princess, claws-out, cheer captain Catriona??

Ciara: !!!!!!!! She came at me. She's a PRINCESS?!?!? What is she doing in Louisiana???
Ciara: I didn’t exactly go looking for her in a locker room.

Lieam💛 : Breath, Cee. You know she doesn’t let go of grudges, right? …I’m not leaving you to deal with this alone.

Ciara: I can handle it.

Lieam💛 : You don’t have to. That’s the point.

I stare at the screen, not sure whether to argue or let myself feel how steady his words are. I'm grateful for a friend like Liam.

Ciara: You’re too good, you know that?

Lieam💛 :  Just loyal. Get some sleep, Captain.

Ciara: Aye aye, Lieutenant. 😉

I stretch out my sore arms, still buzzing from yet another punishing spar with Xaden. He hadn’t let me slack for even a second, and I know my legs will be jelly by 3rd period. He left early without a word after getting a text. I adjust my backpack when my phone buzzes.

Lieam💛 : Front
Ciara: Thought you had early drills?
Lieam💛 : Did them. Still walking you in.

I roll my eyes but smile anyway. Xaden made it very clear that I was not to skip their morning sessions, which meant no more carpooling with Liam and Sloane for a bit.

When I step outside, he’s leaning against the wall right before the double doors that lead to the gym's atrium, looking every bit the protective older brother type.

“You’re limping,” Liam observes immediately.

“I’m sore,” I correct, tugging my leather jacket tighter. “There’s a difference.” He falls into step beside me, the picture of casual calm, but his eyes keep scanning the corners like he’s expecting trouble.

“You know,” I say, bumping his arm lightly, “if anyone sees you shadowing me like this, they’re going to think I’m in witness protection.”

“Maybe you should be,” he mutters. “You fought Cat, Ciara. People don’t just… walk away from that, at least not socially. I've known here for a good while, and I'd rather talk to a wet mop than her.” I wince but don’t answer. This is definitely not how I saw my senior year going.

By the time we make it down the hall to Kaori’s class, I can feel the storm brewing before I even see him.

Xaden is leaning against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed, jaw set like carved stone. A ripple of awareness goes through the hallway—people glance, whisper, then move faster to their classes.

And across from him, sharp and furious in her cheer uniform, stands Catriona Cordella. Her voice is low but venomous. “You think shielding her makes you noble? She doesn’t belong anywhere near you, Xaden.”

I stiffen, and Liam tries to turn me away. I shouldn’t stop, shouldn’t listen, but my feet betray her.

Xaden doesn’t flinch. “What I do with a training partner isn’t your concern.”

Catriona’s laugh is brittle, almost unhinged. “Not my concern? When everyone in this school knows you’re mine? What about your father and mother, Xaden? My uncle?!?”

The hallway goes still, like even the walls are listening. A couple of underclassmen scurry into Kaori’s room without looking back, but the whispers multiply—Cordella never shouts without an audience.

I feel Liam tense beside me, like he’s ready to plant himself between me and the fallout. My heart is hammering, but I can’t look away.

Xaden’s gaze sharpens, cutting, dangerous in its quiet. He doesn’t even blink. "That’s the problem,” he says evenly. “They only know what you keep telling them, and you’re delusional if you think anyone owns me. Not you. Not your uncle."

The air between them crackles. For a heartbeat, Catriona’s smile falters, her manicured nails curling against her arms. “You’ll regret saying that.”

“Maybe.” His voice is a blade sliding free of its sheath. “But I don’t make a habit of repeating myself.”

“You don’t get to act like she matters more than me. Not after everything our families have risked!”

Xaden’s jaw flexes. His voice is low, lethal. “This isn’t about our families.”

I freeze. Families? Risk? What am I missing here? This sounds bigger, heavier—like something that had nothing to do with pep rallies or AP classes.

Her dark hair swings as she steps forward, chin lifted like she still owns the ground she’s walking on. “And what about her?” Her finger slices toward me like an accusation. Heads turn, and suddenly it feels like every pair of eyes in the hall is on me. Liam moves in front of me. I hold my binder tighter.

“You think dragging her into your world makes her safe? You think she’s worth it?”

The heat rushes to my face, but before I can open my mouth, Liam shifts just enough to let me see around his shoulder. “Back off, Cat.” His voice is quiet steel, no theatrics. “You’ve already lost.”

Something flashes in Catriona’s eyes—hatred, fury, humiliation, I can’t tell. For a long beat, silence stretches between us. Then Xaden finally looks at me, eyes like storm clouds, unreadable. He doesn’t say a word. She follows that gaze, her eyes narrowing. Red-rimmed, furious, unrelenting.

She spins on her heel and storms down the hall, leaving whispers in her wake.

I swallow and duck inside the classroom, Liam slipping in behind me. His hand brushes my elbow—silent reassurance—but I know it’s only the beginning of whatever it is I've stepped into the middle of.

“You heard that, right?” I say to Liam as I stop near the teacher's desk that is vacant.

Liam’s face stays carefully blank, his soldier’s mask dropping into place. “Don’t worry about it, Cee. Let Xaden deal with her.”

Which is the exact opposite of comforting.

Chapter Text

Another week has come and gone, and we settle further into the Fall weather, marking the end of September. The scent of butter hits me before I even step into the living room. Dad’s at the stove with his “magic popcorn pot,” shaking it like the fate of the world depends on it, muttering, “Timing is everything,” while the kernels explode inside. Mom sets bottles of sparkling apple cider on the coffee table, the green glass glinting under the lamp. 

By the time everyone trickles in, the living room is packed. Violet and Dain claim one corner of the couch. Sawyer has Jesinia tucked against him, whispering something that makes her laugh. Ridoc plops into the pink beanbag I brought down from my room like it’s a throne, and Rhiannon and I stake out the middle couch cushions with the biggest blanket in the house.

“Movie night tradition,” Ridoc declares, shoving a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. The 3 bags of chips he brought on the table as well. “We roast everything. Especially Godzilla.”

“Good,” Jesinia signs back, then adjusting her hearing aid. “You’d get stomped by him in two seconds.”

Ridoc gasps, offended. “Please. The monster would trip over my amazing main character energy and spare me.”

I snort, tugging the blanket higher. “You’d trip over your own feet first.”

“Facts,” Rhiannon adds, and we collapse in laughter. Rhi goes for a cup of apple cider, “Pretty sure this is just giant lizard ASMR. I'm Team Kong.”

Sawyer is digging through the popcorn bowl. “Don’t let Ridoc fool you about the roasting. He cried the last time Godzilla fought King Ghidorah.”

“I was emotionally invested!” Ridoc shoots back. “It’s called depth, Sawyer. Look it up.”

I chuckle, but it slowly dies. I texted Garrick and Liam if they wished to come over, but they both said they had things to do, more than likely revolving around Xaden. Sloane, unfortunately, was also preoccupied. We carpooled like two more times since Xaden 'affirmed' my sparring schedule. I miss her, she's also like a little sister. Hopefully, we can find time to hang out.

The movie rolls. Chaos follows:

Ridoc: “Godzilla stomping Tokyo is just me looking for curly fries in the cafeteria.”

Jesinia: “No, that’s you looking for a date to Homecoming.”

Dain: “Imagine having to study for AP Physics with this happening in your backyard.”

Violet: “I’d rather fight the butterfly-looking one.”

Rhiannon: “Ciara could box him and win.”

Me: “Not unless Garrick drilled my footwork first. Something about pure spite, really gets the blood going.”

Sawyer: “Same energy as Violet in AP Chem last week.”

Violet: “That was one Bunsen burner, not an explosion.”

Sawyer: “You singed your eyebrows.”

By the time the credits roll, my stomach hurts from laughing harder than I have in weeks. Even Ridoc’s endless commentary can’t ruin it. They all linger, stretching, shoving blankets into bags, saying thanks to my parents.

Everyone thanks my parents, and Mom makes them promise to drink water before bed, Dad insists they don’t let Netflix rot their brains. The squad filters out into the neighborhood, laughter fading into the cool night.

That’s when Sawyer freezes on the passenger side of his Civic, before Jesinia can even get in. “Uh… Ciara?”

I follow his gaze. Parked across the street, in the driveway to the house, where I saw Liam's mom and Garrick's dad, is the sleek black Jeep Wrangler.

I look at him, confused, that Wrangler has been there since we got here. I’ve been parking next to it since the first week of school. The subtle scratch on the bumper. The too-clean thick off-road tires. And—the black rubber duck someone left on my hood one morning. I just don't know who drives it.

.

.

.

“Pretty sure that’s Xaden Riorson’s. He was parked by the gym this morning. Same Jeep," Sawyer says casually.

Jesinia perks up. “Wait, Xaden Xaden?”

Heat floods my face. I laugh too quickly. “What? No, can’t be.” This has got to be an actual joke. Yep, just a joke, what a fun way to end the night.

Ridoc pipes up, trying to get a better look. "No, Sawyer's right. I've seen him rip out of the parking lot many a time since he got it for his 16th birthday."

"Yeah, right, but how do you know it's him, for real?" I am literally about to spiral.

Rhi squints, and her eyes widen. She jogs past our gate and looks before crossing the street. "Rhi," I call out. "What are you doing?!?"

She looks over her shoulder to hold a finger to her mouth at me, "Shoosh! I'm trying to get a closer look." She grabs hold of the house's gate and peers through the windshield of the Jeep.

But my pulse is already hammering. My laugh comes out too sharp, too quick. “Right. Totally normal. Because Xaden Riorson just… hangs out in my neighborhood?”

Violet smirks. “Does he?”

Rhi walks back, head low like she's toiling over information in her head. "Didn't you say you, when you texted Violet and I, that you put a glittery pink duck on the dashboard of a black jeep, on the first day?"

My throat gets caught in the middle, and the only thing I can do is nod.

She comes closer to pat me on the shoulder with pursed lips, "Welp, babygirl. Things are about to get a LOT more interesting around here. Round it up, y'all."

I shake my head, coming out of my realization that Xaden-Freaking-Riorson lives directly across from me in that beautiful home that overlooks all of New Bordeaux.

I turn to them as they all pack up, "You guys can NOT leave me in my time of emotional need!"

Ridoc smirks as he hops in his car, "Probably best if you accept that Riorson isn't going anywhere, anytime soon."

I smack my forehead, "왜 나야?" (Why me?)

The Saturday shift at Father James’s soup kitchen is always busy, but this week it feels almost overwhelming. The Hollow never sleeps, and the line winding down the cracked sidewalk is proof of that. Inside, the smell of broth and fresh bread fills the air as volunteers hustle to keep bowls full and trays moving.

I slip on an apron, tie my hair back into a high pony, and glance at the tables—wipe them down, stack the trays, clean the benches and chairs..

Imogen is starting at the service line, hair freshly dyed cotton-candy pink, the shaved side gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She ladles the noodle soup into a small pot so that it can sit atop the counter, as Reggie serves.

Another girl breezes in through the back, a trash bag in hand. Quinn. Her blonde hair bounces with each step, and her grin lights up the entire kitchen. Quinn always seemed like the level-headed one, but Imogen's personality is growing on me. 

“There you are Ciara,” she says, bumping shoulders with Imogen before turning to me. “I emptied the trash and checked the bathrooms. Anything else?" Arny grabs the trash bag from Quinn, and she fully turns to me, awaiting her next orders. 

The morning moves fast—Imogen tries her hand at leading the service line, Quinn charms the regulars by remembering names almost instantly, and I rotate between refilling trays, wiping tables, and greeting folks as they come in. Every so often, Imogen glances my way like she’s checking if she’s doing it right. I give her small nods, which she accepts with only a little eye roll.

At one point, a man drops his tray, and Quinn swoops down like a superhero, cracking a joke about her “five-second floor rule” that gets him laughing despite his embarrassment. The sight softens something in me.

“You two aren’t bad,” I admit when the rush slows, grabbing paper cups of water for us.

“Careful, Smith,” Imogen says, taking hers. “Give me too many compliments, and I might start liking you.”

Quinn smirks. “She already does.”

Imogen groans, but I can’t help grinning as I sip my water.

I’m about to respond when the double doors creak open near the back storage room, and the air shifts. I glance up, spoon still hovering over a bowl—and freeze.

Xaden Riorson steps inside.

He doesn’t look like he's ready to volunteer. Not in his dark jeans, not in his black jacket with the sleeves shoved up. He’s not looking for an apron or a hair net. He’s holding an envelope.

My pulse skips. Of all the soup kitchens in the city… why here? Why now?

He doesn’t even glance up my way, I guess, since I am hovering around a corner. Thanking God that Imogen and Quinn are nowhere to be seen. Father James steps forward from the storage room racks, surprise flickering across his kind features before it melts into something else—respect, maybe even gratitude. They exchange a few quiet words, and Xaden passes him the envelope.

He doesn’t linger. No speech, no acknowledgment of the whispers that rise behind him. He simply inclines his head and walks out the same way he came, like he’d never been there at all.

I exhale.

I’m rooted to the floor, still staring at the door long after it closes. Father James comes up through the kitchen, calling for me. I leave my hiding spot and meet him in the middle of the floor. “That friend of yours,” he says softly, eyes crinkling as he adjusts his eyes under the fluorescent lights.

I blink. “Friend? He mentioned me?”

He nods. “He donated today. Enough to cover our supplies for the next six months. Maybe more.” His voice carries both awe and disbelief. “Not many young men his age would think of a place like this. You should be proud.”

Proud. The word sticks in my throat.

There’s no way he just randomly picked this soup kitchen. Out of all the ones in the city, he shows up in mine?

I just nod, but inside my thoughts are a tangle. By the time I leave the Hollow, I already know what I’ll do. Tomorrow, at our Sunday study session, I’m getting answers.

I shut my bedroom door harder than I mean to, tossing my bag into the corner. My legs are sore from standing all morning, but it’s not the work that has my chest in knots. It’s him.

Xaden Riorson. In the soup kitchen. In Delray Hollow.

I yank out the elastic from my hair, fingers combing through the strands as I pace. My eyes flick to the window without meaning to, like maybe—just maybe—I’ll catch sight of headlights on the street. But of course, there’s nothing. He’s probably halfway across Frisco now, doing whatever with Bodhi or Garrick, tucked into that black Jeep that has always been parked next to mine.

The Jeep with the stupid black rubber duck.

A laugh slips out—dry, humorless. “Of course it’s his.”

All those mornings, all that time, I thought it was someone harmless. And instead? The prince of brooding himself. And, I had my suspicions, but I wasn't sure what I would do if I was actually right.

I flop onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. My stomach twists. He was there. At the soup kitchen. Why? Why slip in like he didn’t want anyone to notice? Why bolt?

And why does it matter so much that he did?

I roll onto my side, glaring at the glow of my phone on the nightstand. My fingers itch to grab it, to type out something sharp. Why were you there? Why didn’t you stay? Why leave the duck if you were just going to—

I stop myself, pressing my palms into my eyes. No. Absolutely not. I’m not texting him. Not when we have a study session tomorrow. Not when we’re supposed to be rivals in the academic ring and nothing more.

Still… the image of his face in my head. At ease, friendly, another Xaden in another lifetime with a soft smile.

I grit my teeth. “Keep your eye on the prize, Smith.”

Law school. Harvard. Smartfin Lawyer. That’s the plan. Xaden Riorson is just… an obstacle. A distraction I refuse to trip over. A very aggravating, beautiful distraction.

I roll onto my back, yank my blanket up, and shove my phone under the pillow before I can change my mind.

The Frisco Library café on the first floor smells like burnt espresso and cinnamon rolls. I push through the heavy glass doors with my AP Stats binder clutched under my arm, trying to look like I have my life together.

Spoiler: I don’t. Not when I know who I’m about to see.

Sure enough, in the far corner of the second floor, there he is. Xaden Riorson, dark hoodie pulled over his head like it’s armor, pen spinning effortlessly between his fingers. He’s already claimed a booth, papers spread out with surgical precision. It looks less like a study session and more like he’s planning an invasion.

His eyes lift the second I approach. No smile. No scowl. Just that unreadable gaze that makes me feel like he knows every single thing I’m thinking.

“Wow,” I say, sliding into the same bench across from him. “Didn’t realize the assignment was to colonize the table.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Didn’t realize the assignment was to show up late.”

“It’s literally one minute past two.” I drop my binder down with a loud thud, just to annoy him. “Some of us don’t teleport everywhere.”

A flicker at the corner of his mouth—almost a smirk—but then he flips a page in his notes. “Open to chapter seven. Sampling distributions. You’re already behind.”

Ugh. Sampling distributions. I’d rather fight the Hulk.

We fall into a rhythm: him explaining formulas in that calm, clipped voice; me pretending I’m not lost while sneaking glances at how sharp his jaw looks when he concentrates.

It’s almost bearable. Until my phone buzzes.

The screen lights up with a FaceTime call.
Incoming Call: Teddy Bear 🧸
And the picture? Me, wrapped around Lincoln Clay in a hug, both of us grinning like idiots.

My blood goes cold. Because I don’t even have to look up to know Xaden saw it.

His pen stops mid-spin.

I fumble the phone closer to my chest and swipe to answer. “Hey, Lincoln,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice.

“Cee! Finally caught you. You busy?” Lincoln’s face fills the screen, messy dark curls and easy smile, like home wrapped in trouble.

“Uh, kind of.” My eyes dart up—yep. Xaden’s gaze is locked on me, bored and unblinking. “I’m in a study session right now. Can I call you back later?"

Lincoln raises an eyebrow. “Sure. Just wanted to check in.”

I smile, softer than I mean to. “Thanks. I’ll call after, promise. Love you, bye.” We hang up, and I set the phone down face-first on the table, trying not to combust.

The silence is thick enough to choke on. Xaden doesn’t say anything right away. But the silence is loud—sharp enough to cut through the stale library air. When I finally glance up, he’s leaning back in his chair, pen twirling between his fingers, eyes unreadable.

Finally, I clear my throat. “So… where were we? Sampling—What?”

“Nothing.” His tone is clipped, flat. The kind of nothing that means everything. I narrow my eyes. “Oh, please. You’re practically vibrating with judgment over there.”

His lips twitch. “Not judgment. Observation.”

“Uh-huh. And what, exactly, are you observing?”

“That you dodged his call like you’re guilty of something.”

I scoff. “Or maybe I just didn’t want to interrupt this thrilling study session.”

“Right.” The pen clicks between his fingers. “So he’s not your boyfriend.” My cheeks flame instantly. “What? No! He’s—he’s just Lincoln. We grew up together.” My mind tries to go elsewhere, but I can't let it in front of Xaden.

His brow arches like he doesn’t buy it. “And yet his name in your phone is… Teddy Bear.” I slap my palm over the phone before he can get another look, mortified. “You read too fast.”

“Maybe you make it too easy,” he says smoothly. I gape at him, words tripping over each other in my throat. So I just smirk, even though my pulse is sprinting, "You're not that special, Riorson." His grin turns sharper. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Mm.” I lean forward, resting my chin in my hand. “You looked seconds away from snapping my phone in half.” His pen taps once against the paper. Sharp. Controlled. “You think too highly of yourself.”

My grin widens as his eyes narrow. “God, this is perfect. Xaden Riorson. Jealous.”

He leans forward just enough that I catch the faintest edge in his voice. “Careful, Smith. That mouth of yours might get you in trouble.”

I raise my brows, utterly unbothered. “Only if you admit it first.”

He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. But the air between us is different now—charged, buzzing, like the equations on the page are the least important numbers in the room.

He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s half irritation, half laughter. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” I shoot back, echoing his favorite line, “you keep showing up.”

That gets me the smirk. The dangerous one. The one that makes my stomach do weird gymnastic flips. “Page 198,” he says instead of answering. “Read the problem out loud.”

I sigh, overdramatic, and flip to the page. “‘A simple random sample of 40 students is asked to record the number of hours they study each week…’ God, riveting.”

“You’d be riveting if you actually focused,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

My head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, casual as anything, but his eyes are gleaming. “You heard me. When you’re not running your mouth, you’re sharp. Quick. It’s distracting.”

Oh. Ohhh.

Heat floods my cheeks, but I decide—recklessly—that I’m not going to back down. “Distracting, huh? Should I apologize for existing, then?”

His smirk deepens. “Wouldn’t help.”

I clutch my pen tighter, fighting the smile tugging at my lips. “Careful, Riorson. Sounds like you enjoy this… rivalry.” The way he tilts his head, the curve of his mouth—it’s unfair how he can make one look feel like a challenge. “Maybe I do.”

For one wild second, I actually think I’m winning. I lean forward, emboldened. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep up.”

For the next hour, the only sounds are the scratch of pencils, the shuffle of paper, and the occasional sigh when one of us realizes we’ve botched a formula. To my surprise, it’s… easy. Comfortable. He’s sharp, patient in a gruff way, catching me before I spiral too far into overthinking.

“Check your denominator again,” he says, tapping the corner of my paper with his pen.

I groan, erasing furiously. “I love math, but I hate fractions when it comes to AP Stats.”

“They’re just numbers stacked vertically,” he replies, annoyingly calm.

“You sound like Garrick,” I mutter.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Garrick sounds like me.”

I jab my eraser at him. “Don’t start.”

The banter keeps the frustration away. By the time we both finish the practice set, I’m actually proud of myself—less flailing, more actual solving. I stretch my arms overhead, letting out a groan. “Okay, truce. My brain is officially fried.”

He leans back in his bench, stretching his long legs out under the table. “Not bad, Captain. You lasted longer than I thought.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say, though the corner of my mouth betrays me with a twitch. For a moment, it’s quiet again—comfortable silence—but the question that’s been burning since yesterday pushes its way to my lips.

“So,” I begin, tracing the edge of my notebook, “what were you doing at the soup kitchen?” The flicker in his eyes is so brief I almost miss it. His jaw tightens, but his tone stays casual. “Helping. What else would I be doing?”

I squint. “Doesn't seem like your thing.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” he says, voice low. And then, before I can press, he flips the page of his notes like the subject’s closed.

Frustration prickles, but I let it drop—for now.

“Ciara?”

My head jerks up, startled by the familiar voice. Across the library, Violet and Jesinia stand frozen between the rows of tables, both holding a stack of books like they’re props in a stage play.

“Oh—hey,” I say quickly, trying to sound casual.

Violet’s eyes flick from me to Xaden, then back again. Jesinia tilts her head, curiosity written all over her face.

“You two… study partners too?” Violet asks carefully.

“Apparently,” I answer before Xaden can, but he’s already leaning back in his spot, smirk tugging at his lips.

“Captain here needed someone to keep her from getting a B in AP Stats,” he says smoothly.

Violet’s brows shoot up. “Captain?”

Jesinia snorts, placing her books down to sign. “You give everyone nicknames or just her?”

“Just her,” he says without missing a beat and signing back, he knows sign language?

My cheeks flame, “Ignore him. He’s insufferable.”

Violet’s lips twitch, like she’s filing this moment away for later. “Right. Well… we were just grabbing some reference books. Don’t let us interrupt.”

“You already did,” Xaden says dryly.

Jesinia laughs outright. “Yup, definitely insufferable.”

“See?” I mutter, glaring at him, though my lips are fighting a smile. The girls wave and head off, whispering to each other as they go. I bury my face in my notebook.

When the aisle’s clear again, Xaden’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re surrounded.”

I blink at him. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward the doors. “Violet. Jesinia. Rhiannon. Liam. Hell, even Garrick and Bodhi like you. You’ve been here for, what, a month? And already you’ve got people watching out for you.”

I shrug, trying to play it off, though warmth creeps into my chest. “Maybe I’m just that likable.”

His smirk softens, something more thoughtful flickering behind his eyes. “Or maybe you don’t realize how rare that is.” The weight in his tone lingers, making me look down at my notes again so I don’t have to figure out what to do with it.

The silence stretches, his last words still humming in my chest.

Before I can second-guess myself, I shove my notebook closed and move from my side of the table. The sudden movement startling Xaden. His brows knit, suspicion flashing across his face.

“Ciara—”

I don’t let him finish. I stride around the table and slide into the same bench. Before my nerves can catch up to my body, I lean in and wrap my arms around him.

It’s clumsy, impulsive—my heart hammering like I’ve just thrown myself into a fight—but I don’t care. My cheek presses against his, the warmth of his skin startling in its intimacy.

Xaden goes absolutely still. Not just still—frozen. His entire body tenses, like he’s holding his breath, like the universe has short-circuited. And then, faintly, I feel it: the smallest tremor, a shudder, running through him at the same time one zips down my spine.

I should pull away. I should.

But for one charged heartbeat, I don’t.

When I finally release him and lean back, his face is crimson—cheeks flushed, ears pink, even the tips creeping red. He looks like someone unplugged his sarcasm, completely undone.

“You think I’m rare?” I ask softly, searching his eyes. “No one’s ever said that to me.”

His mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

“You’re rare too, Xaden,” I continue, my voice firmer now, fueled by a swell of honesty I didn’t know I had. “No matter how tough you act, you care about people. I’ve seen you stand up to bullies. I’ve seen you fight for people who don’t even notice you’re doing it.”

His throat bobs. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, look almost… lost. I push back suddenly, grabbing my backpack before I can let myself linger any longer.

He finally exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

“Ciara—”

But I’m already slinging the strap over my shoulder, refusing to look at him again because if I do, I might stay. My boots scuff against the polished floor as I head toward the doors, every nerve in my body still buzzing from that reckless hug.

“Ciara!”

His voice cuts through the hushed quiet.

I freeze for half a second but force myself to keep walking. I push the heavy glass door open, the cool late afternoon air rushing over me like a reprieve. My pulse hasn’t slowed down, my skin still tingling where his cheek brushed mine.

The door swings again behind me. Heavy footsteps hit the sidewalk.

Of course, he followed.

“Ciara, wait.”

I turn, clutching the strap of my backpack, bracing myself for… I don’t know. Anger? Confusion? Something real?

Xaden stops a few paces away, jaw tight, shoulders tense like he’s gearing up for battle. His eyes lock on mine, burning with something I can’t name.

For a second, his mouth opens. He looks like he wants to say something—something important. But whatever it is, he swallows it back. His gaze flickers, unreadable, before he huffs out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re weird,” he mutters.

The words should sting, but instead, they warm me, curling around the edges of my chest. Because I catch it—the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of a smile he’s trying and failing to hide.

I can’t help it. My own smile breaks free, soft but certain. I almost laugh. Instead, I tilt my head, let a slow grin spread across my face, the kind of grin that says checkmate.

“Maybe,” I say, swinging my bag higher on my shoulder. “But at least I know the black rubber duck was yours.”

The faintest flicker crosses his expression. A crack in the armor.

“Yeah,” I continue, smug now, savoring the words. “I knew the second I saw it sitting on my dashboard. Because I’m the one who put the pink glittery duck on yours the first day of school, but...you already knew that, and now? I know exactly where you live...neighbor.”

Silence. Just the cool air between us and his eyes, burning like a storm barely held back. I lean in the slightest bit, dropping my voice into a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “So I win this round.”

For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us, standing outside the library with things unsaid hanging thick between us. Then he shakes his head, turns, and strides back toward the building like nothing happened.

But I saw it. That flicker. That boyish smile. For once, I leave him speechless.

And it’s enough to make my heart race all the way home.

Chapter Text

The hum of chatter in AP U.S. Gov dies the moment Principal Devera and Mr. Markham step front and center stage. It isn’t unusual for both of them to show up together, but their wide grins stretch across their faces, telling us this isn’t going to be another lecture on the Constitution.

Devera claps her hands once, drawing all our attention. “Alright, everyone. We’ve got an announcement that I think you’ll want to hear.”

Beside her, Markham adjusts his tie and holds up a stack of permission slips. “Frisco Fields has been selected to attend this year's National Model United Nations Conference in Washington, D.C., October 25-26.”

The auditorium ripples with gasps, cheers, and murmurs of excitement. Violet sits up straighter, eyes widening as if Markham has just announced a free trip to the moon. Ridoc lets out a low whistle. Even Dain, usually composed, breaks into an unguarded grin.

Devera continues, her voice carrying over the noise. “It’s a four-day trip on the 2nd to the last week of October. You’ll attend panels, represent assigned countries, and even tour some landmarks. We’ve arranged the flight, a visit to the Capitol, the African American History Museum, and a sightseeing stop at the National Mall. It’s not required, but it’s an incredible opportunity—and yes, it will look great on your college applications.”

Markham speaks up again, "Take this last week in September to get in your permission slips, only the first 80 will be going. Monday of next week, we will announce the countries assigned to every group of 4. You will have two weeks to prepare yourselves before the convention."

Permission slips start making their way down the rows. Sawyer snags a stack, passing them out with some dramatic flourish. “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for the cultural experience of a lifetime.”

Rhi rolls her eyes but tucks the slip carefully into her binder. “You’re just excited because you get to dress in a suit for three days straight, and I know your favorite is the burgundy one.”

Sawyer presses a hand to his chest. “And what a glorious three days those shall be.”

I shake my head, biting back laughter, and take my slip from his pile. Smooth white paper, the bold words NATIONAL MODEL UNITED NATIONS stamped across the top. My name itches to be written at the bottom already.

On my left, Liam practically vibrates with excitement, bouncing his leg against the auditorium chair. “We’ll see the Smithsonian? And the African American museum? And the Lincoln Memorial?” His accent wraps around the words, his enthusiasm so pure it's contagious.

I smile. “Looks like you’re ready to take over as tour guide already.”

Liam beams. “This is perfect. Back home, we studied a bit of American government, but to be here? To walk where history was made? I want to see everything.”

Behind us, Garrick leans over the back of Liam's chair, smirking. “Don’t get lost in a museum, Liam. You remember what happened in Dallas?“

"Hey! It was one time!” Liam shot back, grinning.

My eyes flick upward, just for a moment. Xaden sits with that bored mask in place. His permission slip is balanced between his fingers, unread, like the decision was already made the second the words left Markham’s mouth.

Rhiannon nudges me with her shoulder. “So? You going?”

I tuck the slip into my folder, heart already buzzing with excitement. “Of course. Who’d want to miss D.C.?”

One by one, we nod in agreement—Ridoc stretching lazily and muttering, “I’m in,” while Violet squeezes Dain’s hand, whispering something that made him smile, nodding his head. Looking over, even Quinn, across the aisle, raised her permission slip like a flag of victory, while Imogen just chuckles at her.

Around us, chatter buzzed louder. Nyra is already scheming which committees would be the most fun. Septon taps his pencil against his leg, clearly overwhelmed but curious. Soleil and Lamani whisper furiously about outfits, while Nadine clutches her slip with a determined gleam in her eyes.

But not everyone is excited.

From the far right side, Pryor’s hand trembles as he stares at his slip, lips pursed like he might fold the whole thing into an origami crane just to make it go away. Luca leans over with her signature smirk. “Don’t worry, Pryor. Maybe they’ll assign you Antarctica so you won’t have to talk.”

“Luca,” Rhiannon snaps, glaring. As do I, she knows I don't tolerate that kind of behavior on or off the court.

“What?” Luca shrugs. “I’m just being practical.”

I frown, heat rising in my chest. Pryor ducks his head lower, his shoulders curling inward.

Markham quiets us all down again so that class can begin, and I open my binder up to a fresh page.

The bell rings, and Devera’s voice cuts through again. “Make sure these are signed and turned in by Friday. But I have no doubt, we'll have to close submissions by Wednesday. And remember—you’ll be representing Frisco Fields, so conduct yourselves accordingly. Dismissed.

The hallway buzzes like a hive after Markham and Devera’s announcement, permission slips fluttering in hands as everyone pours out of AP Gov. Conversations overlap so thickly that it is hard to follow one thread from another.

“I call dibs on France!” Soleil announces, her voice carrying above the noise as she adjusts her oversized cardigan.

“France?” Nyra shoots back. “Please. If anyone deserves France, it’s me. You don’t even know their current president’s name.”

Soleil rolls her eyes dramatically. “Obviously Macron.”

“Uh-huh,” Nyra says, unconvinced.

“Both of you are wrong,” Tyvon chimes in from behind, a wry grin curling across his face. “The real prize is the U.K. You get to sound smart and complain about everything in a posh accent.”

Iron Squad collects like magnets near the lockers, chattering over each other. Of course, Ridoc is the loudest. Already hyping himself up, throwing mock punches in the air. “We’re gonna crush it. Debate, diplomacy, politics—whatever they throw at us, Iron Squad always wins.”

“Ridoc,” Violet says wearily, “you realize we don’t actually win Model U.N., right? It’s about cooperation and negotiation.”

He blinks at her, then shrugs. “Yeah, but imagine if it wasn’t. I’d totally dominate.”

Sawyer throws his arm around Ridoc’s shoulders, nodding solemnly. “And that’s why we’re not letting you speak first.”

“Okay, real talk,” Rhiannon says as we reach the intersection that splits toward the cafeteria. “What country do we really want?”

I hesitate. “Germany, maybe? Or Japan. Somewhere important. Somewhere with a real voice.”

“Bold.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll take Canada. They’re polite, but sneaky about influence. That’s my brand.”

“So, here’s the other real question,” Ridoc asks, voice pitched like he's on a stage. “When we get to D.C., who’s lucky enough to share a room with me? Don’t all fight at once.”

Dain makes a gagging sound. “Please. Nobody wants your socks all over the floor. Remember the agriculture trip sophomore year?”

“They’re collectors’ socks,” Ridoc protests. “Limited edition Avengers prints. I even got Hawkeye to sign one. That’s culture.”

“You’re a menace,” Violet mutters.

Rhi folds her arms, mouth tilted. “You do know they’ll probably make it same-sex rooms, right? So your chances of wooing anyone vanish the second we get our keys.”

Ridoc clutches his chest dramatically. “Cruel. Heartless. Do you want me to suffer?”

“Yes,” Rhi, Vi, and I say in unison, setting off laughter down the hall.

I chuckle softly, hugging my books closer to my chest. Sawyer squinted at me, leaning closer. “Speaking of roommates, who do you think Xaden will get stuck with?”

Vi’s grin turns sharp. “Doesn’t matter. The question is…” She jabs a finger my way. “What’s your plan, Ciara?” I was half-hoping the topic would keep the spotlight off of me, but of course, I'm not spared.

Heat creeps to my cheeks. “My PLAN is to participate in the actual Model U.N., like we’re supposed to.”

“Uh-huh,” Ridoc drawls, “and definitely not trip over your words in front of a certain someone.” I glare, about to fire back, but then a hush ripples down the hall. Catriona’s voice slid into the group like oil.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go at all, Ciara.”

The air seems to tighten. Catriona stands a few feet away, arms folded, gaze sharp as glass. “Wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself on a national stage.”

I stiffen, caught between irritation and the familiar sting that always follows Catriona’s venom.

Before I can summon a reply, Imogen and Quinn step up beside me, Imogen folding her arms. Her voice is calm, sharp, and carries. “Funny, Catriona—I don’t remember anyone inviting you into the conversation. Guess you just can’t help hovering like a fly.”

Sawyer chokes on a laugh, Vi outright snorts, and even Dain smirks. Catriona’s glare flicks between me and Imogen before she huffs, flipping her hair and stalking away down the hall.

“God, she’s exhausting,” Ridoc mutters.

“She thrives on drama,” Imogen adds, then gives me a pointed look that says, Don’t let her get to you. Imogen for the win. Quinn nods, "She's always been a pain, probably afraid the spotlight'll stop being on her."

My phone buzzes in my pocket, saving me from having to say more about Catriona being catty. Hehe, see what I did there? I shift a step away from the group, pretending to adjust my bag while I slide my phone out.

The notification lights up my screen:

The Dictator📚: You'd better be going on this trip. Your notes need work.

My lips twitch. Of course. I type quickly, thumbs flying.

Ciara: Why should I? So you can get another hug? You and I both know AP Gov. is a subject I'm phenomenal at.

The Dictator📚: (typing bubble appears, disappears...) 🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪

I snicker, shoving the phone back into my pocket. Ridoc catches me. “What’s so funny over there, Ciara?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly, smoothing my expression. “Just imagining how quiet the bus ride to D.C. would be if you didn’t talk in your sleep.”

Ridoc’s mouth drops open. “That’s a vicious lie.”

“Is it?” Rhi smirks. “Because last time we had a team trip, you spent an hour mumbling about churros. Not to mention last week, you talked about puppies during the movie Kaori put on.”

The group erupts in laughter, Ridoc groaning loudly about betrayal. I smile, warmth cutting through the lingering tension Catriona left behind. In the back of my mind, I can’t stop replaying the text exchange....the knives....the hug.

And the way I actually wanted to hear his answer.

The days blur together after the NMUN announcement, a rhythm of schoolwork, NMUN prep sessions, and late nights in the Frisco Fields library that leave my highlighters permanently uncapped and my binder edges beginning to fray.

Permission slips had long since been signed and collected, the first eighty locked in by that Tuesday, the very next day, and money turned in. It was honestly like a movie. I hurried through sparring with Xaden, and he actually agreed that we needed to meet with Devera or Markham before 1st period.

The rest of the Iron Squad, present among the sea of students, except Sawyer, was just walking into the auditorium at 7:45 am. I quaintly asked Markham how many people had turned in their forms already, and 68 of them had. We yelled for Sawyer to run, and just before Pryor could make up his mind, Sawyer slapped down his form, and we celebrated. 

Group assignments were announced on Thursday, after Devera and Markham saw how hype we were to start prepping. This urgency sparked an entirely new wave of chatter across Frisco High.

Germany—my group—is stacked with Rhiannon, Violet, and Aurelie. A powerhouse delegation, Devera had called us when we first got into our groups to start researching our positions.

Japan’s members are equally intimidating—Imogen, Quinn, Nyra, and Soleil have been seen bent over laptops, arguing in hushed, fast-paced tones about trade policy and climate agreements. Nyra’s hands flying, her bracelets jangling like punctuation marks to her arguments.

France was its own brand of chaos: Catriona with her color-coded binders, Maren asking too many questions, Luella doodling flowers in the margins, and Selene somehow managing to make even parliamentary procedure sound sarcastic.

And then there was the U.K. delegation—Xaden, Bodhi, Garrick, and Liam—sitting like kings at their corner table, though half their prep sessions devolved into Garrick cracking jokes and Liam trying not to get flustered by Bodhi’s running commentary. 

Mexico’s crew—Dain, Sawyer, Ridoc, and Tynan—is pure comedy and chaos, Sawyer endlessly dramatizing every role-play debate, Ridoc trying to turn resolutions into rap lyrics, Tynan sighing like his life depended on patience, and Dain attempting to keep them all serious.

We all became acquainted with the library staff, and it was amazing to see everyone in their own little ecosystems of strategy and personality. Now, with the trip just days away, the air in the library carried the charged quiet of final prep.

The library is unusually quiet for a Monday with all the prep going on until we leave Thursday morning. Sunlight spilling across the long tables where a handful of students sit hunched over textbooks, more serious than ever before, with the debates coming up. I flip open my notebook, uncap a pen, and glance at Bodhi, who is still scrolling through his phone like he has all the time in the world.

“Bodhi,” I say sharply.

“Hmm?” he hums, not looking up.

“We have AP Lit tomorrow. Midterm. With Kaori.” I raise an eyebrow. “You know, the test that determines twenty percent of our grade this quarter?”

Bodhi finally looks up, unbothered. “I’m aware.”

“And you’re still scrolling?”

He smirks, sliding the phone into his hoodie pocket. “Relax, Captain—”

My head snaps up. “Nope. Not you too. That nickname is off-limits. And maybe only if you've got a racket in your hand.”

“Uh-huh. I hear it’s catching on,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe you should embrace it.”

“Or maybe you should actually study the Shakespeare passages you still keep mixing up.” I slide his copy of Hamlet across the table at him. “Here. Start with the soliloquy you keep butchering.”

Bodhi flips it open and clears his throat dramatically. “To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to—uh…” He squints at the page. “…to suffer the slings and arrows of, um—”

“Of outrageous fortune,” I supply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You’ve had weeks, Bodhi.”

He grins sheepishly. “You’re just mad I make it sound better.”

Ciara snorted. “Better? You sound like a dying lawnmower, and the owner is in denial as he keeps cranking it.”

“That’s insulting to lawnmowers.” We both laugh, the tension of studying slipping for a moment.

Bodhi taps his pencil on the table. “You know, if you weren’t around, I’d fail this class, miserably. Kaori would probably use me as an example of how not to read Shakespeare.”

“You still might,” I say sweetly. He puts a hand over his chest, mock offended. “You wound me, Ciara. Truly.”

“Good. Maybe pain will make you memorize faster.”

“Or maybe,” Bodhi says, leaning forward with that signature half-smirk, “you just like torturing me.”

I smirk right back, flipping a page in my notes. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted to torture you, I’d make you write the entire midterm essay in iambic pentameter.”

Bodhi groans dramatically, slumping in his chair. “Please, no. Anything but that.”

We work in companionable silence for a while, I quiz him on themes, Bodhi half-answering before I correct him, our rhythm easy and familiar. At one point, Bodhi leans back and mutters, “You know, between you tutoring me, sparring with Xaden, and being the tennis captain, I’m starting to think you’re the real leader of that Iron Squad of yours.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m serious,” Bodhi says with a lazy grin. “You keep us in line. You’re scarier than Xaden sometimes. You use your softness to get things in line. Power move.”

I roll my eyes, hiding the small smile tugging at my lips. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh. Deny it all you want, but don’t think we don’t notice.”

I shake my head, flipping another flashcard toward him. “Focus, Bodhi. If you don’t nail this theme, you’re toast.”

Bodhi grins, but obediently answers the question.

The first few exchanges weren’t flawless—Nadine still sighed too much when Luca overreached, Nyra still lagged on footwork—but something was shifting. The ball didn’t die after one mistake. Girls were covering each other, filling gaps. Voices carried across the court:

“Mine, mine, mine!”
“Switch left!”
“Good shot, good shot, stay back—got it!”

I jog the perimeter, calling encouragement where it is needed. “Yes, Aurelie! Commit like that every time. Nyra, don’t quit on a ball just because you think it’s out—let the umpire make that call, not you.”

Coach Emetterio watches with his arms folded, but he isn’t intervening. His eyes track me instead, and for once, I feel us become more and more synchronized.

Aura smacked a clean winner down the line, and instead of smirking at her partner, she turned to Aurelie. “Nice set-up. That was perfect. Aurelie beamed, cheeks flushed, and they high-fived.

That tiny moment hit me harder than any ace.

By the end of drills, sweat-dampened shirts and stray strands of hair clung to flushed cheeks, but the girls are smiling—actually smiling—through the exhaustion.

Coach blows the whistle once. “Water break.”

We huddle near the bench, gulping from bottles. Luca leans her racket against her shoulder, smirking at Nadine. “Not bad for a babysitter. Nadine shoves her lightly, but she's grinning too. “You’re still a ball hog.”

“Better than being a statue.”

The laughter that follows isn’t biting this time—it's warm, shared.

I lean back against the fence, watching the girls banter, my chest loosening for the first time since being named captain. We aren’t perfect, not yet, but we're finally starting to feel like a team.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement by the parking lot. A tall figure leaning against a familiar black jeep, arms folded, watching like he had been there a while.

Xaden.

Our gazes lock across the distance, the late sun gilding his sharp profile. His expression is unreadable from this far—but when he notices I’ve seen him, he straightens, pushes off the jeep, and slides behind the wheel.

The engine roars to life. A moment later, the jeep peels away, black paint catching the sun as it disappears down the road. I realize I’ve been gripping my racket too tightly, my knuckles pale.

Behind me, Nadine calls out, “Captain, you coming?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I force my voice steady. “On my way.”

But my pulse is still racing, and not from tennis drills.

By the time I make it home and the rest of my group shows up, the house is already in full pre-trip chaos.

Mom has spread at least three piles of sweaters and skirts across my bed, each one competing for space with my NMUN binder and the heels she swore I “needed for professional optics.”

“Eomma,” I groan, ducking into my room, “we’re going to D.C. for a conference, not New York Fashion Week.” The girls giggle as they make themselves comfortable

“You represent Germany,” Mom says firmly, brandishing a black blazer like it was a weapon. “Germany is sleek. Germany is prepared. Germany does not arrive looking like she got dressed in the dark.”

“Germany also has to pass AP Lit midterms tomorrow,” I mutter, dropping my bag by the door. Dad appears in the doorway, holding up my charger like it's a relic. “Do you want this in your carry-on or checked bag?”

“Carry-on,” I say automatically, then squint at him. “How are you more organized than me?”

“I’ve had practice. You see, I married your mother.” He winks, ducking out before Mom can swat him with a belt.

Meanwhile, Violet, Aurelie, and Rhiannon are sprawled across my floor like generals at a war council. Laptops open, highlighters rolling off my rug, sheets of paper marked with sticky tabs.

“Close the door,” Rhiannon says without looking up, right after my mom announces she has to check on dinner. “No distractions.” I nudge it shut with my foot, dropping cross-legged beside them. “How bad?”

Violet slides a legal pad across the carpet. Columns, arrows, and names stretch across the page like veins in a body. “If we want Germany to lead, we need more than solid speeches. We need alliances before the conference even begins.”

“Which,” Aurelie adds, “is impossible. Unless someone pulls strings the right way.”

That’s when all three of them looked at me.

Because this part wasn’t their idea. It was mine.

Weeks of late-night research, scanning past NMUN resolutions, learning voting blocs like other people learned song lyrics. Germany couldn’t outshout every delegation, but it could become the hub—the quiet axis others rotated around.

And I was going to make sure of it.

“Okay,” I said, leaning over the pad, “we lock climate policy first. It’s broad, it’s urgent, and everyone wants to have a hand in it. Rhiannon, you’ll float the framework resolution, but quietly—make it seem like a neutral idea, not a German one. Violet, you’re our firepower. Once Rhiannon gets traction, you come in with the data and make Germany sound indispensable. Aurelie, you’re our soft power. Build relationships, smile, trade favors. The French love you already—use that.”

Aurelie smirks. “You make it sound like espionage.”

“Politics is espionage with a dress code,” I say flatly, and they laugh, but it wasn’t really a joke.

We bend over the pad, sketching flows of influence, how each country may potentially sway with certain topics of interest. My friends are brilliant, but it's my design—each move already mapped two steps ahead.

And when they get too caught up in the details, I redirect. “Not that. Too obvious. This—subtle enough to slip through without a fight.”

Piece by piece, Germany’s rise wasn’t just possible. It's inevitable.

Mom finally finishes packing my clothes, satisfied. Dad checks the luggage locks one last time. Violet and Rhiannon pack up their laptops, and Aurelie stuffs sticky notes into her tote.

“We’ll meet again tomorrow night and take a breather on Wednesday,” I say, rolling the legal pad and tucking it into my binder. “Review the alliances. No one else sees this.”

They nod, each in turn. Loyal. Trusting. As they file out, Aurelie squeezes my shoulder. “You’re scary good at this, you know.”

I forced a smile. “Just prepared.”

When my room falls silent again, and I sit by the window with Germany’s binder open across my lap, I know the truth. This wasn’t just preparation. It is pure orchestration. Only time will tell..

Chapter Text

The gym smells like leather mats and sweat—thick, sharp, impossible to escape. It clings to my skin like static, like the air itself doesn’t want to let me go. Garrick’s voice cuts across the echoing space, hard and precise.

“Again.”

I square off against Bodhi. He’s bouncing on his toes like this is a game, like we’re not about to bruise each other in the name of progress. He lunges, faster than I expect, but I have to remember that he is Xaden's cousin, almost perfect in everything.

But my body knows what to do now. Pivot. Drop low. Shoulder into his center of gravity. My foot hooks his leg before he can blink, and then he’s flat on the mat with a thud that reverberates up my spine.

“Better,” Garrick says, crouching to study the angle of my stance. He nods, a little approving smile ghosting across his face, I notice a cut on his eyebrow and lip. “Follow-through is cleaner. A week ago, Bodhi would’ve flattened you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Bodhi wheezes from the ground.

I grin down at him and offer my hand. He takes it, groaning like an old man as I haul him upright. “You good?”

“Yeah, sure. Totally fine. Just remind me again why I’m your crash dummy, when Homecoming will be here next week? You’ve got actual skills now. This isn’t fun anymore.”

“That’s the point,” Garrick says. He folds his arms, smirk firmly in place. “Ciara’s tighter in her form, less hesitation. Those extra hours with Xaden have helped.”

Heat crawls up my neck, though I try to keep my face neutral. “Something like that.”

Something like Xaden’s voice in my ear, sharp corrections delivered without apology. Something like refusing to quit even when my muscles screamed. Something like him never letting me hide from myself.

Bodhi rubs his ribs, grimacing. “She’s not just better. She’s brutal. I liked it better when she tripped over her own feet.”

“Don’t encourage her ego,” Garrick teases, tossing me a towel. His tone shifts back to business in a heartbeat. “But really—good work. Keep this up, and you’ll be a challenge instead of a free win.”

I nod, swiping sweat from my temple. My muscles don’t feel shaky anymore. They hum. Alive. Capable.

“Alright, cool down. Both of you.” Garrick claps once, decisive. “We can't be late for Kaori’s test.”

The word test makes Bodhi groan like he’s been stabbed. “We’re all doomed. Kaori’s assignments are torture devices disguised as essays.”

“Relax,” I say, grabbing my water bottle. “We studied. You’ll be fine.”

He shoots me a betrayed look. “Easy for you to say, Miss ‘Quotes Shakespeare for Fun.’ My brain’s going to short-circuit halfway through.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Debatable.”

We head into the 200 hall, the buzz of the school wrapping around us. Students cluster in knots, comparing notes, panic-whispering predictions about which passages Kaori will throw at us, which essay topics he’ll decide are worthy of “reckoning.” Posters about the D.C. NMUN trip and Homecoming are plastered everywhere—bright flyers reminding everyone that Friday is the permission slip deadline. The whole building hums with nerves and anticipation, a double-edged storm.

And then I see him.

Xaden.

He’s leaning against the lockers like he owns the place, black collard shirt crisp, posture relaxed, black jeans fitting nicely to his tall frame. But the illusion cracks the second my eyes adjust. The bags under his eyes, black and gold eyes, are getting a smidge lighter than they were yesterday, and bruises still carve into his skin. He looks worn, edges fraying, like sleep hasn’t dared touch him in days.

Still, when his gaze lifts and locks onto mine, his expression doesn’t falter. Controlled. Cool. Untouchable. If I hadn’t seen the exhaustion, I might’ve believed the mask.

Beside me, Bodhi mutters, “Wow. Xaden looks like he lost a fight with insomnia.”

I elbow him, though my chest tightens. Because he’s not wrong. And the worst part? I don’t know if I want to ask or if I’m afraid of the answer.

The classroom smells like chalk and old books, the kind of scent that sinks into your bones if you stay too long. Quotes from every author Kaori gets inspiration from are plastered on the walls, like scripture etched in black ink. Desks are crowded with notes, highlighters, and restless tapping pens.

"Merry Field Trip Eve Eve, Ciara!" Ridoc is practically bouncing off the walls. Sawyer shakes his head and laughs as Vi and Dain giggle at him. Rhi is glossing over her notes for one last study check.

"Merry Field Trip Eve Eve to you too, Gamlyn." I smile and catch up with Bodhi as we go down our aisle.

Bodhi slumps into the seat in front of me, turning to me, muttering, “If I fail this, it’s on you.”

“You’re the one who refused to memorize the sonnets,” I whisper back, sitting and flipping through my color-coded flashcards.

“I had better things to do.”

“Like?”

“Sleeping. Eating. Not being tortured by Shakespeare. I study, but English literature is boring.”

“You’re impossible.”

Before he can answer, the air shifts.

Xaden enters.

Even with midterm panic pulsing through the room, heads turn for a heartbeat. He takes his seat across the aisle, movements smooth, practiced. And yet… the exhaustion clings. He can’t hide it, but his presence is still calming, commanding, like every space bends a little to him.

He catches me watching—of course, he does. One eyebrow arches, daring me to say something. I drop my gaze, but the words burn their way out anyway. “What's going on with you?”

His pen stills in his hand. Something flickers across his face, quick as a shadow. Then it’s gone. The mask clicks back into place.

“Focus on the test, Ciara.”

His voice is steady. I huff and lean back in my seat, frustration prickling under my skin. Typical. He keeps every truth locked behind sharp eyes.

At the front, Kaori sweeps in, crisp suit, sharper glare. He sets the exam booklets on his desk with deliberate care, like he’s laying down sacred texts.

“You’ve had 10 weeks of preparation,” he intones, eyes scanning the room like searchlights. “Today is the reckoning. Phones away, eyes forward. This is not merely a test—it is a measure of your ability to analyze, synthesize, and interpret the very foundation of literature itself.”

Several students breathe heavily under their breath. Bodhi sinks further into his chair. Kaori snaps his fingers once. The sound cracks like a whip. Silence falls.

“Begin.”

The booklets slap onto desks one by one. The air thickens, the scratch of pencils the only sound. My nerves buzz, adrenaline still singing from sparring, but beneath it all lingers the question I can’t silence.

What isn’t he telling me?

The paper is thick, almost too heavy for its own good. Kaori always chooses booklets that feel more like grim tomes than exams, as if the weight of the thing itself is supposed to remind you of how doomed you are.

I flip open the first page. A sonnet—Shakespeare, of course. He wouldn’t dream of starting us off with something light. The instructions glare up at me: Analyze the volta and discuss its impact on tone and meaning. Provide textual evidence.

My pencil moves before my panic can. Volta at line nine, the pivot—shifts from lament to hope. Shadows into light. But it’s fragile, not triumphant. My thoughts tumble faster than my handwriting, my script looping across the page like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.

Across the aisle, I hear the scratch of Xaden’s pen.

It’s ridiculous—there are at least twenty other students writing in here—but somehow his sound cuts through all of it. Even when I tell myself not to look, my eyes flicker sideways. His posture is sharp, controlled. Not slouched, not casual. Every line of his body says precision.

He pauses, eyes narrowing at the text. Then his hand moves again, steady, relentless.

It’s absurd how much calmer I feel when I see that. Like the test isn’t just mine to survive but something we’re enduring together, even if he’d never admit it.

“Ugh,” Bodhi groans in front of me, under his breath. “What’s a volta? Is that even English?”

“Focus,” I whisper back, not looking at him.

“You focus. I’m dying.”

“Shh!” Kaori’s voice slices from the front. Bodhi shrinks in his seat like a kid caught stealing candy.

I shake my head, hiding a smile, but when I glance sideways again, Xaden’s looking at me. Just for a second. Not at Bodhi, not at Kaori—at me.

And then he goes back to writing, as if nothing happened.

My chest tightens, a mix of irritation and something else I don’t have the courage to name.

I push through the next sections. A prose passage—Virginia Woolf, of course. Half the room shifts at the stream of consciousness, but I latch onto it, tracing the rhythm of the sentences, the way thought bleeds into thought. My pencil scratches out a thesis before I even realize I’ve committed: Consciousness as a tide—flooding, receding. Language bending to reflect the instability of perception.

Time doesn’t exist anymore, not in a real way. It’s just the steady pulse of my pencil, the beating of my heart, and that other sound—the faint, deliberate strokes of his pen.

When I flip a page, he flips his. When I pause, chewing at the end of my pencil, he stills too, gaze tilted down like he’s running the same silent calculations. It’s not perfect one-to-one, but it’s close enough to feel uncanny. Like we’re tethered to the same current, pulled forward by something neither of us can slow down.

Bodhi whispers to me, “What’s zeugma again?”

“Figure it out.” My reply is automatic, but my focus doesn’t budge. Because across the aisle, Xaden shifts, loosens his grip just slightly, rolls his wrist once before diving back in.

Half the test is behind me before I realize my leg’s been bouncing under the desk. I force it still, breathe slow, scan the poetry prompt on the last page. It’s brutal—an obscure modernist poem most people probably skipped in the anthology, but the challenge sparks something sharp in me.

I dive in. Not carefully, not cautiously—recklessly. Marking diction, tone shifts, and enjambment. My hand flies, and it doesn’t matter that my wrist aches, because for once, I know exactly what I’m trying to say.

And when I pause, drop my pencil for just a second to flex my fingers, I catch him doing the same thing.

It should feel weird. It should feel intrusive. Instead, it’s… grounding. Like proof, I’m not just imagining that whatever is happening here is real.

Kaori paces at the front, the sound of his shoes sharp against the tile. He calls out the time—“Twenty minutes left”—but it barely registers. I’m not in the room anymore. I’m in the current, caught up in the rhythm of my own thoughts and his beside them.

When I finally set my pencil down, the last essay complete, my chest is tight but not in the panicked way. In the way you feel after sprinting full speed and realizing you didn’t collapse, you made it.

I risk another glance.

Xaden’s closing his booklet too. Almost at the exact same second.

And when his eyes meet mine this time, there’s no mask. Not really. Just something raw.

The clock ticks louder now that my pen is still. Or maybe it’s just my nerves, buzzing like static under my skin. Around me, the room is split into two kinds of people: the frantic scribblers still clawing for one last sentence, and the ones slumped in defeat, staring at the ceiling like it holds mercy.

I’m neither.

My essays are messy in spots, my handwriting tilted sharper than usual, but the arguments are clear, the evidence anchored. It’s solid. Mine. I exhale, slow and steady. My fingers twitch against the edge of the paper, but I don’t touch it again. No second-guessing. Not this time.

Across the aisle, his hand stills too.

Xaden.

He closes his booklet with the same deliberate finality I did, as if he’s sealing something in. His shoulders roll back, posture straightening, not in arrogance but in certainty.

He moves.

And so do I.

It isn’t planned. I don’t even think about it. The scrape of my chair on the tile happens in the same heartbeat as his, two notes of the same chord. Heads lift around the room, curious, startled.

Kaori’s gaze slices to us immediately.

Of course it does. Nothing slips by him.

Xaden doesn’t flinch under it. He never does. He walks forward with that same lethal grace he carries everywhere, exam booklet in hand like a blade sheathed. His eyes flick once toward Kaori, then away, daring him to comment.

And me?

My pulse hammers, but my legs don’t waver. I match his stride, not perfectly—he’s taller, every movement longer, sharper—but enough. Enough that the rhythm feels synced, deliberate, even if it isn’t.

When I step up beside him at the front, the silence in the room sharpens.

Kaori takes my booklet first. His fingers brush the cover, lingering just a moment longer than necessary, his sharp eyes narrowing like he’s trying to read me instead of the paper.

“Confident, are we?” His voice is silk over steel.

“Yes, sir,” I answer, steady. My voice doesn’t shake, though my stomach twists.

A single eyebrow arches, then he slides my booklet onto the growing stack.

Xaden passes his over next. Their eyes meet—Kaori’s sharp, probing, Xaden’s cool, unreadable. For one second, the air between them feels electric, like they’re locked in a silent duel.

Then Kaori takes the booklet. Sets it down.

Dismisses him.

We turn together.

The walk back feels longer than the one forward, every eye in the classroom tracing the space between us. I can hear Bodhi’s whispered commentary already, though he has the sense not to speak until I sit.

“Show-offs,” he mutters as I slide back into my seat, though his grin is wide. “Could’ve let the rest of us mere mortals suffer a little longer.”

“You survived,” I whisper back, trying to focus on shoving my pencil into my bag instead of the way my heart is still thrumming from that walk.

“Barely. My brain’s fried eggs. Sunny-side up.”

Before I can reply, Kaori calls time. A collective sigh ripples across the room as the stragglers shove their booklets forward. The spell breaks—chatter rising, chairs scraping, the test already melting into memory.

Ridoc stretches so dramatically I’m afraid he’ll dislocate a shoulder. “Well, there goes my GPA. May it rest in peace.”

“You never had a GPA,” Bodhi fires back, smirking.

“Excuse me? I’m a solid B student.”

“B as in barely.”

Their bickering sparks laughter from everyone. Even Rhiannon smiles faintly as she stacks her notes with methodical care. The bell splits the air like a blade. Relief erupts—pens clattering, zippers rasping, nervous laughter spilling out like steam from a cracked pipe.

Bodhi slumps over his desk, cheek mashed into his sleeve. “I am a corpse. Someone bury me under Keats’s grave. He’ll understand.”

“You spelled his name wrong,” Ridoc says immediately, leaning across the aisle with the self-satisfied smirk of someone who probably also bombed. “Multiple times. Kaori will roast you alive.”

“Better roasted than haunted by metaphors,” Bodhi says. “I swear I saw a stanza in the essay instructions that wasn’t even English.”

“Pretty sure that’s just because you didn’t study.”

“You didn’t study either!”

“Difference is,” Ridoc says, puffing his chest, “I wing it better.”

“Please,” I cut in, stuffing my notes back into my bag before they spill everywhere. “You’re the same guy who confused Jane Austen with Charlotte Brontë last week.”

“That was one time!”

“And unforgettable,” I say sweetly.

Rhiannon laughs softly as she slips her papers into a perfectly organized folder. “Both of you are hopeless.”

“Hopeless but entertaining,” Violet says, eyes still on her own stack of notes as she tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear. There’s a smile tugging at her mouth, though, the kind she tries to hide.

“See?” Ridoc beams. “Hopeless and entertaining. That’s a brand.”

“You’re not branding yourself in Kaori’s class,” Violet deadpans.

Before Ridoc can fire back, movement at the front catches my eye.

Xaden.

He’s already packed, exam booklet surrendered, bag slung across one shoulder with that casual authority. Garrick falls in step with him, a brief word exchanged too low for me to catch.

Then Xaden’s gaze flicks sideways. Not to me at first—straight to Bodhi.

“Come on,” he says, clipped, efficient. No room for debate.

Bodhi blinks, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“Yes. Second period. Let’s walk.”

There’s a moment where Bodhi looks like he wants to argue, but Garrick’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder. A nudge. A reassurance. A warning.

“Fine,” Bodhi mutters, dragging his bag across the desk with all the enthusiasm of someone being led to the gallows. “But if this is about the test, I plead the fifth.”

Ridoc snickers, but Xaden doesn’t even glance his way. He’s already moving, Bodhi and Garrick pulled along in his wake like planets caught in orbit.

And he doesn’t look back.

But I feel the absence he leaves behind, heavier than his presence.

Around me, the noise of the class swells again. Ridoc is still teasing Bodhi’s empty chair, Violet is trading a quiet comment with Rhiannon, and Kaori is stacking the last of the booklets with all the reverence of a priest tucking away relics.

But all I can think about is the exhaustion etched under Xaden’s eyes, the sharpness in his voice when he said Come on. The weight in his shoulders that nobody else seems to notice.

I shove my pen too hard into the bottom of my bag, the plastic clack louder than I mean it to be. Rhiannon glances at me, brows lifting, but I just zip the bag closed and sling it over my shoulder.

“Ready for D.C.?” she asks, light, almost casual.

I force a smile. “Almost.”

Almost ready for Kaori’s brutal grading. Almost ready for four days of strategy, politics, and sleepless nights. Almost ready to face whatever secrets Xaden is burying deep enough to hollow out his eyes.

Almost ready. But not quite.

The hallway is chaos—slamming lockers, half-shouted debates about what Kaori really meant by “the enduring power of tragic flaws.” Someone drops a binder; papers scatter like confetti.

Xaden.

I catch only the edge of him at the far end of the hall, his stride sure, shoulders squared, Garrick and Bodhi trailing in his wake. He doesn’t glance back, doesn’t give any sign he even knows I’m watching. But I feel the invisible tether all the same.

“Earth to Ciara,” Liam says suddenly, falling into step beside me.

I blink. “What?”

He smiles in that easy way of his, adjusting the strap of his bag. “You looked like you were about to follow him straight out the building.”

Heat prickles at the back of my neck. “I wasn’t—”

“Uh-huh.” His grin tilts. “Anyway. Auditorium. You ready to go?”

Right. The pre-trip briefing.

We join the tide of students funneling toward the double doors. Both teachers cluster at the front of the stage—Markham in his perfectly knotted tie, Devera perched on the edge of the podium with her tablet already glowing.

The room hums with restless energy. Everyone’s buzzing about the trip, already half in D.C. before the buses even leave. Rhiannon and Violet slip into their seats, already comparing notes on which committees they’ll shadow first. Ridoc sprawls across an entire row until Rhiannon snaps her fingers at him, and he straightens like he’s been caught.

I slide into a seat near the aisle, Liam flopping down beside me.

Markham clears his throat into the mic, snapping the focus forward. “Alright, everyone. Let’s settle in. Thursday morning, we depart at seven sharp. Buses will be lined up outside the east entrance—do not be late.”

The auditorium stills, pens poised, tablets lit, the rustle of paper like wings.

Devera lifts her chin, voice smooth, sharp. “You’ve all prepared for weeks. NMUN is not simply a trip; it is an opportunity to represent your delegation with precision, strategy, and control. You will be watched, evaluated, and judged. And you will rise to the occasion.”

A ripple of murmurs follows, part nerves, part thrill.

“Curfew will be strictly enforced,” Markham continues. “You will conduct yourselves as if every hallway, every dinner, every committee room is under scrutiny. Because it is.”

Beside me, Liam leans closer, whispering, “Think they’d notice if I smuggled in a deck of cards?”

“Yes,” I mutter back. “And you’d be executed on sight.”

He grins. “Worth it.” I grin and shake my head.

Markham’s voice drones on—packing lists, dress codes, reminders about decorum—but I’m barely hearing it. My chest is tight with something I can’t name. Anticipation, maybe. Or nerves.

By Saturday—Day Three—we’ll be in the thick of it. Debates, resolutions, alliances. That’s when cracks start to show. That’s when masks slip, and part of me already knows—whatever happens in D.C., it won’t be small.

By the time I get home from Frisco library, the sky’s gone a deep indigo, the kind that makes the whole neighborhood look quieter than it really is. Porch lights flicker on one by one, scattering little pools of gold over the tidy lawns. My backpack feels heavier than it should—flashcards and notebooks weighing more than paper has any right to.

Mom’s already bustling in the kitchen when I step inside, the smell of something faintly spicy filling the air. She looks up, one eyebrow arched. “How was the library, o'captain of Germany?”

I smile tiredly, dropping my bag near the stairs. “Productive.”

She hums in approval, but I can tell she’s itching to start in on the suitcase again for refinement, her version of excitement. Dad peeks his head around the corner, says something about extra socks, and I wave him off with a promise to check my packing later.

My room is dim except for the desk lamp, the one I never turn off anymore. I flop onto the bed, phone buzzing against my palm. Notifications stack like a tower—group chats pinging about last-minute packing, Violet sending reminders for research, Aurelie’s memes breaking the tension. And at the very top: Ellis.

A missed call.

I bite my lip, hesitating. It’s been days since we really talked, more than a few texts between classes. Too many nights I told myself I’ll call him tomorrow and then didn’t. Because by the time the NMUN prep, tennis practice, tutoring Bodhi, and classes are done, I don’t have anything left.

But I can’t ignore it anymore. I tap his name before I can overthink it.

It only rings once before his face fills the screen.

“Finally,” Ellis says, voice sharp as the click of a door lock. His tight dark curls are on display, and he’s wrapped in that faded blue hoodie he practically lives in. His room looks the same—led lights glowing in the background, posters taped unevenly to the walls. Home.

“Hey,” I say, a little breathless.

He doesn’t smile. “Hey? That’s all I get? After you ghost me for, what—” he glances off screen, “—five days?”

I wince. “It wasn’t—”

“Five,” he repeats, voice rising. “I counted. Lincoln, tell her.”

The camera shifts, and Lincoln’s leaning in from the side, giving me a lopsided grin. “It’s true, Cee. He’s been unbearable. Keeps sighing dramatically and muttering your name like he’s in some tragic romance novel.”

“Shut up,” Ellis snaps, shoving him off, but there’s the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

I laugh softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to?” Ellis cuts in, eyes narrowing. “Ciara, you moved, and then it’s like… like you don’t have time for us anymore. I thought we were best friends.”

The words land heavy, a punch I didn’t brace for. “We are best friends.”

“Are we?” He crosses his arms. “Because it doesn’t feel like it when you’re busy with—what is it? Boxing? Tennis? Your new little Frisco Fields friends?”

Lincoln makes a noise like he wants to intervene, but Ellis barrels on, voice sharp. “It’s like we’re… leftovers, Cee. Like you outgrew us the second you got into that school.”

My throat tightens. “That’s not fair. You know that’s not what this is.”

“Then explain it to me,” he says, leaning closer to the camera. “Explain why you can’t even call. Why it feels like I’m losing my best friend to a zip code.”

Silence stretches between us. My pulse pounds in my ears, words jamming at the back of my throat. Because he’s not wrong. Not entirely.

“I’m sorry,” I say finally, voice low. “I’m… drowning here, E. Classes, practice, all of it—it’s like if I stop moving for two seconds, I’ll fall behind. And then this trip—” I shake my head. “I didn’t mean to shut you out. I just… I can’t keep up.”

His expression flickers, the edge softening, but he doesn’t let it drop completely. “So you just stop calling? That’s your solution?”

“I didn’t want to call just to dump stress on you.”

His eyes flash. “That’s literally what best friends are for, Ciara.”

Lincoln shifts into the frame again, his voice gentler than Ellis'. “He’s not wrong, Cee. You don’t have to carry all this by yourself.”

I press my palm against my forehead, staring at the ceiling. It's the same thing Liam said to me. “I know. I just… didn’t want to admit how much I missed you both. Because it makes me feel guilty, like I’m not allowed to have both worlds.”

The silence after that isn’t sharp—it’s heavy, but different. Ellis sighs, softer this time.

“I miss you too,” he admits, voice cracking just a little. “Like, a lot. And maybe I’m jealous, okay? You’ve got all this new stuff, and I’m stuck here, and I just… I don’t want to get replaced.”

My chest squeezes. “E, you’re not replaceable. You’re my person, you and Lincoln. Always will be. Doesn’t matter where I live, or what team I’m captain of, or if I’m across the country for a week pretending to be Germany. You both are still my best friends.”

His eyes roll. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

“You love it,” I say, smiling faintly.

Lincoln grins too. “There we go. Look at that—world peace achieved, and we didn’t even need the U.N.”

Ellis throws a pillow at him, off-screen. “Shut up.”

We laugh, the tension finally cracking. It feels like air after holding my breath too long.

“I promise I’ll call more,” I say, quieter now. “Even if it’s just five minutes. Even if I’m exhausted. I don’t want you to ever doubt how much you matter to me.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. Deal. But you’d better bring me back something from D.C. Or at least a really good story.”

“Both,” I say instantly.

Lincoln leans in with mock seriousness. “And if you end up in some secret teenage spy operation, I expect full details. With diagrams.”

Ellis snorts. “As if she’d tell you. I’d get the details first.”

I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself. “If either of you thinks I’d trust you with government secrets, you’re delusional.”

“See?” Lincoln says, nudging Ellis. “She is hiding something.”

We all laugh again, the sound warm and familiar, stitched with years of inside jokes. And for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel torn between two worlds. I just feel like myself.

As the call winds down, Ellis’s voice is softer than it was at the start. “Good luck, Cee. Knock ’em dead. And don’t forget—you’re still MY best friend, no matter how many miles you move away.”

“Always,” I whisper back.

When the screen goes dark, I lie back against my pillows, the glow of the lamp haloing the room. My suitcase is still open on the floor, clothes half-folded, papers spilling out of my backpack. The chaos waits. The trip waits.

But for tonight, I let myself just breathe, wrapped in the echo of voices that still feel like home.

Chapter Text

Thursday rolls around faster than I can blink. The sky is indigo when I wheel my suitcase to the curb at 6:25 a.m., and I can see a bit of my breath in the sharp October air. The school lot buzzes with headlights and sleepy voices, the chill brushing against steaming coffee cups clutched in parents' hands. Too many parents trying to give last-minute advice before their kids disappear for four days. Two buses idle at the curb, growling like impatient beasts.

I fix my hair in the car mirror and adjust my messy bun, moving pieces around to frame my face. I get out of the car and I adjust the strap of my duffel and grab the handle of my suitcase, but before I can step toward the line forming at the bus, Mom catches me by the shoulders.

“Baby, don’t forget to eat real meals, even if the food is terrible,” my mom scolds gently. She smooths the edges of my oversized black sports jacket like the fabric might betray me. “And text us the moment you land.”

“Eomma, I’ll be fine. I promise to text, scouts honor.” I try not to laugh, but it bubbles anyway. “It’s four days, not a semester abroad.”

My mom’s brow pinches, but before she can argue, Dad steps up, wrapping an arm around mom’s shoulders. His deep voice is steady, warm. “She’s got this, Dae.” Then he looks at me, squeezing me into a hug, grounding me. “We’re proud of you, honey. Just remember—represent yourself, represent us, and have some fun too.”

My throat goes tight at that. I hug them both hard, the kind of hug you hold a second too long because you want it to last all trip. "Give Stella lots of kisses for me," I say before I move closer to the buses. Nearby, Sloane clings to Liam like she could physically anchor him to the parking lot. “Don’t do anything reckless, like get lost.”

He laughs softly, prying her fingers loose but still holding her hand. “I swear you and Garrick, it was one time.”

“With you, I just have to be sure.” She shoves a snack bag into his red and tan letterman jacket like she didn’t trust him to feed himself.

Our teachers hover near the buses like border guards. Devera with her clipboard, Markham with his booming voice. “You have until 6:55 to load your luggage! Roll call at 7 sharp, then we’re gone!”

A few cars down, Ridoc’s parents both show up—his mom in a bright red scarf, his dad with a thermos in hand. His dad claps him on the back so hard that Ridoc lurches forward.

“Don’t talk the flight attendant’s ear off,” his dad teases.

“No promises,” Ridoc says, smirking.

I text Danny, Nicki, and Giorgi that I'm leaving and to not have too much fun at lunch without me. I pass the two cute lovebirds, and I smile.

Jesinia stands close with Sawyer, their foreheads pressed together. “Be safe,” she whispers before kissing him quickly. “And don’t let Ridoc convince you to do something stupid.”

Sawyer chuckles. “That’s a full-time job.”

Imogen’s sister is here too, arms crossed, sharp-eyed even at dawn. Same Cardulo features, same don’t-mess-with-me aura. “Text me if anyone even looks at you wrong,” she tells Imogen firmly.

Imogen smirks. “Relax, Caelia. I can handle myself.” Still, their hug is long, tight. Quinn hugs Caelia too, murmuring something that makes both sisters laugh quietly.

On the edge of the group, Violet stands a little apart, her hands jammed into her sleeves against the cold, but Dain is there—he tugs her into his side, kisses the top of her head, and murmurs something only she hears. Whatever it is makes her shoulders relax, even if her eyes still carry that flicker of loneliness since Mira had to go back to her post.

I set my bag in the growing pile of suitcases that a few bus drivers help out to load underneath the seats, and I take a step back, scanning faces. Rhiannon waves me over, but as soon as I move, I catch him.

Xaden.

Leaning against the side of Bus Two, hands shoved into his windbreaker, eyes flicking across the crowd. Garrick and Bodhi are hovering around him, soft smiles on display. He looks more well-rested, but when our gazes meet, there’s a flicker of intent behind his eyes.

Markham claps his hands, pulling everyone’s attention. “Alright, listen up! Two buses, same rules: stay seated, all bags are to stay underneath the seats, and don’t make me regret letting you on the plane. Devera?"

Devera, immaculate as ever, even at dawn, steps forward. “The plane takes off at 10 am, everyone. Now, airport etiquette: don’t lose your boarding pass, don’t wander, and do not, under any circumstances, try to be funny at security.”

Ridoc raises a hand. “Define funny.”

Devera gives him a flat look. “Don’t push me, Ridoc." Groggy laughter ripples through the group, and I settle around Sawyer, Vi, Dain, Ridoc, and Rhi. "Alright, everyone, start boarding!”

The herd begins boarding, and friends and family wave goodbye, and some wait until the buses take off. Naturally, Xaden and his trio—Garrick, Bodhi, Liam—claim the back row like it was their private fortress. Catriona gets in behind Garrick's massive frame and slides into the same seat with Xaden. Predatory gaze sweeping the bus like she was already plotting. Her laugh is loud, deliberate, as she tucks her hair behind her ear.

He doesn’t even flinch, but his gaze lingers on me a beat longer before rolling them and showing me the smallest slick smile known to man and turning away. Heat warms my body, and it's not thanks to my jacket. I keep following Sawyer as we make our way to the back, and I try not to overthink.

Our squad, out of instinct, fills the section between the middle and back seats, a comfortable shield against the chaos at the front.

I tuck into my spot near the window, popping open a yogurt parfait, layering in granola. Ridoc sits next to me and rips into a grease-stained bag, pulling out a sausage biscuit the size of his head.

“You’re going to regret that halfway through the flight,” I warn, spooning a neat bite of berries and yogurt.

Ridoc grins, taking his mouthful. “This is fuel. Prime athletic fuel.”

Dain looks behind at us, deadpan. “More like cardiac arrest fuel.”

“Don’t be jealous,” Ridoc shoots back. “Not all of us can survive on kale and—what is that, Ciara, rabbit food?”

“It’s called balance,” I say sweetly. “Something you wouldn’t recognize if it hit you with a racket.”

Ridoc groans dramatically, clutching his chest. “Jeesh, have mercy.”

“Not in my vocabulary.”

The laughter that follows rolls down the bus, warm and bright, matching the vivid orange morning, drowning out the growl of engines. For the first time this morning, I can relax into my seat, spoon halfway to my mouth.

The trip has officially begun.

By 7:05, we’re finally all boarded on the buses. Markham is on our bus, and he calls out our names, everyone saying some variation of 'Present'. Students jostling around in their seats, half-asleep arguments breaking out. Markham gets off the bus to confer with Devera about the students who are here, and Markham hops back on to talk to the driver.

The bus hums to life, lurching forward as the last of the parents wave from the curb. I lean back, spoon tapping against my parfait cup, letting the chatter wash around me.

I turn in my seat just enough to see Cat's sharp eyes find me across the rows, a slow, curling smirk tugging at her lips. The kind of look that promises trouble, the kind that always found its way under my skin if I let it. No doubt gloating that she forced her way onto Xaden's seat, as he looks out the window. I don't know why I care, but I need to get over it, he's just a man.

Imogen’s voice cut through like a blade, dry and lethal. “Relax, Cordella. The flight attendants won’t let you claw anyone’s eyes out before takeoff.”

The middle rows erupt in muffled laughter. Catriona’s smile falters, her jaw tightening before she sits back with a huff, staring out the back of the seat. Garrick shakes his head and turns to Liam and Bodhi for conversation.

I exhale, tension slipping from my shoulders. I'm about to thank Imogen when my phone buzzes against my thigh. I slide it out of my purse under the cover of my hand and angle it away from any prying eyes.

The Dictator 📚: Enjoying the view?

I bite my lip to smother a grin, thumbs flying. Ridoc unaware of my texter.

Ciara: You mean Cat draping herself over you? What a cute couple!

The Dictator 📚: Temporary

Ciara: What do you mean?

The Dictator 📚: Not on the plane.

Ciara: Why's that?

The Dictator 📚: Because you're sitting next to me.

I snort before I can stop myself, drawing a couple of curious looks. I quickly put my spoon into my mouth to stop the noise from coming out, my shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Yeah, right, the man that knows I want his spot, WANTS to sit next to me, give me a break.

Ridoc twists instantly, eyes narrowing. “What’s so funny, Captain?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly, shoving my phone back in my pocket. I arch a brow at him, flipping the focus. “Although I did hear you talk in your sleep again the other day. Something about—what was it, Sawyer?—a flying squirrel?”

Sawyer leans over the back of our seat, coming in between Ridoc and I, smirking. “Oh, it was definitely a flying squirrel. I almost recorded it.”

Ridoc’s ears go red. “That’s classified information.”

The bus howls with laughter, me included, my cheeks ache from grinning so hard. Across the aisle, Imogen just shakes her head, muttering, “You all are exhausting.”

I hold the back of my hand to my mouth in a coy way, "Sorry, Imogen, in the south it's pronounced, 'Y'all'." Everyone erupts into a chuckle, and Quinn covers her mouth to hold it all in as Imogen looks betrayed.

The rumble of the bus smooths into the early morning quiet, the horizon glowing faintly with the promise of the rising sun. Washington, D.C. feels a long way off, but the adventure has already started. Ridoc is already filming a chaotic vlog. Garrick leans across the aisle to tell Bodhi to stop eating trail mix so loudly. Cat is trying to make conversation with Xaden, and only one-word answers tumble out.

I tuck away the last bite of my parfait, ignoring the ping from my phone that I know has to be from The Dictator📚. No way I’d give him the satisfaction of answering when he can see my smirk from three rows ahead.

By the time the bus hisses to a stop at Louis Armstrong New Bordeaux Airport, chaos erupts. Markham and Devera shout over each other, trying to corral eighty teenagers through the terminal like it was herding cats.

“Shoes off—yes, all shoes. Laptops out.”
“No, Tyvon, you should have brought a smaller bottle of lotion.”
“If you joke about bombs one more time, Luca, you’re on the no-fly list!”

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing, slipping my white sneakers off prematurely while Bodhi grumbles about how unfair it is that Imogen breezed through TSA pre-check.

During the mess of belts, laptops, and pat-downs, I spot him a couple of people behind me. He looks irritatingly gorgeous amongst the chaos. The bright lights help me to see every sharp cut on his jaw and those dark, thick brows on full display.

Now, as I get closer to the TSA Belt, I wrestle with my duffel and its contents, nearly dropping my water bottle when a hand steadies it. He murmurs low, “Relax.” His voice, smooth and unbothered. His fingers brush the strap, pulling the bag from my grip like it weighs nothing.

He sets it in the bin and brings another bin for his own, movements efficient, calm. Sliding his jacket off in one clean move and tossing his phone and wallet in. Like this is routine.

I blink at him, startled. “Thanks,” I breathe, barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t respond, just tilts his head, and steps through the scanner with his usual detached ease. But my pulse is racing, my throat dry. It’s ridiculous how something so small can undo me.

The air between us feels like it's shifted. Quiet. Friendly. Almost… fragile. Like we weren’t rivals, not in that moment, just two people who have something to say but really, really refuse to say it. I move through TSA and grab my things.

By the time I shuffle through the scanner—socks damp from where I’d nearly slipped on someone's spilt water—he’s already waiting on the other side, shoes laced, jacket back on, one hand braced on the handle of his duffel. I rush to gather my chaos of belongings and organize myself, cheeks heating. 

“Really smooth back there, helping your enemy,” I mutter, stuffing my charger into my backpack and smoothing out my black pleated skirt.

“Better than watching you juggle it all like a clown act.” His mouth twitches—just barely. A shadow of a smirk, gone before I can confirm it.

I roll my eyes. “You could’ve just let me drop everything.”

“I could’ve,” he agrees, voice soft, almost like it’s meant for me alone. Then, as if realizing he’s said too much, he strides off toward the group, leaving me half-running to catch up.

We all move in unison as we walk to our gate. It's 9:15 by the time we are sprawling over the boarding area, some people gather in their country's groups, probably discussing more strategy. I score a seat on the edge of our squad right next to Ridoc as we settle near the huge windows.

There's a plug underneath it to charge my phone, and of course, Garrick, Bodhi, Liam, and Broody McBroodington himself sit by me. I smell Xaden's cologne, musky and downright intoxicating, as he lowers himself and attaches his own charger.

I wanna slap myself over and over again to get over myself, and of course, this is when Catriona decides to strike.

She sweeps up with a perfect flick of her dark hair, her voice syrupy-sweet but aimed like a dagger. “Isn’t this cozy? Captain Do-Good and my very own, playing study buddies.” Her eyes narrow, sharp and gleaming. “Funny how fast some people climb when they stick close to the right people.”

My pulse jumps, and I really want to beat the brakes off of her. I am so sick of it all, but before I can get a word out, Devera’s heels thump sharply against the carpet as she appears at Catriona’s side. “Cordella.” Just her name, flat and edged. “Unless you’d like the honor of being the first student sent home from this trip, I suggest you walk away. Now.”

The silence that follows is cutting, and Ridoc and Sawyer try to contain their laughter as Devera watches Cat leave us. Catriona’s smile thins as she turns on her heel, muttering something under her breath as she stalks off.

Xaden’s jaw works, unreadable, but returns to his phone.

Ridoc leans to whisper in my ear, "He would have never sat near us before you got here." I lean away to fully look at Ridoc just in time for him to wiggle his eyebrows at me, so I lean back in, "Don't think I forgot that you want to live through me vicariously. Hate to get your hopes up, it's not happening, Ridoc." 

He let out a chuckle only for me, "You know what they say about school trips..." He laughs again, and I roll my eyes.

Ridoc turns to the others, grinning. “So—who’s stuck with who on this three-hour flight?”

“Not me and you,” Rhiannon says instantly. “I’ve seen how you sprawl, and I definitely choose Sawyer and Liam.” Liam smiles like a dummy, and I chuckle.

"Vi's with me." Dain cuts in, scrolling through his phone, not looking up.

"Only if you keep your jokes to yourself, Gamlyn," Aurelie walks up and plops down cross-legged on the floor. Ridoc turns to me, raising a brow, "Room for one more, Ciara?"

I laugh, sinking into the seat, but before I can chime in, Xaden’s low voice cuts across the group. “She’s with me.”

Everyone freezes, and only Garrick and Bodhi chuckle.

My head snaps to him, and I scoff. “Excuse me?” The audacity of this man to actually have thought I would sit next to him.

He doesn’t even look at me, just crosses his arms and addresses the group like it were already set in stone. “If you looked at your text message from me, you would have seen that I said why. Garrick and Bodhi together will talk my ear off, but you won't. End of discussion.”

“Uh-huh,” Ridoc drawls, eyes sparkling. “Sure. Totally about the silence.”

Heat rushes through me, but I bite my tongue. Rival, I remind myself. Tutor. Friend maybe. Whatever this was—it wasn’t more. It couldn’t be. Even if my heart is beating loud enough to drown out the boarding announcement.

The line forms as we shuffle forward into the narrow cabin, students dragging backpacks and carry-ons like an invading army. The overhead bins click open and shut around me, everyone scrambling to claim space before it’s gone. The scent of too many perfumes and coffees mixing until my head spins.

Sawyer and Rhi are ahead of me, settling themselves in, and I see the open row behind them that I go to grab. Excusing myself around others as I try not to hit them with my belongings, or, ahem, 'asset'.

"Ciara, hurry!" Rhi whisper-yells, "Get the seat behind us."

"I know, I'm coming." I whisper-yell back. Why does my duffel feel ten times heavier when I try to swing it into the overhead bin?

I reach up for the storage bin, my notes tucked under one arm, and phone in the other, wrestling with my bag when a hand brushes past my arm. Xaden, already reaching up, unhurried.

“Got it, sit,” he says, and before I can protest, my bag slides into the bin beside his black duffel. His jacket rides up as he muscles it into the compartment. A strip of hard, tan skin flashes between the black fabric and his jeans—perfectly cut abs peeking through like some cruel trick.

"Cee, did you—"

My breath stutters.

So does Rhiannon’s. She’s looking back over her seat for me, eyes widening before she catches mine.

We don’t speak. We don’t have to. We just giggle—quiet, sharp, the kind that bursts out before you can stop it. Our own little secret, tucked between the hum of passengers and the overhead announcements.

I shake my head and come back to reality, scowling up at him, knowing he's completely oblivious. “I could have done that.”

“Didn’t look like it.” He shuts the bin with a soft thud, utterly unmoved.

I mutter something under my breath, ducking into the row. Xaden follows, waiting while I slide in toward the window and buckle my seat. I catch Rhi’s grin again over the seat back before Xaden drops into his, long legs folding into the narrow space with the kind of ease that shouldn’t be possible on a commercial flight. His arm brushes mine as he buckles in, casual, unbothered—too close.

Cat is still maneuvering down the aisle, her eyes scanning like a hawk until she sees me. Her lips part, irritation flashing before she smooths it into a fake smile.

She slows near our row, hand on the back of our row’s aisle seat. “Hey, is this—”

“It’s taken,” Garrick says before she can finish, already moving his headphones to his neck. My goodness, I love Garrick’s timing.

Cat blinks, her gaze darting to me, then Xaden. He doesn’t even look up, just stretches his legs out like he owns the whole row. Something in me—something reckless—loves that.

Cat huffs softly and keeps moving, but the burn of her glare lingers.

"Well, aren’t we cozy,” Garrick says as he slides into the aisle seat with his usual easy smile, and just like that, I’m wedged in—window, Xaden in the middle, Garrick on the outside. Exactly where he wanted me.

“You're lucky,” Garrick says to me. “Prime spot. Window seat.” He gestures his hand between him and Xaden. “Better company, too.”

I open my mouth to thank him sarcastically, but Xaden beats me to it, voice flat. “She didn’t get a choice.”

Garrick’s brows lift. “Didn’t she?”

I shoot Garrick a look. “Don’t start.”

“What?” Garrick raises both hands, mock-innocent as he pulls out his headphones.

The plane moves in place as boarding continues, the last students filing in. The chatter is soft, easy—Ridoc already arguing about armrest room across the aisle with Aurelie as she and Aura are trading snacks in between the seats. Bodhi plops down next to Aurelie. Dain and Vi are behind Ridoc, settling together with a blanket Violet brought. I hear Imogen and Quinn talking behind us. But here, wedged between the window and the solid weight of Xaden beside me, I feel the air coil tight.

Two and a half hours. Just the three of us.

I trace a finger over the edge of my NMUN Folder with all of our strategies in it.

But when Garrick leans his head back and mutters something about how this feels less like a school trip and more like babysitting, and Xaden doesn’t correct him, doesn’t deny it—just sits there, calm and watchful—my pulse doesn’t quite understand it.

Because if this was just about Xaden needing silence, why did it feel like something else?

The engines hum louder as the plane taxis, the low vibration rolling through the seats. Students continue talking around us, some already swapping earbuds or digging into snacks. Garrick has claimed the safety pamphlet, pretending to read it like it’s the most dramatic thriller he’s ever encountered.

The flight attendants push everyone to sit, to buckle up, the chorus of seatbelts clicking into place, mixing with overhead bins slamming shut. Rhiannon twists in her seat in front of me, braids spilling over her shoulder as she peers between us through the seats.

“You alive back there, Cee?” she whispers.

“Barely,” I whisper back.

She grins, her gaze flicking to where Xaden’s arm brushes mine on the shared armrest, then to Garrick lounging like he owns the row. Mischief twinkles in her eyes. I glare, but it’s useless.

“In the event of a water landing…” Garrick mutters, eyebrows arch. “We’re going to D.C., not crossing the Atlantic. If we crash into the Potomac, just swim.”

I smirk faintly, tucking my NMUN folder into the seat pocket. “Some of us don’t have a wingspan like you, Garrick. We’d probably sink.”

“Please,” Garrick scoffs, leaning back. “You’d doggy paddle your way out.”

“She’d figure out a way to survive,” Xaden says suddenly, voice smooth and certain, though his eyes stay fixed forward.

I blink, caught off guard. Then I narrow my eyes. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you want.” He doesn’t look at me, but the corner of his mouth twitches—just enough for me to know he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The flight attendants go through their safety protocols, and then the plane lifts, rumbling as it climbs. I press my forehead briefly to the window, watching the patchwork of suburbs and highways shrink beneath us. The tension of the morning, the chaos of check-in, the buzz of anticipation… it all begins to blur.

I don’t realize how tired I am until the steady drone of the engines tries to lull me to sleep. My eyelids grow heavier with each passing minute, notes forgotten. I shift in my seat.

“You’re losing the fight," Xaden glances at me, soft and quiet. “You didn’t sleep much last night?”

“I’m fine,” I mumble, though my words drag. Voice too thin to be convincing.

My head tips back against the seat, too sluggish to shoot back a clever retort. His eyes flick to my lashes. “No, you’re not.”

I exhale, fighting a yawn. “It’s just two and a half hours. I can make it.”

“Or,” Garrick says, “you could actually relax. Radical concept, I know.”

My gaze flicks between him and Xaden, torn between stubbornness and the weight of sleep pulling me down. Finally, I huff, “Fine. But if either of you tries to draw on my face while I’m out—”

“I’d never,” Garrick says, mock-offended, closing his own dark blue hood around his face.

The hum of the cabin swallows most of the noise around us, so only I can hear him. He leans just a fraction closer, enough that the warmth of his words ghosts against my ear. “It’s okay. Use my shoulder.”

My cheeks get warm. My throat goes dry.

“I—” My voice breaks. I try again. “You don’t have to—”

“I didn’t say I had to,” he cuts in softly, tilting his head just enough that our eyes lock. “I said it’s okay.” Something inside me wavers, crumbles.

“You’re stubborn,” he murmurs, so quiet I almost think I dream it.

I keep my eyes closed, afraid that if I look at him, the moment will break. “Takes one to know one.”

There’s a pause. Then—soft, almost like amusement—“Fair enough.”

Slowly, like I’m testing gravity, I let my head tip sideways. His shoulder is solid, warm through the fabric of his jacket. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts slightly, angling himself so I fit there easier, like he’d already planned it.

Xaden’s voice dips lower, even, steady. “Just sleep, Ciara.”

And I do.

When I wake, it’s not to the ding of the seatbelt sign or the captain’s announcement—it’s to a nudge against my arm. Gentle but insistent.

“Wake up.”

I blink groggily, soft light flooding my eyes as I pull back from the most comfortable pillow I’ve had on a plane in my life. Except—my pillow moves. His shoulder. Right.

Xaden is watching me, expression cool. His lips curve faintly. “....You drool?”

Heat scorches my face. “What? No! I—” My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it. “I do not drool.”

“Hmm.” He tilts his head like he’s unconvinced, that slight smirk deepening. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I groan, covering my face. I look at his shoulder and I don't see an ounce of any liquid there. “You’re insufferable.”

“Awake, though.” His voice lowers, brushing against me like velvet. “Mission accomplished.”

I peek through my fingers at him. “You woke me up just to insult me?”

“No,” he says simply, leaning back as the snack cart rattles its way down the aisle. “Food.”

My stomach growls right on cue, betraying me.

“See?” he murmurs, smug now. “You’re welcome.”

The flight attendant stops at our row, “Snacks?” she asks.

“Chips,” he says smoothly, without hesitation.

I blink. “You didn’t even look at the options.”

“I knew what I wanted.” He gestures at me, waiting.

“Oh.” My brain fumbles. “Uh… pretzels?”

The attendant nods, hands them over with a mini Ginger Ale. Garrick mutters that he’ll take cookies, and then he turns to Bodhi across the aisle. I clutch the tiny packet, glancing sideways. “So, what, you’re a chips guy? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Boring,” I say, tearing open my pretzels.

He arches an eyebrow. “Says the one eating pretzels.”

“Pretzels are classic.”

“Pretzels are bland.”

“They’re versatile,” I counter, gesturing with one. “You can eat them plain, dip them in chocolate, cover them in cinnamon sugar—”

“Congratulations,” he interrupts, dry. “You’ve described dessert. Still doesn’t save the pretzel.”

I gasp theatrically. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic,” he says, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. I snap a pretzel in half and pop it in my mouth, chewing defiantly. “At least I don’t eat chips like a six-year-old.”

His brows lift, slow. “Careful.”

“What? It’s true. Next thing, you’ll tell me you only eat the barbecue flavor.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me.

My jaw drops. “Oh my gosh. You do.”

A low chuckle slips from him, quiet enough that only I hear it. “Accurate,” he replies smoothly, reaching past me to lower the window shade halfway. The movement brings him closer, his arm brushing mine again, faces close, before he leans back like nothing happened. “But at least I’m not predictable.”

Whew, girl, you are playing a dangerous game. I compose myself, “You just admitted you eat the most predictable chips ever made!”

“Maybe I did, but you didn't expect that from me,” he says, his tone so maddeningly calm it feels like a game.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

His lips twitch. “Finally catching on.”

We eat in silence for a bit, the hum of the plane wrapping around us. Across the aisle, Aurelie and Ridoc are bent over a crossword. I hear Liam's voice trying to convince Rhi to trade him peanuts, asking Sawyer to back him. Vi and Dain are watching a movie together.

When I glance at him, just once, he catches me. “What?” His voice is low again, brows knit together.

I shake my head quickly. “Nothing.”

“Not nothing,” he says, like he can read me too easily. “Say it.”

“I was—” My words trip. “I was just going to say… thanks. For waking me. And for… earlier.”

His gaze lingers on me, unreadable. Then, “You’re welcome.”

I shift slightly in my seat, suddenly restless. “How much longer is the flight?”

“Not long enough,” he says without thinking.

My head snaps toward him, but he’s already leaning back, eyes on the seat in front of him like he didn’t just say that. My heart skips so violently, I think I misheard.

“Not long enough for what?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, but then his lips curve again, slow, dangerous. “You’ll figure it out.”

For the next stretch, I try to read the safety card in the pocket just to keep my hands busy. It doesn’t work. My pulse refuses to settle. Every few minutes, my eyelids dip again. Sleep tugs at me, heavy and insistent.

“You’re fighting it again,” he murmurs, not even looking this time.

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“Why?”

Because sleeping means losing these moments. Because it means missing something I’ll never get back. I don’t say that. Instead, I mutter, “Because then you’ll make fun of me again.”

He shifts, leaning the smallest bit closer. His voice lowers to that velvet edge. “Who says I won’t make fun of you either way?”

Despite myself, I laugh, soft and quick. “You’re the worst.”

My phone is in my hand before I realize it, the glow lighting up my lap. I thumb through a few apps, trying to look casual, before landing on a trivia game I sometimes play when I can’t focus.

The neon title screen fills the small space between us.

Xaden tilts his head. “Trivia?”

“It passes the time,” I say, defensive for no reason.

“Or exposes how little you know,” he counters, lips twitching.

I roll my eyes. “You’re just scared I’ll beat you.”

That earns me a look. One eyebrow arches, slow and deliberate. “Try me.” I jab the “start” button.

The first question flashes: Which European explorer discovered a passage that connects the Pacific and Atlantic oceans?

“Magellan,” he says instantly, before I can even process.

I glare. “I knew that!”

“You hesitated.”

“I was thinking.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t look convinced.

The next one: Which battle between the U.S. and British effectively ended the Revolutionary War?

“Yorktown,” I say quickly, smirking when his eyebrow lifts. “Don’t underestimate me.”

His gaze lingers, amused. “Noted.”

We fall into a rhythm, shoulders nearly brushing as the questions roll. He’s fast—sometimes too fast—and I accuse him of being a know-it-all at least twice. He counters by saying I’m too slow, that I overthink.

At some point, I stop noticing the constant noise around me. It’s just us, leaning closer and closer over the glowing screen, trading jabs between answers.

“See?” I say smugly when we break a record score. “We make a great team.”

His eyes flick to mine, dark and heavy. “Do we?”

The words hang between us. My breath catches, because suddenly it feels like the whole plane has melted away, like it’s just me and him cocooned in this little bubble of warmth and quiet. Questions blur into chuckles, into side comments, into him brushing my hand once when he taps the wrong answer and mutters under his breath.

It’s ridiculous. It’s silly. It’s nothing. And yet it feels like everything.

By the time the captain announces our descent, my cheeks hurt from smiling, my throat is sore from trying not to laugh too loudly, and my phone battery has dwindled significantly.

And then—he shifts. Just enough that I catch the intent in his gaze, the slight tilt of his head, the nearness of his mouth.

My heart stutters.

But I, self-sabotaging idiot that I am, glance back at the trivia screen. “New question!” I blurt, tapping the next round.

His exhale is soft, almost a laugh. He leans back a fraction, unreadable mask sliding neatly back into place.

The moment passes.

But not entirely. Because my skin is still buzzing where his arm brushes mine, and I swear the air between us feels charged, humming louder than the engines.

The shuttle bus door wheezes open, and all hell breaks loose. 

“Stay together!” Markham bellows over the sudden crush of bodies and rolling luggage. “Stay together, people, it is not that hard—”

But it is. Eighty teenagers spill into the hotel lobby like an unleashed tidal wave, voices bouncing off polished marble and glass. Someone’s suitcase topples sideways, wheels clattering. Nyra and Soleil are already bickering over when they should check out the cute café attached to the hotel. Ridoc is purposefully squeaking his sneakers on the floor.

And me? I’m fighting through the crowd, half-lifted on my toes, trying to spot where my suitcase disappeared. I spot it as the last one coming into the lobby area, fresh off the bus. I can now focus on the inside of the hotel, and it is beautiful. The National Mall is right next door, and so are all the other monuments, plus the White House.

“Germany! Over here—Germany!” Rhiannon waves frantically near the middle of the lobby. Her beaded braids are easy to spot even in the mess. Aurelie is hugging her pillow like it might get stolen, and Violet is balancing a tower of folders in one arm. I check my watch, 2:34 pm.

After about 15 minutes of waiting in the too-lit lobby, Markham and Devera come back from the front desk with hands full of keycards.

Markham runs a hand through his graying hair as he steadies himself in the middle of the group. “Alright, listen up. Frisco High has the entire seventh floor reserved. Boys in the even numbers, girls in the odd. Do not try to swap, sneak, or trade without clearing it through me or Ms. Devera.”

Devera’s sharp voice cuts in immediately, the kind that silences almost a hundred students in seconds. “That means no funny business, no hall-hopping after curfew, and absolutely no noise complaints. If we get so much as one, I will send you home myself. Clear?”

A chorus of “yes, ma’ams” echoes through the lobby.

Inside, the lobby is all polished marble and echoing voices. Students cluster in groups as room keys are handed out. Devera flips through her stack first.

“Room 701: France…” Her eyes skim the list, “Cordella, Maren, Luella, and Selene.”

A few pairs of eyes flick to me at that mention of Cat's name. I keep my face blank, my bag strap presses tight to my shoulder.

Devera continues briskly. “Canada. Room 703: Jacky, Ashley, Rebecca, and Ericka.  Japan, Room 705: Imogen, Quinn, Nyra, and Soleil. Germany, Room 707: Rhiannon, Violet, Ciara, and Aurelie.”

I blink, and I grab the two keycards from Devera and give on to Rhiannon. She rattles on more girl names, and as she empties her hand of keys, Markham takes over, voice booming. “Mexico, Room 702: Ridoc, Dain, Sawyer, and Tyvon.” He rattles through the rest until—“the U.K., Room 708: Xaden, Garrick, Bodhi, and Liam.”

A few kids whistle, half-joking at the powerhouse squad crammed into one space. Xaden doesn’t react, just slides the keycard from Markham’s hand with casual indifference. Garrick claps Liam on the back; Bodhi looks vaguely resigned, like he's not going to get the shower first like he wanted.

Devera claps her hands. “Give your keys to people you trust to hold on to them, drop your bags, and meet in the lobby at 5 o'clock for our first group activity. We will have dinner after, Italian. Until then, you have downtime. Use it wisely.” I give a quick look at my girls, and boy, do I love Rhi as she reads my mind, inching to the elevator after Devera's every word.

“Okay, Room 707,” Violet says aloud to no one. “We gotta move it unless we want to spend 30 minutes waiting for a ride up.” The boys catch up with us, no doubt having the same idea.

“708,” Garrick crows, holding up the U.K. boys’ keycard. He waves it obnoxiously, flashing me a grin. “Guess we’re neighbors, Germany.”

“Lucky us,” I mutter, trying to keep the grin off my face.

“Don’t sound so thrilled, Cee,” Bodhi teases.

I chuckle. “Oh, I'm over the moon, Durran.”

The elevator ride is sardine-packed. Violet, Aurelie, and Rhiannon squish against me, our suitcases jammed at odd angles. Cat is complaining loudly about wanting a room with a balcony, like anyone got that. The U.K. boys clearly stand out among everyone because of their height and build. And Someone’s deodorant has clearly failed.

“Seventh floor,” the elevator dings.

The doors slide open, and the second elevator dings as well, chaos explodes again. Students spill into the hallway, clattering down the carpet with shouts of “I found it!” and “Which side are odd numbers?”

“Here,” Violet says, tugging me toward 707.

Right beside us, Garrick slots the key into 708, right across he hall from our door, shooting a smug look. “Told you. Neighbors.”

Bodhi leans around him, smirking. “Don’t be too loud in there, ladies.”

Rhiannon rolls her eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall out. “Grow up.”

I turn my key, push into 707, and the girls flood inside. Two queen beds, a pull-out sofa, and a bathroom that already looks too small for four of us. The curtains are drawn, city lights winking faintly behind them as the National Mall stares us in the face.

Violet drops her folders on the bed nearest the window. “Okay, ground rules—no touching my color-coded binders unless you ask.”

“Who said you get that bed?” Rhiannon demands.

The squabbling begins instantly. I’m laughing despite myself as I tug my bags inside. But when I glance back at the hall, I catch sight of him.

Xaden’s at his door, sliding his suitcase through. He glances sideways, just once, and our eyes catch for a beat too long.

The hallway is chaos—boys shouting, Cat already begging someone to switch rooms—but between us, there’s just that quiet flicker. The echo of the plane. The glow of something fragile and private.

I smile before I can stop myself. He doesn’t smile back, exactly—but there’s a shift in his expression, subtle, like he’s letting me see something no one else gets.

Then his door clicks shut, and the noise swallows me whole again.

I close our door, and Rhiannon's suitcase clatters behind her. “I call dibs with Violet—”

Violet blinks. “Oh, um—”

“Don’t argue.” Rhiannon grins, already tossing her bag onto the first queen bed. “I already know you kick in your sleep, I snore, we’ll cancel each other out.”

Ciara raises a brow. “That’s not how math works.”

“Don’t care.” Rhiannon pats the bed, grinning at Violet.

“As long as you know,” Violet says, setting her suitcase down.

“Good.” Aurelie sets her luggage down neatly between the two beds. “I can share with my Captain.”

I drop my duffel onto the mattress with a satisfied nod. “Perfect. Ground rules: no hogging blankets, no stealing my flashcards unless you really need them, and if I hear chewing noises after midnight, I’m committing homicide.”

Rhiannon snickers. “You’d never survive a dorm, I remember you barely survived Tennis Camp, rooming with us.”

Aurelie smirks faintly, sliding her phone into the nightstand. “Trust me. I’ll handle her.”

“Excuse me?” I shoot her a look playfully, but Aurelie’s smirk doesn’t budge. "Now, if you excuse me, I'll take my shower now, actually...if you have to go #2, do it now." Everyone looks at each other for a long time, until Rhi huffs and we all laugh.

We spill out of Room 707 in a blur of chatter and perfume, wanting to get to the café to get a little something before dinner. Rhi’s got her hair up, paired with ripped jeans and an oversized black band t-shirt.

Violet’s tucked safely in her oversized cream cardigan dress and knee-length black boots as she messes with the bobby pins keeping her hair back behind her ears. And Aurelie sports an orange sweater with jean overalls, her dark bob swaying.

The door to 708 opens at the same time.

Garrick, Bodhi, and Liam tumble into the hallway, joking too loudly for hotel decorum. And then there’s Xaden, deliberate as always, a sleeveless jean jacket thrown on over a long-sleeve tight black turtleneck, posture sharp despite how long the day has been already.

The groups converge at the elevator, conversations blending into the white noise of teenage energy.

I press the down button, brushing a strand of hair over my shoulder. It falls in perfect, precise waves—inky black, glossy in the hotel lighting, cascading all the way to the small of my back. When the elevator doors open, I'm texting my parents as Aurelie goes in with Rhiannon, and Violet on her heels.

The boys file in after us, and as we turn, shoulder to shoulder, facing forward. I end up beside him. The space is cramped enough that his sleeve brushes my arm, and I tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear, the movement delicate, practiced.

But as the space narrows, Xaden’s eyes catch on me.

My outfit isn’t loud—it isn’t trying. But somehow it is. Sheer black tights that trace the line of my legs, a mid-wash jean skirt brushing mid-thigh, a layered pairing of a deep brown turtleneck under a green-and-orange sleeveless sweater tucked neatly in. Gold hoops, the kind of small detail no one else notices but him. And on my feet, brown leather Doc Martens polished enough to reflect the low light.

He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t tease. He just watches in silence, the muscles in his jaw ticking. My fingers twitch against the hem of my skirt, and I don’t glance his way again.

The elevator dings, releasing them into the sleek lobby. The group fans out across the polished floors, filing toward the café tucked into the corner. The smell of fresh espresso, toasted bread, and something sweet—cinnamon maybe—meets them before they’re even through the glass doors.

Imogen and Quinn already claimed a table by the window, sipping iced coffees like they own the place. Quinn waves lazily, and Imogen lifts her chin in greeting, her short pink hair falling a little over her shoulder.

“About time,” Imogen calls. “I thought you all got lost between floors.”

Ridoc barks a laugh. “Rhi probably took forever choosing earrings.” He and Sawyer grab a four-top, but Aurelie sits at the bigger table next to them.

I chuckle, sliding into a chair next to me. Rhiannon slides in between Aurelie and I. Vi claims a seat with Ridoc and Sawyer, her nose already in the menu.

The boys claim the other side of the table with us. Garrick pulls the chair out in front of Rhi, Bodhi immediately starts eyeing the pastry case like it’s the crown jewels as he sits on the edge in front of Aurelie, and Liam sits neatly, posture perfect as always in front of me. Xaden takes the last seat—beside Liam—but even as conversation sparks across the tables, his attention flicks once toward me.

Maybe I've just started looking for it....

And then he's back to his menu, just like that.

“What’s everyone getting?” Aurelie asks, ever composed as she flips her menu. “Because if one of you orders something disgusting, I’m not sitting next to it.”

“Relax, Aurelie,” Ridoc grins. “We all know I’m getting a burger. Pure American culture.”

“More like ruining your dinner, why not order something light?” I ask, playing with my hair as I study the choices.

“That’s the point!” Ridoc fires back, pointing his menu like a weapon. “It’s called vacation, Captain Buzzkill.”

Bodhi snorts, “Says the guy who’ll crash halfway through tonight because of a meat coma.”

“Not true,” Ridoc protests. “That’s a strategic nap. Big difference.”

Laughter ripples through both tables. Even Liam cracks a small smile.

“Whatever you order,” Rhiannon chimes in, “I’m stealing fries from it. That’s the law.”

“You always do that,” Violet says, looking up from her menu. “And then you say you didn’t want fries. Which is a lie.”

“She’s not lying,” I say, finally looking up, lips tugging into a grin. “Rhiannon’s the Fry Thief of Frisco.”

The nickname sticks instantly. Everyone repeats it, louder each time, until Rhi groans and buries her face in her hands. “I regret everything.”

Garrick leans back in his chair, smirking. “Careful, Rhi. Nicknames have a way of staying around. Just ask Bodhi.”

Bodhi huffs. “Don’t.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Wait, what’s Bodhi’s nickname? I wasn't made aware of this in any of my syllabi.”

“Nope,” Bodhi cuts in quickly. “We’re not doing that. Not here. Not ever again.” Laughter rolls again, and just like that, the café fills with our voices, our bickering, our quiet.

No one notices the quiet between Xaden and me.

No one notices that every time I brush a piece of hair back, his eyes flick toward me and I...wait for them to see me.

We’ve got 45 minutes before the schedule drags us all back into structure. For now, it’s noise, food, teasing—and two rivals who haven’t spoken a word to each other since the plane, but can’t seem to stop listening anyway.

Dain slips into the café and sits at the four-top, pressing a quick kiss to her temple as if it’s just a reflex. She smiles, warm and patient. Ridoc makes a gagging noise, which earns him a swat from Vi.

Xaden, already leaning back in his chair with a plate of untouched fries in front of him, doesn’t roll his eyes this time. His disdain is quieter, sharper—like it’s been honed over years. I, however, catch the way his jaw locks as he watches Dain move.

I arch a brow at him. Not a loud question, just that well? look.

Without a word, Xaden slides his phone out of his pocket and types. A buzz rattles my phone across from chicken salad.

The Dictator📚: Before you ask—no, it’s not about Violet. I just don’t like Aetos.

My lips twitch. I flick my eyes at him, then down to my screen as I type back.

Ciara: Why, though? He seems… fine. Rule-followy. Kind of boring, but harmless.

Xaden lets out a humorless laugh under his breath. Too low to be noticed. He types quickly, jaw still set.

The Dictator📚: 10th grade. Honors Algebra II. Peer review. He got my paper.

I type back, intrigued.

Ciara: …and? He found an error?

Xaden shakes his head once, short and sharp, still not looking at me.

The Dictator📚: No. He tried. Spent the whole period raising his hand for “technicalities.” As if saying it loud enough could make me wrong. Guess what? It never worked. I was always right.

I press my lips together to keep from laughing out loud. I can practically hear his voice in the text—clipped, certain, irritated.

Ciara: So, he’s allergic to being wrong, and you scarred him for life?

Across the table, Ridoc leans back in his chair and announces, “Rhi, you’re officially demoted from Fry Thief. Ciara just stole your title. She’s grinning like she got away with something.”

“I did not,” I say automatically, hiding my phone beneath the table as I smother a laugh, clearly failing.

Sawyer squints at me. “I don’t trust that smile. What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” I say singsongy as I go back to stabbing my salad.

My phone buzzes again, and I sneak a look.

The Dictator📚: You laugh, but that’s exactly why I don’t trust rule-followers. He doesn’t bend. Doesn’t adapt. He’ll wait for someone else to fail so he can be “right.”

I stare at the words for a beat longer than I should. I look up—Xaden’s not watching me, just idly stabbing a fry with his fork, eyes half-lidded. But I notice the faintest curve of his mouth, like the memory still irritates him, but also that he knows I'm amused by it.

The café is buzzing as more students trickle in, spoons clinking against mugs and chatter bouncing from table to table. 

By 5:00, we’re walking through the hotel's halls into the conference wing that has been commandeered—whiteboards, folding chairs, a small stage.

Markham claps his hands once. “Before dinner, a team-building exercise. Boys versus girls.”

Groans and whoops erupt from all of us. I grin since I'm always down for a challenge.

“Don’t whine,” Devera says crisply. “Consider it…warming up for committee debate.”

The challenge is simple: a rapid-fire trivia-and-task relay. Boys line up on one side of the room, girls on the other. Answer a question, complete a goofy challenge—stack cups, balance books on your head, whatever—and tag the next person in. The first group to finish wins.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also war.

The girls are in the lead 5-3 by the time I step up for my turn, and my team is shrieking encouragement. Aurelie just nailed a spelling round. Violet’s binder knowledge saved us on the “UN founding year.”

Across the room, Bodhi is shouting, “We’ve got this!” but his tower of plastic cups just collapsed. Again.

The boy's disappointment is shared down the line.

My question flashes: What is Germany’s capital?

I snort. “Berlin.” Too easy. I breeze through the task—hopping across the taped line on one foot—and tag Nyra with a grin.

The girls are electric, voices filling the room. “Come on! Let’s go!”

When Rhiannon slams the final book onto the stack and it holds steady, the room erupts.

We win.

The girls explode in cheers, hugging, high-fiving, and bouncing on the spot. Aurelie actually shrieks. Violet lifts both fists triumphantly.

The boys? Groaning. Complaining. Garrick is blaming Bodhi. Ridoc is demanding a rematch. I can’t help it—I laugh, sharp and satisfied. Through the noise, though, I feel it—that tether pulling my gaze sideways.

Xaden’s not complaining. He’s watching. Expression unreadable, arms folded, the same steady weight as always. But when my laughter catches his attention, his lips curve upward.

It’s small. Almost nothing.

But it glows in my chest like victory all its own.

The buzz from our trivia win is still there as we pour out of the charter bus and into the D.C. night. The girls are riding the high, laughing too loud, high-fiving like we’ve just scored some monumental victory—and honestly, maybe we have. Nothing tastes sweeter than beating the boys.

The restaurant is glowing warmly under golden lights, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce spilling out every time the door swings open. It’s one of those old-school Italian places with dark wood and too many tables packed close together, exactly the kind of place that looks like it’s been family-run for fifty years.

Inside, the chaos doubles. Waiters in crisp black uniforms weave between clusters of people who are already seated, while the hostess is flipping through her clipboard like she’s seconds away from giving up on her job entirely. Our group—eighty students—streams in.

“These tables are already reserved for us,” Markham calls from the front, his voice carrying like a general commanding troops. “Sit with your country, stay organized, and don’t embarrass us.”

The girls snicker behind him. Violet flashes me a grin. Rhiannon mutters under her breath, “Too late for that.”

We follow her through the narrow maze of tables to an open area with more than enough booths and tables for us all. Until we find one for us: a large table near the back in a booth, round enough that everyone will be able to spread out.

Rhi grabs one side immediately, sliding into the booth with her usual confidence. Violet follows, then Aurelie, and finally me, as I slide in on the end, easy to get out for a quick bathroom break. We begin to look at the menu, nothing in particular really catching my eye until something else does.

Across from us, the UK boys approach like they’re storming a battlefield. Xaden first, as always, Garrick right behind him, Bodhi trailing lazily, and then Liam, last.

That’s when Cat makes her move.

She slides forward, her smile bright, her tone casual but pitched loud enough for the whole table to hear, and the boys stop. “Xaden, why don’t we sit together? Strategy, you know. It’ll be easier if we can whisper during dinner.”

I stiffen, adjusting my napkin like it suddenly needs perfect symmetry. I refuse to look up. Refuse to give her the satisfaction.

Xaden doesn’t even blink. He just tilts his head, voice smooth as obsidian. “Tempting. But I don’t share strategy with people who need a cheat sheet to keep up.”

The table goes silent for a beat. Garrick coughs to hide a laugh. Liam mutters, “Cold,” under his breath. Bodhi just grins like this is the best show he’s seen all week.

Cat’s smile freezes. “Excuse me?”

But Xaden is already moving, sliding onto the bench across from Violet. Right next to me. His shoulder brushes mine as the booth dips under his weight. His cologne—clean, dark, like cedar smoke—settles into the space between us.

He leans back, voice low, meant only for me. “Guess you’re stuck with me, rival.”

I don’t look at him. I focus on the water glass in front of me, the condensation running down the side. “Tragic.”

I scoot to the middle of the table so that the rest can sit. Great, just perfect, now I have no way to escape if embarrassment decides to chase me.

The waiter arrives with bread baskets, saving me from saying anything else. The table comes alive again, everyone talking at once, the chaos flowing like wine.

“Still can’t believe you girls pulled off that trivia win,” Liam says, shaking his head as he tears into a roll. “Wasn’t fair. You have Violet, basically a known historian, and Ciara, who loves history for the fun of it.”

“Excuses already?” Rhiannon shoots back, smirking. “Face it, we’re just smarter.”

“Or sneakier,” Garrick mutters.

“Both,” I say sweetly, popping a piece of bread into my mouth, and the table laughs.

Beside me, Xaden doesn’t laugh, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. His knee brushes mine under the table, and I wonder if it’s an accident. Then I wonder why I care. "You know," I lean over at him. "You're allowed to laugh out loud." I pull back from his ear and give a small, genuine smile. His gets a tiny bit wider.

Dinner is a blur of overlapping conversations. Garrick launches into a story about one of their practice debates gone wrong, Liam interrupts with a dramatic reenactment, and Bodhi plays the part of the commentator, throwing in sarcastic one-liners that make Rhiannon nearly choke on her water.

“Okay, but in our defense,” Liam insists, gesturing wildly with his fork, “nobody told us the moderator was going to be that strict—”

“She was literally reading from the handbook,” Bodhi cuts in, deadpan. "That's the last time we get someone to help us..."

“Exactly! Too strict for someone just helping,” Garrick says, and the whole table bursts out laughing again.

I let their voices wash over me, but my focus keeps drifting sideways. To the quiet, broody boy at my elbow who isn’t really participating in the chaos, but whose presence is louder than any of them.

At one point, I reach for the parmesan, and my fingers brush his. My stomach flips, but I keep my face neutral. He doesn’t flinch either. He just slides the shaker closer to me and murmurs, “Relax. It’s cheese, not classified intel.”

The laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. Rhiannon notices, her eyes flicking between us, her smirk knowing. I kick her under the table. "You okay, Rhi?' I slide my eyes over to her, already knowing.

"I'm fine," she says pained, bent closer to the table, probably rubbing her shin. Both our eyes locking for half a moment before returning to the group.

And still—through every laugh, every sarcastic jab, every time Cat looks across the room trying to pull Xaden’s attention—he stays anchored next to me. Quiet. Steady. Occasionally, leaning close enough to mutter something just for me.

“Garrick’s about to spill his water,” he says once, and sure enough, Garrick knocks the glass over thirty seconds later.

Or, when Liam brags about how the UK delegation is clearly the superior one, Xaden mutters, “He’s been saying that since we got on the bus. Don’t encourage him.” We look up when Devera gives a 10-minute warning call to finish where we are.

It’s nothing, really. Just small comments, low enough that no one else hears. But each one feels like its own secret. So I start asking questions of my own.

"Favorite color? Don't pretend you don't have one." He lifts a brow and looks down at his shirt. "...Black." I roll my eyes. "Shocking. Absolutely shocking. Never would have guessed."

"Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee. Strong."

I make a gagging noise. "No sugar? No cream?"

He looks at me, "What's the point of either?"

"I'll take chai over coffee any day of the week. Make it with a full cup of almond milk and a teaspoon of sugar. Yummy." I tap my finger against my chin, "Favorite food?"

He grins and folds his arms, "Steak. Medium-Rare. Then, chocolate cake." I open my mouth at the unexpected answer, "Chocolate cake?"

His mouth turns downward a bit, "Why so many questions, weirdo?"

I smirk, tilting my head, pretending it’s casual. “What, can’t handle a little interrogation? I thought the mighty UK delegation could stand up to pressure.”

That earns me his full attention—dark eyes locked on mine, sharp and knowing. He leans just close enough that his voice dips, quiet but edged.

“You keep calling it a rivalry.....” He looks me up and down, gaze unrelenting and unbothered by everyone else around us.

My body heats when Markham is calling us all toward the exit, and I realize I’m almost disappointed. Dinner felt like its own cocoon. The rest of the world—debates, rivalries, responsibilities—faded out for a while.

Now, as we spill back into the cold D.C. air, I can already feel reality creeping back in.

But the way Xaden walks beside me, close enough that our hands brush once, twice, three times as we make our way toward the bus—yeah. Maybe dinner with the guys wasn't such a bad idea.

The seventh floor of the hotel buzzes like a beehive by the time we get back upstairs. Doors slam, voices bounce off the patterned carpet, and somewhere down the hall, someone is already blasting music off a tiny phone speaker.

Violet groans. “This is supposed to be a professional trip.”

Aurelie twirls her room key between her fingers. “We are professionals. Just…very fun ones.” As soon as we pile into our room, Aurelie turns on her own speaker. I get undressed, and Rhi takes off her makeup first. Violet unpacks her binder and lays it neatly on the desk. She’s muttering something about strategy blocs, pens lined up like soldiers.

I let Rhi in the bathroom with me since she just needs the mirror and the sink. The whole room vibrates faintly with footsteps and girls' laughter from the hall.

“I'm all for fun and games, but Devera and Markham are right down the hall,” Violet complains, massaging her temples.

Aurelie grins mischievously. “They're down the hall and AROUND the corner. This is perfect. Keep the boys up all night, make them groggy tomorrow.”

Rhiannon smirks and speaks louder out of the bathroom for them to hear. “That’s… not the worst strategy I’ve heard.” I laugh, half-shocked, half-delighted. “You can’t seriously think being obnoxious is part of Germany’s master plan.” I grab my clothes from off the bathroom floor and head to my suitcase.

“Why not?” Aurelie bounces on the mattress, making the headboard squeak. Thank goodness the beadboard is attached to the wall. “Psychological warfare.”

"We should knock on their door!" Rhi comes out to the room still in her clothes. "Uh, definitely not!" I go to stop her, but she beats me to the door and bangs on 708. Running back in and shutting it.

The pounding starts immediately: someone’s fist on the other side of the door.

“HEY, KEEP IT DOWN!” Garrick’s muffled voice bellows.

The girls burst into laughter. Aurelie knocks back on the room side of our door, rapid-fire, looking through the peephole. I collapse onto the bed, clutching a pillow to my chest. “This is a disaster.”

“No,” Violet mutters, flipping through her notes. “This is a tactical advantage.”

It’s nearly ten when Violet finally shoos us toward brushing our teeth. I slip out into the hallway while Aurelie hogs the bathroom. The air feels cooler out here, the noise a little more bearable.

I nearly trip when someone steps out of 708 at the same time.

Xaden.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, one hand braced against the wood, his hair messy from running his hand through it. For once, he looks… tired. Not just his usual broody self, but genuinely worn down.

Our eyes meet, and the noise from both rooms seems to dull instantly.

“Your team’s loud,” he says flatly.

I bite back a smile. “Part of the strategy.”

His brow arches. “Keep us awake?”

“Maybe.” I shrug, feigning innocence. “Seems to be working.”

He exhales through his nose, half a laugh but not quite. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re grumpy.”

“Always.” He doesn’t even deny it.

For a second, we just stand there in the hallway, the hum of voices muffled behind closed doors. Then he pushes off the frame and jerks his head toward the far end of the hall. “Walk with me?”

The carpet swallows our footsteps as we drift away from the noise. At the end of the hall, there’s a narrow balcony meant for smokers—though right now it’s deserted, the city lights of D.C. sprawled below.

I lean against the railing, the October air cool against my cheeks. He stands a little apart, hands shoved in his pockets, gaze fixed on the street far below.

“You always brood like this?” I tease softly.

His jaw ticks. “Only when I can’t figure something out.”

I tilt my head. “And what exactly are you trying to figure out?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. The hum of traffic drifts up from below.

Finally, he says, “Why we’re supposed to be rivals.”

The words punch the air out of me. I grip the railing tighter.

He doesn’t look at me. “It doesn’t make sense. I tell myself it does—our ranks, the competition, all that—but then…” He exhales, shaking his head. “Then you’re just… you. And it’s harder to care about the rest.”

The ache that blooms in my chest is sharp and impossible.

I try to laugh it off, though my voice wavers. “You’re terrible at insults, you know. ‘You’re just you’ isn’t much of a burn.”

Finally, he looks at me. His eyes catch in the glow of the balcony light, dark and intense. “It wasn’t meant to be one.”

My breath stutters.

For a heartbeat, it feels like we’re right back on the plane—cocooned, just the two of us, the rest of the world fading out. His shoulder had been so close then, his warmth steady against me, us laughing quietly at each mock insult. Here, with the city humming below, it feels even more dangerous.

He steps closer, slow enough that I could move away if I wanted to. I don’t.

“Ciara…” His voice is rough, low. “You’re making this harder than it should be.”

I swallow, my pulse thrumming in my throat. “Maybe it’s not supposed to be easy. Being rivals is better….right? Less complicated.”

His gaze flickers down—just for a second—to my mouth.

The air between us tightens, pulling taut.

And then—

“Ciara!” Aurelie’s voice shrieks down the hallway, she's trying to be quiet but clearly failing. “Violet says you have to come back for the final strategy meeting or she'll strangle us all!”

I jolt, heat flooding my face.

Xaden mutters something under his breath—definitely a curse—and drags a hand down his face. When he drops it, his expression is back to its usual guarded mask.

“Go,” he says quietly. “Before she actually strangles someone. She's a murder machine in that tiny little body of hers.”

I hesitate, torn between every part of me screaming, SCREAMING to stay. But finally, I nod, turning back toward the hall.

As I reach the door, his voice follows me, soft and almost reluctant, “Sleep well, strategist.”

The girls explode into giggles the second I step back into 707. Aurelie’s bouncing on our bed again, Rhiannon smirking, Violet rolling her eyes so hard they might fall out.

“What?” I demand, dropping onto my mattress, making Aurelie stop.

“You were out there a long time,” Aurelie sing-songs.

I bury my face in the pillow. “You’re insufferable.”

Rhiannon snorts. “No, he is. Remember?” she wiggles her eyebrows at me and my cheeks go pink.

"Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?" But even as Violet drones on about bloc votes, I can’t stop replaying his words, his look, that almost-moment.

And the worst—or maybe best—part?

I don’t think this rivalry stands a chance.

Chapter Text

Rhiannon’s phone alarm blares, shrill and cruel against the darkness, and Violet groans, throwing a pillow over her head.

“Turn it off before I set it on fire,” Aurelie mutters, voice muffled in her blanket cocoon. “If I don’t get caffeine in me soon, I’ll drop out of NMUN on principle.”

I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes. The clock reads 6:30 am. Not awful, but not exactly merciful either. “Breakfast?" My voice scratchy. "We’ve got a few hours before we have to get on the bus,” I remind them, dragging my hair back behind my ears and putting a pink bedazzled headband over it.

“Three or four hours until we’re trapped in a room debating foreign policy with people who think they’re the next Secretary-General,” Rhiannon says, rolling out of bed and immediately tripping over her slippers. “I need caffeine just to face that.”

Violet peeks out from her pillow fortress. “What do you think they’ll throw at us first? Syria? Climate accords?”

“Or something boring, like trade tariffs,” Aurelie says, yawning. “God, if I get stuck with that, I might fake a fever.”

I laugh, tugging on my hoodie. “You’ll thrive no matter what it is. That’s why Markham fights with you over who gets the last word.”

“Facts,” Rhiannon agrees, snagging a pair of socks from the floor. “I’ll bet Imogen’s already planning her opening statement in her sleep. Quinn probably made a pro-con list before breakfast.”

“Pajamas are acceptable, right?” Aurelie says, already grabbing her room key in plaid pants and an oversized hoodie.

“They better be,” Rhiannon mutters, tugging on a sweatshirt without bothering to fix her bun. “Because there is no universe where I put on real pants before 8 a.m. and we're not in New Bordeaux.”

We all laugh at that, and it feels good—easy, light. For a moment, the NMUN nerves don’t seem so sharp. Together we shuffle down to the hotel’s continental breakfast like a half-awake parade.

“So,” Rhiannon says, leading the way to breakfast, “strategy check. We’re Germany. Our official position on climate is…?”

“Strong pro-sustainability, but pragmatic about energy security,” Aurelie answers instantly, not even having to look at her notes. “We push for compromise language, but we won’t be bullied into unrealistic targets.”

Violet groans. “I swear, I’m going to dream about ‘pragmatic compromise language’ after this trip.”

“Could be worse,” I point out. “We could be the U.K.”

That earns me a round of knowing groans. Everyone remembers the country draw two weeks ago. 708 lucked out with the U.K.—a powerhouse, veto-wielding, loud voice in every committee. Which meant Xaden, Bodhi, Garrick, and Liam had been terrible about it.

“They’re going to be smug all week if they win,” Aurelie mutters.

“Correction,” Violet says. “Xaden is going to be smug all week. The others will just be loud about it.”

By the time we reach the lobby, the smell of waffles and burnt hotel coffee is already in the air. Other students from Frisco are scattered around in equally sleepy states, some clutching orange juice like medicine.

We claim a table and first survey what they have for breakfast, laughter spilling more easily now as we trade guesses about what today will bring.

Across the room, 708 makes their entrance before we can scour the buffet. The boys look like four different definitions of “not morning people.” Liam with pillow-creased cheeks, Garrick half-yawning, Bodhi buried in a hoodie like he wants to disappear.

And then there’s Xaden.

His button-down isn’t fully tucked in, dark sleeves rolled sloppily past his elbows. His hair is damp, not styled, and he looks sharper than the rest of them, but still—messy enough that it’s obvious he got dressed on autopilot. And somehow, that just makes it worse.

We end up pushed together at the same long table, trays clattering down as people shuffle in. For once, no one’s teasing. It’s too early. Just quiet forks, small yawns, half-hearted greetings. The girls and I get up to grab something to eat now that our table is secure. 

Xaden heads straight for the coffee station without a word. I stack my plate with a bagel, eggs, sausages, and cream cheese. I go back to the table to place my plate down, but I'm startled. I don’t think anyone notices when he sets two cups down, one black for him, one chai steaming in a paper cup.

For me.

I blink at it, then at him. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t wait for thanks—just slides the other cup over to the seat across from me, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Then retreats and grabs himself a plate. Last night lingering in my mind.

I grab the chai before anyone else can see it. The heat seeps into my hands, calming and steadying, even though the gesture is anything but.

By the time Liam collapses into the chair beside me, and Garrick sits with his plate piled high with waffles, the whole exchange is swallowed by the sleepy chaos of breakfast.

“Best case?” Violet says, sitting down and stirring her yogurt. “We get something we actually prepped for.”

“Worst case,” Aurelie adds, “they throw North Korea sanctions at me before I’ve had my 2nd cup of coffee.”

I take a sip and grin. “Then at least you’ll have a dramatic story to tell.”

Violet scrolls through her notes. Rhiannon sits cross-legged in her chair, notebook already open despite still wearing fuzzy socks, and Aurelie has her hair up in a messy bun that somehow looks intentional.

Liam leans over his plate of eggs, reading something off a print-out, while Bodhi and Garrick argue over whether NATO strategy is even relevant to the scenario pool.

“They’re not wrong,” Violet mutters, following my gaze. “The Security Council committee is going to be a circus.”

Before I can answer, Catriona sweeps into the breakfast room, cheer-bright even at 8 a.m., plate in hand. France. Another permanent Security Council seat. Another veto power. 

My jaw tightens. France and the U.K. are natural allies, depending on the scenario. Which means Catriona was handed the perfect excuse to stay in Xaden’s orbit for the next two days.

“Don’t glare, you’ll burn a hole through her shirt,” Rhiannon whispers.

“I’m not glaring,” I mutter, but I am.

Thankfully, Ridoc wanders by our table with a plate stacked like a leaning tower of bagels. “Morning, UK, Germany. Don’t choke on your nerves today.”

“Don’t choke on your cholesterol,” Aurelie fires back.

The table dissolves into laughter, and even Bodhi snorts into his hoodie.

By 7:30, everyone has scattered back upstairs to change into business attire. Room 707 is a flurry of blazers, pressed skirts, and last-minute eyeliner.

“You look like you’re about to run the entire conference,” Aurelie says, straightening her blouse in the mirror.

“Good,” I reply, pulling my hair into a high ponytail, fanning it out. “That’s the point.”

"Vi, are you good today? Does anything hurt?" Rhi asks as she puts Violet's brown and silver hair up into a braided coronet. "I'm fine. I got my meds from the doctor before the trip. Hopefully, it doesn't flare for the rest of the trip."

We regroup in the lobby at 9:20, and most of everyone have already gathered. All four of the guys from 708 wear suits, Liam looks great in his brown suit. Bodhi’s tie is loose, Garrick’s jacket is half unbuttoned, and Xaden—Xaden's black suit somehow looks like he had a tailor in their room.

“Germany,” Garrick calls from across the lobby, smirking at us. “Ready to be outmaneuvered by the Crown?”

“Keep talking,” Vi shoots back, “and you’ll be begging us for amendments.”

The bus ride to the convention center feels more crowded than normal, laughter bouncing from seat to seat. This time, I slide into a row with Rhiannon. Aurelie and Vi are sitting to our left across the aisle.

Ridoc, sitting just ahead of Violet and Aurelie, twists around in his seat. “Fifty bucks says Germany and the U.K. are fighting before lunch.” Tyvon and Dain shake their head, and Sawyer chuckles.

“Fifty bucks says France makes it worse,” Liam mutters next to him, and everyone makes a noise in agreement.

I let myself laugh with the rest, but inside, I'm already bracing. Two weeks of prep told me one thing. This isn’t just going to be academic. With Xaden across the aisle and Catriona lurking with a country as powerful as France, the NMUN floor is going to feel like a battlefield.

And I'm not planning to lose.

The buses rumble into the heart of the city, pulling up in front of the convention center.

The building towers above us, glass catching the mid-morning sun in a way that makes it look almost unreal. The sidewalks are already crowded with blazers, tote bags, and lanyards as delegations from schools all over the country stream toward the entrance.

I press my forehead briefly against the window before the bus hisses to a stop. My stomach is doing nervous somersaults—half adrenaline, half caffeine.

“Germany’s ready,” Aurelie says, tightening her ponytail like she's suiting up for battle. “Let’s make them regret giving us the mic.” The three of us look at her and nod. 

We file off the bus into a sea of voices and clattering heels. Name badges are handed out in quick succession: ‘Federal Republic of Germany,’ bold across our. Across the walkway, I spot the deep blue lanyards of the U.K. delegation, and of course, Xaden leading his group.

He looks amazing, but his hair still looks slightly mussed, like he’s run a hand through it instead of a brush. He catches me watching, and for a moment, the noise of hundreds of students seems to fade. His gaze flicks to my lanyard, then back to my face, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Enemies in print, huh?” Garrick calls over, breaking the spell as he lifts his own badge. “Careful, Germany. We’ve got veto power.”

Rhiannon doesn’t miss a beat. “And we’ve got half the EU. Good luck pushing anything without us.”

“Play nice,” Liam mutters, though his grin gives him away.

Before it can escalate further, Devera claps her hands sharply, drawing both delegations’ attention. “Frisco High! Group up. Remember—today is about showing presence and composure. We’ll meet in the lobby at lunch. Until then, represent us well.”

As the crowd of students funnels further into the building, I feel a brush against my elbow. I don’t need to look to know who it was.

“Try to keep up,” Xaden murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. His breath tickles the shell of my ear before he steps past, long strides cutting through the chaos.

I stand there for a beat longer.

“Earth to Germany?” Aurelie nudges me. “Don’t tell me he’s already in your head.”

I force a breath and square my shoulders. “No chance. He’ll be the one chasing me by the end of this.”

I tighten my grip on my folder of notes and follow my team into the convention hall, the buzz of the National Model United Nations Conference washes over us like the opening bell of a match.

The convention center lobby buzzes like a hive. Dozens of delegations crowd around giant digital signs that list the day’s committee assignments. Badges flash: Japan. South Africa. Argentina. United States. The air smelled of coffee, paper, and nerves.

The committee chamber is massive—rows of desks arranged in a sweeping semicircle, microphones gleaming under stage lights, the seal of NMUN emblazoned on the wall. Students shuffle papers, whisper strategies, adjust ties. It should feel overwhelming.

Ridoc slings an arm around Sawyer and Tyvon. “Bros, this is it. NMUN glory. Mexico’s about to rewrite history.”

“Or crash and burn because you won’t read a position paper,” Sawyer mutters.

Dain sighs. “I read all of ours, actually. Twice.”

“Shocker,” Ridoc deadpans.

Frisco High splits into our different delegations.

I slide into Germany’s assigned row, Aurelie fussing with her binder beside me, Rhiannon cracking her knuckles like she’s about to arm-wrestle the entire U.N. My notes blur together, and it takes every ounce of discipline not to glance at the opposite row where the U.K. delegation settles.

I sit wedged between Violet and Rhiannon, the stage looms at the front, where a UN flag stretches floor to ceiling. My badge—Federal Republic of Germany (Delegate)—feels heavier around my neck than it did in the hall. We've all agreed that Rhi will be the other delegate, and Aurelie and Violet the Rapporteur/Alternate.

Meanwhile, Ridoc practically shouts, “¡Viva México!” as he drops into his seat, Sawyer burying his face in his hands, and Tyvon laughs. Dain stiffens beside them, already reaching for the rulebook like a lifeline.

The Secretary-General for NMUN welcomes everyone, his voice booming through the microphone. “Diplomacy is about compromise, about listening, about building bridges where others would burn them. Remember—you represent nations, not just yourselves. Delegates,” he begins, “Welcome to the 2024 National Model United Nations. Today begins with roll call. Please respond ‘present’ or ‘present and voting.’”

One by one, countries are called. “France?”
Catriona’s voice rings: “France is present and voting.”

“Germany?”
I glance at Rhiannon, then stand smoothly. “Germany is present and voting.” My voice carries, calm but firm.

Across the aisle, “United Kingdom?”
Xaden doesn’t hesitate. “The United Kingdom is present and voting.”

“Mexico?”
Ridoc practically leaps to his feet. “Mexico is so present and voting.”
Dain groans under his breath.

“Japan?”
Imogen gets up, arms folded still. "Japan is present and voting."

We all clap politely as every country present has been called for, but my mind isn’t on the speech. It is in the way Xaden holds himself, the United Kingdom placard bold and unyielding. He sits up in his chair, one hand tapping his pen, his dark eyes scanning the room like he's already memorizing weaknesses.

And of course, just beyond him, Catriona’s France delegation. She sits ramrod straight, bun as sleek as can be, already scribbling notes she probably plans to weaponize within the first hour.

The hum returns, delegates leaning together, whispering strategy. Rhiannon leans in, voice low. “We need to push Germany’s agenda on renewable energy in farming. Tie it to climate commitments.”

“While countering the U.K.’s trade-first argument,” I add, flicking my eyes across the aisle where Xaden is already outlining something for Garrick. His handwriting is quick, precise, his expression unreadable.

Violet taps her pen nervously. “France will try to steal the humanitarian angle. We can’t let them.”

I sit straighter, hands folded over the placard. I can already feel the day stretching long ahead—debates, speeches, alliances, betrayals and I know one thing for certain.

Facing Xaden across the floor like this? It's going to be war.

The Chair raps the gavel once, the topic appearing bold on the screen. "The topic on the floor is Global Food Security and Sustainable Agriculture. We’ll begin with a speakers’ list. Raise your placards if you’d like to be added.”

Germany’s placard shoots up immediately—I'm locked, Rhiannon backing me up. Across the aisle, the U.K. placard rises just as fast, Xaden’s hand controlled. France follows, Catriona practically waving hers in the air. Mexico’s placard goes up too—Ridoc grinning like he’s just been offered a microphone at karaoke night.

The Chair nods, scribbling names. “Germany, United Kingdom, France, Mexico. You’ll each have two minutes.”

My pulse thuds in my ears as I stand, binder in hand, as I go to the podium. I adjust the mic slightly, voice even.

“Honorable chair, esteemed delegates—Germany believes that addressing food security requires a balance between immediate humanitarian relief and long-term sustainable solutions. Our farmers face the dual pressures of producing more with less while also reducing emissions. We propose prioritizing technology transfers, renewable energy in agriculture, and cooperative funding mechanisms that allow developing nations to modernize their production. Food security is not just a matter of trade. It is a matter of survival, and it requires innovation alongside compassion.”

My pulse kicks it. This is it, this is the world stage—or at least the closest simulation a high school could offer.

Polite applause. A few nods. Even the chair smiles.

When I sit, Violet grins. “Nailed it.” But across the room, I see it—the smallest tilt of Xaden’s mouth. That almost smirk means he is already sharpening his counter.

Next, Xaden rises. His suit is sharp. He doesn’t touch his notes, just plants his hands on either side of the podium.

“The United Kingdom recognizes the urgent humanitarian crisis of food insecurity. But we also recognize that charity without infrastructure is unsustainable. Free trade, innovation, and open markets remain the most effective tools to ensure food reaches the people who need it. The U.K. calls on nations to reduce barriers to agricultural trade and to prioritize partnerships with the private sector. Aid, while necessary, cannot replace systemic reform.”

Applause again. I catch the way he glances at me as he steps down, like he’s aimed his entire speech straight at my argument.

It is measured. Powerful. Completely opposite of ours.

Aurelie mutters under her breath, “He’s good.”

I don’t look away. “So am I.”

France is next. Catriona nearly skips to the mic, flashing her cheer-perfect smile.

“France believes that human dignity must remain at the center of this debate. It is not enough to talk about markets and technology. We must protect vulnerable populations now. France calls for the immediate mobilization of aid resources and the establishment of a global humanitarian fund specifically for food emergencies. Without action, innovation and trade mean nothing.”

Her voice carries, practiced for stadiums, but I note the way Maren winces slightly at Catriona’s dramatics.

When Mexico’s turn comes up, Ridoc stands—not bouncing, but with a grin that says yeah, I know you’re all waiting for me to screw this up. He adjusts his tie like he’s practiced in the mirror.

“Honorable Chair, delegates—Mexico knows what it’s like to be at the crossroads of aid and sustainability. We’re a country that grows food, exports food, and still has citizens who go hungry. That’s the reality. If you only throw aid at the problem, you ignore the farmers who can feed themselves if given the tools. But if you only talk about trade and tech, you’re ignoring the kid who’s starving tonight.”

I smile when I see Sawyer give Ridoc a small thumbs up.

“So Mexico suggests something simple: dual-track investment. Let’s set immediate aid alongside long-term development—equal priority, equal funding. Because if you don’t plant and harvest for tomorrow, you’ll just be feeding the same people forever.”

A ripple of approval moves through the room. This time, no laughter. Even Dain sits a little straighter. Ridoc smirks, shoots me a wink, and sits down.

The gavel taps. “Thank you, delegates. We will now move into a moderated caucus—topic: Balancing immediate aid with sustainable long-term solutions. Speaking time: 30 seconds. Germany, you have the floor.”

I stand again, my voice tighter this time but controlled.

“Germany maintains that humanitarian aid is vital, but without sustainability, we will be trapped in a cycle of dependency. We urge the committee to focus on innovation—solar-powered irrigation, green fertilizer technologies, and farmer education programs that break the cycle permanently.”

I sit, refusing to look across the aisle, but I don’t need to—because the very next placard raised is the U.K.

Xaden doesn’t even wait for the Chair’s full acknowledgment.

“With respect to Germany,” he begins, voice carrying smoothly, “what good is solar-powered irrigation to a child who is starving today? Sustainability matters, yes—but without trade agreements and immediate access to surplus food supplies, millions will suffer before those technologies ever take root.”

A low hum sweeps the room. The tension between the two delegations is already sparking.

France jumps in, predictable.

“Germany and the United Kingdom are arguing over the future while people die in the present. France calls for a global humanitarian fund now, financed by those nations with the means to contribute.”

“Which means us,” Rhiannon mutters under her breath, and my pen tightens in my hand.

Then Mexico jumps back in—Ridoc leaning forward like this is his spotlight.

“Mexico believes both Germany and the U.K. are missing the point if they act like aid and sustainability are mutually exclusive. We can send aid trucks today and still fund irrigation projects for tomorrow. It’s not a debate between extremes—it’s balance.”

A couple of delegates nod. One even whispers, “That’s actually smart.” Ridoc beams.

Japan follows. Imogen rises, serene but firm, Nyra passing her a note as backup.

“Japan aligns with the principle of balance. Our experience after natural disasters shows the necessity of immediate food aid to stabilize communities—but also investment in technology to prevent future shortages. Japan advocates for knowledge-sharing, agricultural training, and green energy support alongside aid relief. Food security is resilience, not dependency.”

Her delivery is steady, calm, and deliberate. I scribble a star next to “Japan” in my notes.

For a moment, silence hangs—thoughtful, heavy. Even the Chair looks impressed, and then the gavel cracks. “The floor is open for the next speaker.” Then the gavel strikes. “The motion for a ten-minute unmoderated caucus has passed. Delegates may now move around the room.”

Immediately, placards scrape back as students surge to form little knots of alliances. France drifts toward a cluster of smaller delegations, already trying to play queen bee. Mexico is circled by a few other Latin American countries.

And Xaden? He's already on his feet, cutting straight through the crowd toward our corner. I feel my pulse quicken. I force myself to stand steady as he closes the distance, his U.K. placard angled like a blade.

“Germany,” he says smoothly, his voice pitched for my ears alone. “We need to talk terms.”

I lift my chin. “I wasn’t aware the U.K. was interested in compromise.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost. He leans in, low enough that his breath stirs the loose strands of my hair. “Don’t flatter yourself, Stein. I’m here because if you get too much traction, you’ll tip the room in your favor. I’d rather cut you off early.”

My lips curve despite myself. “So you’re worried.” Rhi, Aurelie, and Vi grin behind me. My girls.

He lets out a short huff. “Prepared,” he corrects, eyes flicking to my binder, then back to my face. “But you—” he leans closer, voice dropping so only I can hear, “you’re playing something deeper. I can see it.”

I hold his gaze, heartbeat thudding. I don’t answer directly, only angle my body slightly toward him so that to anyone watching, it looks like collaboration. “Germany believes immediate aid must exist within long-term frameworks. If the U.K. insists on trade-first, you’ll alienate half this room.”

“Unless I convince them otherwise.”

“You won’t,” I say softly, almost teasing. 

That flicker in his eyes—recognition, frustration, something hotter—makes my pulse spike. We are inches apart, voices pitched low, every word edged with challenge.

Behind us, a sharp huff cuts through the buzz.

Catriona.

She stands a few feet away, France’s placard clutched too tightly, her gaze locks on the two of us. Fury practically vibrates off her frame as she realizes Xaden hasn’t spared her delegation a glance.

But Xaden doesn’t notice. His attention never wavers from me. “Germany,” he murmurs, tone almost taunting now, “play it however you want. Just remember—I don’t lose.”

I let myself smile then, slow and knowing, the kind that says I'm not intimidated.

“Good thing I don’t either.”

The words slip out smoother than I expect, a little blade hidden in the folds of my smile. Xaden’s mouth curves—half challenge, half warning—but he doesn’t get the chance to answer. The chair at his other side scrapes back as Catriona swoops in, all perfume and frost, demanding his attention under the guise of strategy. I don’t look at them. I’ve already gotten what I wanted.

Rhiannon clears her throat behind me, almost a laugh. “You’re dangerous when you smile like that.”

“Not dangerous,” I correct softly as I go to sit. “Prepared.”

I look at him leaving, and I hope she's right. Aurelie nudges me. “Don’t let him get under your skin. You’re holding your ground.” I exhale slowly, shoulders easing. “I’m not letting him. It’s just…he knows how to make me second-guess.”

Rhiannon grins. “Then don’t second-guess. You’re Germany. Act like it.”

I lean back in my chair, pretending to jot notes, while my eyes sweep the room. The delegates are already scattering into their little cliques, huddling like predators and prey. Votes are currency, and everyone knows it.

Violet is still chewing the end of her pen, looking unsure, so I tilt my notebook toward her. Target softer blocs first, I write. Start with Spain and Canada—easy swing votes. Friendly, not aggressive.

Her eyes widen. Then she nods once, sharply, and slips away toward a pair of students setting their folders in neat stacks.

Aurelie catches my gaze next. She’s practically buzzing to do something. “Tell me where,” she whispers.

“Nordics,” I say under my breath. “They’re cautious, but if you frame Germany as stable leadership, they’ll follow. Sweden first.”

She grins, bright and sharp, and strides off without another word.

That leaves Rhiannon and me—our silent understanding already carrying weight. She doesn’t need instructions. She’s already peeling toward the U.S. bloc, smiling like she’s been practicing her whole life for this.

I sit back, exhale once, and sip the last of my chai. Others begin approaching our table.

Italy tried to box me in with a question about Germany’s reluctance to commit to a binding percentage of energy funding by 2030. I smiled, rested my hands neatly on my folder, and asked them how Italy plans to meet its own Paris targets when its coal phase-out lags five years behind. The delegate’s cheeks turned the shade of his flag’s red stripe.

By the time we break for lunch, Germany has more friends than anyone realizes. Nothing is written, nothing promised on paper, but I can feel the quiet shift. Heads are turning toward us, notes being slipped our way, little nods exchanged that aren’t meant to be noticed. Catriona works the floor like a queen bee, but she’s too visible, too obvious.

I’m building something quieter.

By the time the committee adjourns for the day, my brain feels like its run three marathons in heels. I hadn’t even realized how tightly I’d been gripping my binder until Aurelie pries it out of my hands.

“Breathe, Frau Germany,” Aurelie teases, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we funnel out with the crowd. “You sounded like a head of state in there.”

Rhiannon chimes in, eyes bright. “Honestly? You shut down that delegate from Italy so clean I almost applauded out loud.”

I smile, though my stomach churns. “Don’t cheer yet. The U.K. is already building its coalition.”

“The U.K. is just Xaden,” Aurelie said with mock exasperation. “You can handle him."

Easy for her to say.

The cafeteria annex is chaos—teenagers in suits and skirts, clutching trays piled with sandwiches and pasta, voices bouncing off the walls. Frisco High gravitates together at a cluster of tables, pulling chairs until it looks like our own little delegation summit.

I slide into a seat between Violet and Quinn. Violet instantly launches into a recap of her work, gesturing with half a breadstick, while Quinn makes sure Aurelie actually picks something that isn’t just coffee.

Across the room, my gaze snags. Because of course it does.

Xaden is already sitting with Garrick, Bodhi, and Liam at a nearby table. His tie is loose, and his suit jacket drapes over the back of his chair. He's scribbling on a legal pad while Bodhi leans over, probably whispering stats at him.

I go back to stabbing at my salad before he notices.

“Okay,” Ridoc announces loudly as he, Sawyer, Dain, and Tyvon crash into the empty seats at our table. “Mexico is officially the hottest free agent in this game. We’re about to get wooed harder than a prom queen.”

Sawyer groans, “He’s not wrong. Every delegation keeps cornering us like we’re their golden ticket.”

Dain adjusts his tie, adding primly, “Which is exactly why we have to be careful. Mexico’s neutrality matters.”

Ridoc smirks, leaning across the table. “Translation: Dain wants us to play Switzerland. Which is boring. We’re not Switzerland—we’re tacos and revolutions.”

Rhiannon chokes on her water. “Tacos and revolutions?”

Ridoc points at her. “Exactly. Write it down.”

The gavel slams again hours later. Session adjourned for the day. The buzzing chaos of voices spills out of the committee room and into the hallway.

We’ve survived Round One.

The conference room empties out in waves—students scattering to their buses. Rhiannon tugs Violet and Aurelie toward the elevators, tossing me a look that says, Hurry up.

My bad if I have to use the restroom.

“I’ll be right behind you,” I promise, collecting my empty cup from the table. When I turn back, I realize who else hasn’t moved.

Xaden.

He's standing near the back wall near the restrooms. He looks less like the boy who terrified every NMUN delegate in debate and more like the boy who brought me tea or let me lay on his shoulder.

“You always been this slow?” His voice is casual.

I fold my arms. “Some of us don’t inhale caffeine, that makes us move like a roadrunner.”

His mouth curves in that infuriating, almost-smile. “Some of us don’t need to.”

I huff and try to brush past, but he shifts just enough that his shoulder grazes mine, deliberate. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” I mutter. I really just need to use the restroom.

“I don’t think.” His gaze flicks down my face, lingering at my mouth before snapping back to my eyes. “I know.”

My breath catches. “You’re insufferable. I have to use the restroom, so move.”

“And yet you’re standing really close and very still for someone who has to go,” he murmurs.

My heart stutters. I should step back. Instead, my chin lifts stubbornly, and I fully look in his eyes

That earns me a flicker of something dark in his eyes, the same ones I got yesterday on the balcony. He leans in, closing the last inches between us until his chest almost brushes mine, until his breath tickles against my cheek. His hand hovers near my jaw—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the ghost of his warmth.

One second more, and I know I’d lean in.

One second more, and everything will change.

The elevator dings, loud and jarring, and laughter spills into the hallway. I jerk back like I’ve been burned, pressing my arms tight to my sides.

“We’re late,” I manage, voice uneven.

Xaden doesn’t move right away. When he finally straightens, his expression is carefully blank—but the sharp gleam in his eyes gives him away. “Yeah,” he says softly, his tone promising something I'm not sure I'm ready for. “We are. Use it, I'll be right here.”

My pulse spikes again when I see the bus waiting outside and everyone waiting for us. Devera is giving us the eye. The charter, already idling, ready to take us to dinner.

Violet nudges me as we climb aboard. “You were a beast today.”

I smile, exhausted but fueled. “Thanks.”

Seats are filling fast—countries sticking mostly together. France clusters near the front. Mexico sprawls mid-bus. The U.K.—oh, of course—claims the back row. Xaden sliding in with effortless command, Garrick and Liam taking the seats around him.

Rhiannon slides into a seat across from Violet, leaving the row behind us open. I don’t even register that I’ve paused until a voice cuts from behind.

“Move faster, Germany,” Bodhi drawls, leaning into the aisle. “Some of us don’t wanna eat dinner at midnight.”

I spin on him, scowl already forming—but then Xaden speaks, low enough only I hear.

“Sit wherever you want. You’ll still look over your shoulder at me.” My spine stiffens. I shove into a seat, Violet cackling behind me. The bus lurches into motion, Washington blurring by outside.

And I know—dinner is going to be chaos.

It's a blur of clinking plates and exhaustion. Markham and Devera herd us into a Mexican restaurant near the hotel

The neon sign above the door glows El Gallo Rojo, and the windows are fogged with laughter and steam. It’s loud already, mariachi music threading over the clatter of plates. Not exactly the formal steakhouse some delegations probably expected—but I catch Ridoc’s grin widening as if he personally orchestrated the choice.

“Mexican restaurant?” he says, half to himself, half to anyone listening. “Oh, I’m about to thrive.” I’m cataloging every seat, every whisper, every angle.

I keep Violet on my right, Aurelie across from me, and Rhiannon at the far end, the four of us spread like a net. Every time someone comes over to chat, I catch their tone, their questions, the direction of their lean, and every time, just like clockwork, one of my girls slips in the answer we’ve agreed upon.

It’s working.

Menus are passed down. Conversations spark—half debate, half normal teen chaos. Ridoc raises his horchata like a toast. “Finally, a restaurant that understands balance. Sugar, milk, rice—three food groups right here.”

Dinner arrives in waves. Plates of tacos al pastor, sizzling fajitas, and enchiladas drowned in sauce. The air fills with lime and cilantro, heat rising from cast-iron skillets.

Ridoc’s plate looks like a challenge from the kitchen itself—three burritos stacked like bricks. He flexes his fork. “Watch and learn.”

Bodhi laughs so hard he nearly chokes on a chip. “You’re gonna die, man.”

“Die a hero,” Ridoc counters, already digging in.

Across the table, Garrick and Liam are locked in a heated debate about the correct way to eat a taco.

“With a fork, obviously,” Garrick insists, knife already slicing.

Liam looks scandalized. “You don’t fork a taco. You fold and commit.”

“Commit to salsa down my tie? No thanks.” The argument escalates, napkins waving like flags. Bodhi eggs them on, Violet’s recording them on her phone. I laugh and continue eating my nachos.

The bus ride back is hushed, that sleepy post-dinner silence where even Ridoc doesn’t try to fill the air. Xaden sits two rows behind, head tilted back against the seat, the shadows of streetlights carving lines across his jaw. I shouldn’t look, but I do, once, long enough to see his fingers tapping idly against the armrest like he’s still calculating, still planning.

He doesn’t know.

Rhiannon and I move quickly once we get off the bus, sidestepping the crowd to get to the elevator before everyone else. I tap on floor 5, and as the elevators shut, Vi and Aurelie give us a thumbs up. We get off the elevator and take a left to the stairwell. Ridoc and Sawyer meet us there, Ridoc's grin wide.

“Germany,” he greets, mock-formal. “Or should I say—Queen Ciara, Slayer of Cycles of Dependency?”

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with a twitch. “Mexico. Nice speech.”

He winks. “Thanks. I only practiced in the mirror like…fifteen times.”

Imogen slips in quietly, Nyra trailing. Her voice is softer than Ridoc’s swagger, but it cuts with precision. “Japan is interested in pursuing Germany’s emphasis on sustainable agriculture, but we agree with Mexico that immediate aid cannot be sacrificed.”

I nod, heart pounding, but my voice stays steady. “Then maybe we can work together. A coalition that proposes dual-track investment—aid and innovation equally prioritized.”

Ridoc grins. “Finally, someone who gets it.”

Imogen inclines her head. “Japan is willing to draft language with you.”

It’s subtle. The beginnings of an alliance are there, stitching together with quiet nods and half-scribbled notes. Rhi and I finish with Mexico and Japan, and as we get back to the room, VI and Aurelie nod at us, and we nod back. By the time my head finally hits the pillow, exhaustion tugs me under, and I smile into the dark.

A shriek rips me out of sleep like a blade.

One second I’m tangled in dreams, the next I’m bolt upright in bed, ears ringing, heart pounding. The fire alarm blares through the hotel room — that high-pitched, metallic screech that feels like it’s drilling into my skull. A red strobe light pulses against the walls, turning the room into a crime scene.

“Oh my God,” Violet groans from the other bed, yanking her blanket over her head. “Tell me this is a dream.”

“It’s four in the morning,” Aurelie mutters, voice muffled by a pillow. “This is abuse. Literal abuse.”

Rhiannon sits up, hair sticking straight up like she’s been electrocuted. “What is happening?”

The alarm screeches again, vibrating in my chest. I throw back the covers, the silk hem of my nightgown sliding dangerously high as I stumble out of bed and jam my feet into my ridiculous white bunny slippers. My pink sleep mask is still on, tilted like a crooked crown. My hair — all dark, messy waves — spills everywhere, heavy against my bare shoulders.

Great. Exactly how I want to look if this is actually the end.

Aurelie yanks an oversized T-shirt down to her knees, Rhiannon grabs her phone, and Violet just keeps groaning under her blanket like the fire will politely skip her bed.

“Out,” I say, raising my voice over the alarm, though it comes out cracked with sleep. “We have to go.”

Someone pounds on our door. A sharp, authoritative knock. “Let’s go, room 707, move it.”

Markham’s voice. Which means this isn’t just a drill.

I tug the hem of my nightgown down — futile, really — and pull the door open. The hallway is chaos.

Students pour out of rooms in every variety of sleepwear: plaid pajama pants, oversized hoodies, messy buns, bed hair disasters. The fire alarm wails overhead, red light strobing down the corridor. Devera herds us toward the stairwell.

Markham hovers near our door, both looking more awake than anyone should at 4 a.m. Devera’s arms are crossed as students go downstairs, her sharp gaze sweeping the hall like a hawk looking for prey.

And then—

Xaden Riorson.

He’s coming through the doorframe across the hall, arms folded, wearing black pajama pants and a hoodie. 

And he’s staring.

Not subtle, not casual. His gaze locks on me and lingers, sweeping from the pink mask perched uselessly on my head to the slip of silk that clings where it shouldn’t, down my bare legs, and finally—

The slippers. His jaw flexes once, like he’s forcing himself not to laugh, but he doesn’t look away.

Heat crawls under my skin. I cross my arms, pretending not to notice, pretending like I don’t feel stripped bare by the weight of his eyes.

“Students,” Markham calls over the alarm, his voice cutting through the din. “We had reports of a fire alarm pulled on this floor. Everyone needs to evacuate, now.”

Groans ripple down the hallway. Someone mutters, “Seriously?” Another, “I was asleep.”

Devera’s voice slices sharper. “This isn’t funny. Move.”

We shuffle down the stairwell with the rest of the crowd, everyone grumbling and yawning. The air is thick with stale perfume, onion breathe, and the bitter tang of the alarm still echoing through our bones. The hotel staff waits below, bleary-eyed, clearly not impressed with eighty teenagers flooding their lobby at four a.m.

Finally, the alarm cuts off. The silence is almost worse — ringing, hollow, like it’s lodged behind my eardrums.

Teachers corral us into a loose crowd just outside the lobby into the crisp night air. Violet and I shiver and that's when Rhi and Aurelie form a group hug around us. Markham and Devera step forward, expressions dark enough to kill.

“If whoever pulled the alarm steps forward now,” Markham says, voice booming in the quiet, “the consequences will be… manageable. If not—”

“—we escalate,” Devera finishes, lips thin.

No one moves. Everyone looks around at everyone else. Yawns. Shrugs.

Then I see it. A boy at the edge of the group — Oren — pale as paper, eyes darting like he’s waiting for someone to save him.

Finally, he mutters, “It was me.”

Every head whips toward him.

Markham’s brows rise. “And what exactly were you doing, Mr. Oren?”

There’s a beat. Then, sheepishly: “Pulling the alarm. For a TikTok. It was a dare I swear it!”

The collective groan that follows could level a city block.

“Unbelievable,” Devera pinches the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable.”

Markham gestures sharply. “Come with me.” Oren slinks forward, slippers scuffing against the tile. Markham and Devera mutter about consequences, apologies, and hotel policy as they lead him away.

“Everyone else,” Devera calls over her shoulder, “back upstairs. Now.”

The crowd disperses in a flurry of yawns and shuffles. As we go back upstairs. Doors slam, locks click.

As I head back down the hall, tugging the hem of my nightgown again, I glance across to where Xaden walks side by side with me.

He looks more awake now. His gaze still fixed only on me.

Not smug. Not irritated. Just… intent.

Like he’s memorizing every detail.

I shut my door in his face before I can think about it too long.

For the first time, he looks almost startled when I shut the door in his face.

Chapter Text

The first alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m.

I groan, pulling the hotel blanket over my head, but Violet’s already up—of course she is—perched cross-legged on her bed with her debate notes glowing on her laptop screen. "Are you seriously up right now, Vi?" I say, looking at my phone and the many messages my mom left after I told them about the fire alarm incident.

"Yep, that alarm prank messed me up." She says, writing something in her notes. Rhiannon mumbles something about wanting to die and rolls over, while Aurelie yanks the blanket away from me with a wicked grin.

“Up up and away, captain. Germany needs you looking sharp.”

“I’ll look sharp after tea,” I mutter, dragging myself out of bed. My reflection in the bathroom mirror proves her right: messy black hair falling in wild waves down my back, oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder, and shorts that are… shorter than I realized. Definitely not the kind of outfit I’d want to run into anyone in.

But right now, half the floor is still probably asleep. It’s safe.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

By the time I pad out into the hallway, my hoodie tugged halfway on but unzipped, the air smells faintly of stale carpet and coffee brewing somewhere far below. My hair refuses to cooperate, curls twisting in directions I didn’t authorize. I sigh, running my fingers through it, when the door across the hall opens at the same time.

Xaden.

Of course.

He steps out like he owns the corridor—loose black T-shirt, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, bare forearms on display. His hair is even messier than mine, but somehow he makes it look intentional. His eyes flick over me, slow, deliberate, landing on the exposed strip of leg beneath my hoodie.

And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.

Xaden falls into step beside me as we move toward the balcony. His hands are shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Too relaxed.

“You’re quiet,” I say.

“I’m thinking,” he replies.

“About what?”

“You. In pink silk.”

I stumble. Just slightly. “Excuse me?”

His lips twitch again, the ghost of a smirk. “You heard me.”

I narrow my eyes, heat crawling up my neck. “Maybe focus on the conference instead of—”

“—what I can’t unsee?” he cuts in smoothly, voice low, teasing.

I swallow. Hard.

His jaw tightens, like he’s fighting with himself, but then he mutters, “It's not fair.”

I blink. “What?”

He shakes his head once, sharply, then glances toward the stairwell at the end of the hall just before what I thought would be our destination. Without another word, he grabs my wrist—gentle but certain—and pulls me with him.

“Xaden—what are you doing—”

The stairwell door clicks shut behind us, muting the hallway noise. He drags me down a level before I can finish the question, my back against the cool cinderblock wall, his hand braced above my head, his other hand still tangled with mine.

And then he kisses me.

It’s not careful. It’s not hesitant. It’s like weeks of rivalry and stolen glances and almost-moments have all boiled over and found their release in this one impossible second.

His mouth crashes into mine, hot and hungry, the kind of kiss that steals the air right out of your lungs. My hoodie slips off my shoulder, his fingers sliding against bare skin, and the shock makes me gasp against his lips.

I should push him away. I should remind him we’re supposed to be opponents, not—whatever this is. But every thought burns away when he presses closer, the stairwell suddenly too small to contain the heat between us.

“Xaden—” I manage, breathless, when we finally break apart.

He looks down at me, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he’s been running. “You drive me insane, constantly.”

The words snap something loose inside me. Because for weeks I’ve been pretending I don’t notice him, don’t care, don’t feel the spark every time his eyes find me across a room.

But now? Now I can’t pretend.

So I do the reckless thing.

I grab his shirt, pull him back down, and kiss him.

This time, he’s the one caught off guard. His little huff of surprise vibrates against my lips before he melts into it, hands gripping my waist like he can’t believe I pulled him back. The kiss turns softer, slower, like he’s memorizing instead of fighting. He introduces his tongue and I’ve never felt anything like. I’m overwhelmed with the taste of him and I can tell he feels the same way when he moans in between our kisses.

When we finally separate, foreheads pressed together, my pulse is racing so hard I swear he can hear it.

“We’re supposed to be rivals,” I whisper.

His mouth curves into the faintest smirk. “Rivals don’t kiss like that.”

My laugh comes out shaky. “Apparently they do.”

The stairwell falls quiet, just the hum of the hotel vent system and the sound of our breathing. For a moment, it feels like we’re suspended between two worlds—the one where I’m supposed to out-strategize the boy I’m currently kissing and where I don’t want to think of another day where this isn’t a reality.

He studies me like he’s still trying to solve an impossible puzzle. “You’re going to ruin me, Smith.”

“Maybe I already have, Riorson.”

His smirk deepens, but there’s something raw in his eyes too, something almost vulnerable. And that terrifies me more than the kiss itself.

The stairwell door bangs open above us, footsteps clattering down. We jolt apart just as Garrick’s voice echoes, "Xaden, you in here?”

Xaden mutters a curse, raking a hand through his hair, trying to look like he hasn’t just been kissing me against a wall. I tug my hoodie closed, cheeks flaming.

We exchange one last look—charged, messy, dangerous—before he heads out the stairwell, calling back something casual to Garrick.

I stay pressed against the wall for another beat, trying to steady my breathing. My lips still tingle, my heart still hammering, and all I can think is—

How the hell am I supposed to debate against him now?

Back in the room, Aurelie instantly narrows her eyes at me as I rush in the door. “Why do you look like you just ran a marathon?”

“I—coffee,” I blurt, diving for my suitcase. “Definitely need coffee.”

Violet raises one unimpressed brow but doesn’t press. Rhiannon just smirks knowingly, “I thought you only drank tea?”

“Oh hush you,” as I dig for my purse for my phone, I can still taste him on my lips. And I know, deep down, that no matter what happens on that NMUN floor today…

Rivals is the last thing we are anymore.

By the time the girls meet me down at the hotel breakfast buffet, the rest of Frisco High is already scattered across tables. Most of us still look half-asleep, bowls of cereal and bagels serving as weak attempts at fuel.

Xaden’s at the coffee station, hair slightly mussed, shirt rumpled like I've still got my fist in it. He pours his own cup, then — without a word, without even glancing around — fills a second, grabs two lids, and slides one cup to me as he passes my table.

Chai.

I take it without hesitation, no one notices. Everyone else is too busy fighting for toaster slots or yawning into their orange juice.

The girls are all still in pajamas, hair piled in messy buns or braids. Violet gets a croissant, Rhiannon grabs a banana and a cup of fruit, and Aurelie looks more awake than I do at this hour.

“So,” Rhiannon says, leaning in, “today’s the day.”

“Today’s the win,” I correct.

Violet grins, tearing her croissant in half. “You sound confident.”

I take a sip, savoring the warmth. “Because I am. We’ve been laying the groundwork for two weeks with our strats. Today, we just collect the payoff.”

Aurelie leans forward, eyes sparkling. “And how exactly do we make sure that they vote the way we need them to?”

I lower my voice, careful, even though no one’s listening. “Simple. Rhiannon, you keep the U.S. tied to us — or at least undecided long enough that they don’t swing early. Violet, you work the soft-power states: Spain, Brazil, and Canada. Make it sound like aligning with us is aligning with progress. Aurelie, Nordics. They’ll follow if we make climate central."

I bite into a piece of sausage, "I’ll take care of the speeches and—” I glance at the boys’ table, where Xaden’s chuckling with Liam over something Garrick said. “—the opposition.”

They all nod, no questions. We’ve thought this through enough with each other.

The entire conference hall buzzes with final-day energy—suit jackets and pressed skirts, and phones buzzing with last-minute texts from parents. I should be triple-checking our speaking points, reminding Aurelie not to panic, and making sure Rhiannon has her talking points and that Violet has all our contingency plans present. Instead, all I can think about is the memory of Xaden’s lips against mine and the way I yanked him back when he tried to pull away.

I don’t do reckless. I don’t do impulsive. And yet—

“Delegates,” the chair announces once we’re settled, “today is your final day. The resolutions you pass today will decide the outcome of this conference.”

The room shifts, energy snapping taut.

This is it. Though the problem with kissing your rival in a stairwell is that afterward, nothing feels the same.

Not the scrape of the hotel carpet under my heels, not the weight of my debate folder in my hand, not the way Violet side-eyes me like she knows everything that happened with me and him.

“Earth to Ciara.” Rhiannon waves a spoon in front of my face, granola dripping dangerously close to my blazer, from the complimentary breakfast in the lobby. “You gonna tell us what’s going on, or are you just gonna keep staring off like you’ve been abducted by aliens?”

I blink, forcing myself to focus on her. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

Aurelie leans closer to me as we walk to our specific conference room, eyes narrow, curls bouncing with the sharp shake of her head. “You’re never this spacey before a debate. Something happened.”

“Nothing happened.” My voice comes out too fast, too defensive.

Violet doesn’t even bother looking up from her tea. “It's Riorson, isn't it?”

My binder threatens to fall before I catch it. “What—no—it wasn’t—” Rhiannon and Aurelie both gasp like Violet just spoiled the season finale of their favorite drama.

“Oh my gosh,” Aurelie hisses. “It is him.”

Rhiannon leans closer, her grin feral. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” I demand, trying to summon captain-mode authority, but my cheeks are burning, and judging from their faces, I might as well have confessed.

Violet finally looks up, one brow perfectly arched. “Don’t bother denying it. He looks like he would rather be doing anything else and it’s probably you.” Her eyebrow wiggles. I roll my eyes.

Instinct makes me whip my head from them. And of course, she’s right.

Across the room, the U.K. delegation sits clustered around a table—Garrick gesturing animatedly with his pen, Bodhi leaning back like he owns the place. And Xaden…

He’s not talking. He’s just sitting there, dark eyes fixed across the room on—me. The second our gazes lock, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts his coffee mug in something dangerously close to a toast.

My stomach somersaults. I spin back toward my team, muttering, “We’re not talking about this.”

“Which,” Aurelie says slyly, “is code for we are absolutely talking about this later.”

And I’ll be damned if some stolen kiss throws me off my game.

The first moderated caucus feels like sparring with live blades. Xaden takes the floor early, his voice deep, steady, persuasive. He talks about stability, about the U.K.’s legacy of leadership, about credibility. People nod, take notes. He looks untouchable.

Then I stand.

I don’t try to overpower him. I don’t mimic his authority. I go for something else: diplomacy, hope, vision. Germany isn’t dictating — Germany is inviting. We’re building something together. Hands rise in agreement.

From the corner of my eye, I catch his gaze, sharp and assessing. Game on.

The Unmoderated caucus is where the real work happens. The room dissolves into clusters, voices overlapping, delegates shifting between groups.

I move with purpose, the girls splitting off just as we planned. Violet charms a cluster from Latin America, Rhiannon slides into quiet conversation with the U.S. rep, and Aurelie already has Norway nodding along.

I head straight into the fire — toward the U.K. bloc.

Xaden’s in the middle of it, of course, surrounded by Liam, Bodhi, Garrick, and a half-dozen allies. His eyes flick up as I step in, dark and unreadable.

“Germany,” he says smoothly. “Come to defect?”

“Please,” I murmur, sliding in beside him, our shoulders brushing. “I wouldn’t join a sinking ship.”

The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Careful. You might find yourself dragged down with it.”

“Not if I’m the one cutting the anchor.” I lean closer, voice dropping. “And you really should stop underestimating me, Riorson.”

His breath ghosts against my ear as he leans back, deliberately matching my proximity. “Underestimating? No. I just enjoy watching you try.”

Heat curls in my stomach, dangerous and distracting, but I force my focus back on the cluster of delegates around us. We volley arguments, crisp and strategic, but underneath every exchange is that same charge, that same unspoken dare.

And all the while, out of the corner of my eye, I see Catriona glowering, her French bloc scrambling to pull votes that are already slipping through her fingers.

When we file out of the hall for lunch, voting on everyone's mind, I somehow end up shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the bottleneck toward the elevators.

Xaden doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks close enough that our arms brush, once, twice, like he’s daring me to move away. My pulse spikes, but I keep my eyes front.

Finally, when the crowd shifts enough to give us a pocket of space, he leans just close enough to murmur, “Afternoon, Smith.” I nearly trip over my own heels. His voice is lower than usual, edged with something that still tastes like the stairwell.

“Don’t—” I hiss under my breath.

“Don’t what?” His smirk is audible.

“Don’t talk to me like—like—”

“Like I kissed you?”

My cheeks flame. “You kissed me first.”

“And you pulled me back,” he counters, unbothered, like we’re discussing the weather instead of detonating my sanity.

I whirl on him, glare sharp enough to cut steel. “We’re rivals, Riorson. Remember that.”

His smirk fades into something more dangerous. His gaze drops to my mouth for the barest second before he looks back into my eyes. “Rivals, yeah, sure.”

And then Garrick appears, clapping Xaden on the shoulder, pulling him back into the crowd. “C’mon, man, the groups' over here.”

I exhale so hard my knees nearly buckle.

Violet materializes at my side, voice playful. “You’re doomed.”

"I know."

The committee floor is chaos.

Papers shuffle, delegates whisper furiously to their neighbors, and the chair bangs his gavel, trying to rein the room back under control. I’ve been here long enough to know that the louder a room gets, the closer you are to a breakthrough — or a breakdown.

Right now, I’m betting on a breakthrough.

The Nordics are solid. Latin America’s leaning. Even the U.S. is refusing to commit to the U.K. outright, which in itself is a win, and we've got Japan and Mexico in the bag.

I can feel it.

Germany has the votes to get this passed.

I glance down the row of placards lined in front of us, Aurelie scribbling final tallies on her notepad, Violet calm as ever, Rhiannon vibrating with a mix of nerves and energy. My fingers drum lightly against my folder as I stand, smoothing my blazer. My pulse is steady — sharper than caffeine, steadier than adrenaline.

This is the moment.

"Delegates,” the Chair announces, gavel striking once. “We move now to the resolution on sustainable energy financing, submitted under the leadership of Germany.”

I step into the aisle, walking toward the podium as the murmur dies down. The podium feels ten miles away, but I make it, adjusting the mic until my voice projects evenly. A hundred or more eyes lock on me — some curious, some skeptical, some outright hostile. I don’t let any of it shake me.

“Our amendment,” I continue, “does not erase anyone’s contributions. It strengthens them. It gives this body the ability to act, not just debate. If you vote yes, you are voting for action.”

I let the words settle. Then I step back, bow my head, and return to my seat.

Silence. Then—clapping. Not just from our bloc, but from scattered corners across the room. Enough to make the U.K. whip their heads around, confusion clear on Garrick’s face.

The chair raps her gavel. “We will now proceed to voting procedure.”

My heart pounds in my ears as placards rise, one after another.

“Yes. Yes. Abstain. Yes.”

It’s happening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Xaden’s hand tighten on his placard. His jaw is rigid, eyes narrowed — not angry, not calculating, but something else. Something like disbelief. Pride. Respect. Maybe even...joy.

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

The votes keep stacking. Aurelie grips my arm under the table, her nails sharp in her excitement. Violet’s mouth curves into the barest of smiles. Rhiannon whispers, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh—” under her breath.

The chair counts the last few votes, then looks up.

“By a majority, the amendment passes. The resolution, as amended, is adopted. Germany,” the Chair continues, “congratulations. We invite you to speak briefly on the passage.”

The room erupts. Cheers, claps, the shuffle of chairs and papers as delegates surge to congratulate each other. My team all but tackles me in a hug — Aurelie squealing, Rhiannon bouncing, Violet calmly squeezing my shoulder with quiet pride.

He doesn’t look away. Not even when Garrick nudges him, demanding his attention. Not even when Bodhi says something sharp and Liam laughs. His gaze stays locked on mine, as if he’s acknowledging—silently, unshakably—that Germany just won. And while no country is the sole winner, our amendment helps pave the way in this scenario for future global food sustainability.

I make it to the mic on shaky legs, give thanks, call for cooperation, and somehow manage to keep my voice steady. But when I sit again, I feel the weight of Xaden’s gaze on me, steady and unreadable once more.

The Chair dismisses the session. Our professors, Markham and Devera, sweep in to gather us. Markham’s grin is rare but genuine. “Well done. You all earned this. And as promised, victory deserves a proper celebration.” I jump as my phone vibrates on the table.

The Dictator 📚: Congratulations, enjoy it while it lasts.

Ciara: I intend to😘

The Dictator 📚: You played me.

Ciara: You let me

The Dictator 📚: Insufferable

Ciara: You obviously like it 👩🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻

The Dictator 📚: 🔪🔪🔪

I allow myself to laugh when I see his tilted smile from across the room. The committee lets out late in the afternoon, and the energy is electric — the kind that sticks to your skin and makes your pulse hum. Germany won. Against every odd, against every sneer, against every subtle attempt to push us aside, we won.

And now? We celebrate.

Our teachers shepherd us down the crowded sidewalks of D.C., our little Model UN herd buzzing with chatter. Instead of the usual chain restaurant, they surprise us. A neon sign glowing against the twilight, Hangul lettering curling over the door. A real Korean barbecue spot.

My chest tightens.

The smell hits the second we step inside — sizzling meat, garlic, sesame oil, and the faint tang of kimchi. The low hum of conversation, the click of chopsticks against bowls, the pop of soju bottles being opened. It’s a sensory flood, and for the first time since we landed, I feel like I’ve stepped into a space that belongs to me.

Tables are reserved in the back. We file in, shedding coats and blazers, sliding into booths where gas grills gleam in the center. The chatter is loud, overlapping — Garrick and Bodhi already arguing about who’s cooking, Sawyer and Liam staring at the grill like it’s a science experiment, Violet smirking quietly, Rhiannon humming with excitement.

Xaden slides into the chair across from me. Not beside, not diagonal — across.

Of course.

He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes flick to me as the waiter approaches.

“Annyeonghaseyo,” I say easily, the syllables rolling off my tongue like second nature. The waiter brightens instantly, responding in a quick stream of Korean: ‘Oh, you speak Korean? I’ll bring you some extra banchan then. Tell me what you want, I’ll make sure they do it right.’

I smile, warmth bubbling in my chest. “Gamsahamnida. Samgyeopsal, bulgogi, galbi. And—” I rattle off a list, slipping back into English when I hit words my classmates will recognize. “Extra kimchi, japchae, mandu. And rice. A lot of rice.”

When the waiter leaves, the table stares.

“What,” I deadpan, arching a brow.

Sawyer blinks. “I caught like… three words of that. Tops.”

“You’ll live.” I slide a pair of chopsticks toward him. “Here. Hold them like this. No, not like drumsticks. Like this.”

He fumbles, nearly drops them, and groans. “This is impossible.”

“Not impossible.” I adjust his fingers, guiding the angle. “Patience. It’s like writing with a pen, but vertical.”

Liam leans over, watching with narrowed eyes. “I’m next. No way you leave me out here struggling.”

I laugh, grabbing another pair. “Fine. Thumb here, middle finger here. Don’t choke up too high, you’ll lose control. It’s balance.”

They both try, clumsy but determined. Sawyer eventually manages to pick up a piece of kimchi, dropping it twice before finally getting it to his plate. He cheers like he just scored a winning goal.

Liam smirks. “Alright, not bad. Germany teaches more than diplomacy, apparently.”

I shrug, hiding my grin as I show him how to adjust his grip. “Half Korean. It comes with the territory.”

Violet shakes her head, Dain looking at her joyfully, “I cannot believe that worked.”

“You should,” I say, picking up a piece of tofu. “We worked for it.”

Aurelie clinks her water glass against mine. “To strategy.”

Rhiannon smirks. “To Germany.”

“To Ciara,” Violet adds, grin widening.

I shake my head, though warmth seeps into my chest. “To all of us. No single person wins this.”

To my left, Sawyer squints at the grill, after the staff lights it, like it might explode. “Wait, so we have to just… cook our own food? In the restaurant?”

“Yes, genius,” Aurelie says, rolling her eyes. “Do you need a flowchart?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He pokes the tongs like they might bite.

I stifle a laugh, reaching across to show him how to lay the samgyeopsal flat on the grill, the fat sizzling as soon as it hits the hot metal. Liam watches like I’m doing surgery.

“See?” I flip the pork belly with practiced ease. “Golden, not burnt. And don’t mess with it too much. Meat deserves respect.”

The food arrives in sizzling waves — platters of raw meat, bowls of banchan, steaming rice. Garrick and Bodhi immediately argue over who should man the grill until Aurelie shoves Bodhi out of the way and takes over, with surprising authority.

The first bite is heaven. Pork belly crisp at the edges, dipped in sesame oil, wrapped in lettuce with garlic and kimchi. The flavors burst, warm and familiar.

I grin, grabbing lettuce, rice, kimchi, and garlic, wrapping it all into a perfect ssam before popping it into my mouth. The table erupts when I hand one to Liam and make him try. He almost drops it, sauce dripping down his hand, but his eyes light up when he bites in.

“Dude,” he says around a mouthful. “Why doesn’t everyone eat like this?”

“Because not everyone has me as their cultural liaison,” I tease.

Xaden, across from me, smirks faintly. “Remind me to never underestimate your skill set again.” Something in his tone makes my pulse trip. His eyes hold mine too long, the grill crackling between us.

When we finally spill out into the cool night, the street hums with city sounds, headlights streaking the pavement, the bus waiting with its engine purring.

That’s when Catriona strikes again.

She sidesteps in front of me, her words low but sharp enough to cut bone. “He’s only watching you because you’re new. He’ll get bored, Ciara. And then you’ll just be another girl he played with and no idea how to hold onto him.”

The words hit harder than I want to admit. I've never had anything like this before, and our chemistry is off the charts. I'm terrified of what will happen if I give everything to him. I freeze, my throat closing, but before I can muster a confident retort, Xaden’s voice slices through the air like a blade, letting my mind rest in a bit of peace.

“You should save your breath, Catriona.”

She spins toward him, triumphant smile ready — until he goes on.

“Because if you think I care about some piece of paper our parents scribbled on before we could even walk, you’re delusional. I’ll never join. You can keep your family’s leash.”

Her face drains of color. Mine almost does the same thing. I'm not sure what's going on, but I want to be closer to him. I'll get answers later. The silence after his words is heavier than steel. Even the night seems to hold its breath.

And then — he turns to me.

Before I can move, before I can think, his hands are on my face — warm, sure, holding me like the ground might split open beneath us, and then his mouth is on mine.

The world explodes.

It’s not careful, not tentative. It’s hungry, fierce, like he’s been waiting just as long as I’ve been denying. His way of showing everyone that he makes his own decisions. His hands frame my jaw, his thumbs brushing my skin, and I melt — utterly, shamelessly — into him, the closer the better.

Gasps ripple around us.

“Oh snap! I knew it!” Ridoc’s voice cracks like a whip.

“No way,” Sawyer blurts, nearly dropping his phone.

Liam whoops, loud and unrestrained, and Aurelie mutters a swarm of curses. Catriona screams and huffs past us, stomping with each step as she loads onto the bus.

When he pulls back, I’m breathless, stunned, my lips tingling. His eyes burn into mine, darker than midnight, and then—without a word—he takes my hand and leads me toward the bus.

The others part and follow us, still buzzing, whispering, grinning like fools. We climb aboard. He doesn’t ask. He just slides into the seat and pulls me down beside him, my shoulder presses into his chest.

And for once—for once—I don’t fight it. I lean in, letting my head rest against him, the rumble of his steady heartbeat grounding me.

The rivalry doesn’t vanish. It hums there still, small but alive.

But for the first time, it’s joined by something else.

Something far more dangerous.

Something I know I don’t want to walk away from.

Chapter Text

The door has barely clicked behind me before the explosion happens.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

It hits like a thunderclap, the shrieking chorus of three teenage girls who immediately descend on me like wolves on a lamb. Rhiannon is the first to reach me, looping her arms around my shoulders and bouncing up and down, dragging me with her. Violet latches on next, then Aurelie from the side. All three of them are leaning in like they’re about to interrogate me under a spotlight.

I try to protest, I really do, but they aren’t hearing anything except their own shrieks of victory.

“You kissed him!” Aurelie screams.

“No, he kissed her!” Violet corrects, her braid tossing back and forth as she hops in place. “And he didn’t even care who saw!”

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!” Aurelie says, fanning herself like she's going to faint. “That was—Ciara, that was like straight out of a movie! Like—you were the rival brainiacs, enemies to lovers, and then BAM—he just kisses you like you’re the only person alive—”

Rhiannon clutches me tighter, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean, my goodness, Ciara, I was two feet away and I almost blacked out.”

“Okay, okay, okay!” I gasp, half laughing, half mortified as I try to push them back. “I can’t breathe—”

They release me enough to form a loose circle, but their eyes are wild, hungry for details.

“That was not just a kiss,” Violet says, pointing a finger at me like she was laying down the law. “That was a statement. That was an I’m-done-pretending-you’re-mine-now kiss.”

I feel my face burn hotter. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating?!” Aurelie nearly shrieks. “Girl, he kissed you in front of all of us! I could hear the wedding bells.”

Rhi wiggles her eyebrows. “Definitely.”

I groan and bury my face in my hands. “You don’t understand—this is still complicated. We’ve got our rivalry, the NMUN win, everything—”

“Stop.” Violet’s tone cuts me off, sharp but kind. “You don’t have to keep hiding behind rivalry excuses anymore. Harvard already has you. You’ve got your scholarship. You don’t need to keep proving yourself every second of the day.”

Rhiannon leans closer, her voice softer. “Exactly. You can let yourself enjoy him. Enjoy this.”

Something in my chest tightens, a mix of fear and exhilaration. “You guys don’t get it,” I whisper. “Xaden’s…he’s always the only one.”

Silence crashes down like a stone.

Three sets of eyes blink at me in shock.

“The only one…as in?” Vi asks cautiously.

I nod. My throat felt dry.

“You’ve never kissed anyone before?” Aurelie gasped.

“There was this one guy back home...but we never....No.”

“Not even like…a middle school spin-the-bottle horror story?” Violet asks, incredulous.

“Nope.”

Rhiannon tilts her head, her eyes widening. “So you’ve never…? Not saying that you have to.” She blushes.

I shake my head quickly. “No. Not kissing, not sex, not anything. I’ve been waiting. I want to wait until marriage to—” I make an awkward gesture with my hands, blushing so hard I think I might combust—“seal the deal.”

“OH MY GOODNESS.” Aurelie collapses dramatically on the bed. “This is HUGE.”

Violet squeals. “This is adorable! Ciara, this is your first kiss?! No wonder it felt like the air cracked in half—you've literally been holding that in for seventeen years!”

Rhiannon grabs my hands, squeezing them, her grin softening. “And that means this isn’t just some rivalry fling. That kiss mattered.”

Violet hugs me from the side, protective now. “Which means you need to be careful. But also? That was one hell of a way to start.”

A bubbling laugh escapes me despite my nerves. For once, maybe they are right. For once, maybe I don’t need to overthink every piece of strategy in my life.

Violet suddenly freezes, her eyes narrowing suspiciously again. “Wait. Wait. You said that one was your first kiss…”

“Yeah?” I say cautiously. Uh oh.

“But your face is saying something else.”

Aurelie pops back upright, gasping. “Oh my—Ciara!”

Rhiannon straightens too, eyes gleaming. “Spill.”

I shake my head frantically, but the words tumble out anyway, quiet and sheepish: “He…um…he kissed me earlier. This morning. In the stairwell.”

The room detonates.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Violet screams, grabbing a pillow and slamming it into Aurelie, who immediately retaliates.

Rhiannon throws herself backwards onto the carpet, howling. “The stairwell?! You’ve been holding out on us?!”

Aurelie actually launches herself off the bed, clutching her stomach. “Oh, I’m done. Stick a fork in me. This is better than Netflix.”

Their shrieks are so loud I almost miss the muffled thump on the wall.

“Some of us are trying to sleep,” Imogen’s deadpan voice calls through the plaster.

The girls freeze for a second, exchanging guilty looks. Then, like true conspirators, they collapse into silent giggles, trying to stifle their laughter with pillows.

“Imogen knows,” Aurelie whispers dramatically, as though we’ve committed treason.

“Imogen always knows,” Violet agrees.

Rhiannon, wiping her eyes, turns back to me, her grin still feral. “So, Smith. Not one, but two kisses in twenty-four hours. First in a stairwell, then in front of the whole squad. That’s not just a fling, babe—that’s escalation. You're now almost to girlfriend status.”

I groan, pulling a pillow over my face. “Why did I tell you guys anything?”

“Because you love us,” Violet says sweetly, prying the pillow away.

“And because we’re going to make sure you don’t mess this up,” Aurelie adds, wagging her finger like a scolding aunt. “First kisses are sacred, and you had yours with Xaden-Freaking-Riorson.”

Rhiannon sighs dreamily. “You’re basically living in a Wattpad fic.”

“I hate all of you,” I mumble, but they just laugh harder, their warmth wrapping around me in the same way Xaden’s kiss had—loud, chaotic, and impossible not to melt into.

X A D E N' S     P.O.V.

The room is dark.

Garrick’s snoring in the other bed, Bodhi’s finally drifted next to me, I wished like hell his feet weren't near my head, but here we are. Liam’s breathing has evened into something like sleep, but my body won’t settle. Not after what happened today.

Every time I shut my eyes, I feel her again—her mouth, her hands, her pulse racing under my touch. And worse, I want more. I close my eyes, and my mind wanders.

Stupid. Pink. Rubber. Duck.

I should’ve tossed it Day One. Hell, I told myself I would. But it stayed, because I was curious as to who would even allow themselves near my car. The minute I stayed late to wait for Garrick, I saw her peel out of the parking lot through the hallway windows. Through late-night drives, stops, through every long silence where I couldn’t stop glancing at it and thinking of her.

I kept it. Taking it down every time I entered the school parking lot.

Next was after being cooped up in the library all day, with no warning. No hesitation. Her arms were around me like it was the easiest thing in the world. I’d frozen, my brain short-circuiting. When she pulled back, she’d smiled, soft and real in a way I wasn’t ready for, all because I said she was rare.

That was the first time I knew I was screwed.

I try not to chuckle out loud, in fear of waking up these idiots. I'm the real idiot. As soon as Liam told me about her plan to take my rank, I knew she was crazy, but that still didn't stop her. Even when it came to agreeing with that stupid plan of being study partners, I indulged in it. Even when I knew she did well in AP Stats, I had to get her alone, our sparring time wasn't enough.

She doesn't quit and...I like that. 

I shouldn’t.

I know all the reasons why. She’s my rival, she wants my spot, but I couldn't care less about my ranking. However, she’s dangerous to the careful balance I’ve built. She makes me reckless....

But my phone is already in my hand before I finish the thought. My thumb hovers. Then moves.

Xaden: Hall. Two minutes.

Sunshine: Okay.

I don’t even wait for the reply. If she doesn’t come, that’s my answer. If she does—

The door clicks open. I slip into the hall, quiet, controlled. My pulse betrays me.

And then—her door opens.

She steps out in a hoodie over that nightgown, long legs bare except for those ridiculous bunny slippers. Her hair falls loose down her back, black and glossy, brushing her waist. A pink sleep mask is still perched on her head like she forgot to take it off. 

She looks half-asleep, half-ready to fight me.

“What could possibly be so important at—” she checks her phone, frowning “—two-thirty-eight in the morning?”

“You know why,” I say.

Her eyes widen. Her lips part. And for the first time tonight, she doesn’t argue.

We slip down the hall, quiet as shadows. I push open the stairwell door, letting it shut behind us with a muted click. The space is dim, lit only by the security light at the landing. Concrete walls. Cold metal railing. Our breaths sound louder here.

She crosses her arms, chin tilted. “You dragged me out here to…what? Talk strategy? Or kiss me again?”

My jaw tightens. She always knows where to strike.

“Both,” I admit.

Her brows lift. She wasn’t expecting honesty. Not from me.

I step closer, slow enough to give her the chance to step back. She doesn’t.

“Strategy first,” she says, but her voice is already unsteady.

I lean in, until my breath brushes her ear. “My strategy is losing.”

That startles a laugh out of her. Soft, sharp. “Not the Xaden Riorson admitting defeat.”

“Not defeat.” My eyes drop to her mouth. “Surrender.”

And then I kiss her.

Not like before, not impulsive and reckless. This is deliberate, deep, claiming. My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head back, and she melts against me with a sound that undoes me entirely.

She tastes like sleep and sugar and defiance. Her fingers clutch my hoodie, pulling me closer, like she’s just as desperate as I am.

"I needed you," I tell her, hating that my words break our contact.

"I wanted you."

The kiss turns fierce. Our mouths collide, break, find each other again. She bites my lip, and I groan against her mouth, pressing her back against the cold concrete wall.

Her laugh is muffled by the kiss. “This is insane.”

“Completely,” I agree, and kiss her harder.

Minutes blur. Every time I think I’ll stop, I don’t. Her hands slide under the hem of my hoodie, palms hot against my skin, and I nearly lose what little control I have left.

“Ciara,” I whisper against her mouth, and it feels like a prayer.

She stills for half a second at the sound of her name on my lips. Then she pulls me back in, kissing me like she doesn’t want air, doesn’t want distance, doesn’t want anything but this. She pushes her tongue through, and I let her. I grab her waist tighter, and I yank one of her beautiful and supple legs higher and grind. She moans and melts into me even more, her leg instinctively brings me closer.

The stairwell could collapse around us, and I wouldn’t notice. Wouldn't care.

Finally, finally, I tear myself away, breathing hard, forehead pressed to hers.

“You really are ruining me,” I say, voice hoarse. 

She smirks, lips swollen, eyes shining. “You said that last time.”

I huff out a laugh despite myself. “And you’re impossible.”

“You like impossible,” she shoots back.

She’s right. I do. Too much.

I look at her, really look at her. Her face is rosy under her tan complexion, her lips pouty and red, her eyes sultry. Her hair...."If you ever want to win an argument. Just let down your hair, and I'll shut up. It's beautiful." She smirks, and I go back in, her lips welcoming.

Her fingers are still tangled with mine. I don’t let go. Not until we hear the creak of a door somewhere above us, a reminder that the world hasn’t stopped spinning just because we did.

I step back, chest heaving. “Go. Before someone sees.” Before our fingers break apart, I pull her hand to my lips and kiss the back of it. 

Shit. I'm in it now.

She hesitates, then nods, but before she slips out the stairwell door, she glances back.

“See you at breakfast?”

I don’t answer. Can’t. Yet the smile tugging at her mouth tells me she already knows. When the door shuts behind her, I lean against the wall, fists clenching, breath ragged.

I’m supposed to be unshakable. Calculated. Untouchable, but Ciara Smith is undoing me, kiss by kiss.

And the worst part?

I want her to.

C I A R A' S P.O.V.

Breakfast comes and goes, and it is loud as we enter the cafe. Ridoc, Sawyer, and Tyvon make kissing noises, and Dain tries to control his chuckle at them. Now that I guess the news has been broadcast everywhere, he brings me a cup of tea without it looking like a secret.

We're able to sightsee today, and I am totally excited that we're so close to some of the monuments. No need to waste time just trying to get there.

I trade a hoodie and slippers for fitted jeans, sneakers, and a cropped cardigan over a tank. More practical. More me. Downstairs, Markham and Devera gather us in the lobby, pairing us off in twos or groups.

“Sightseeing buddies,” Devera explains. “No one goes off alone. Stay with your group. Check in at every stop. The bus will be leaving right at 5:00, so make sure you grab dinner during your day.”

Our second stop is the Smithsonian that stretches around us like it’s trying to swallow time itself — artifacts and glass cases, fossils frozen in stone, echoes of children’s laughter bouncing off marble. It’s overwhelming, in the best way.

Aurelie, Violet, and Dain are absorbed in a display, pointing and whispering, while Rhiannon drags her, Ridoc and Sawyer through an exhibit with the determination of someone who secretly wanted to be the tour guide.

Xaden and I? We drift. Side by side, but never too close. Always orbiting.

“You’re unusually quiet,” I murmur as we stop at a case of ancient jewelry.

“Taking it in,” he says, eyes flicking over the glittering pieces. Then, quieter, “Besides, you usually fill the silence.”

“Rude.” I bump his shoulder with mine, pretending it’s accidental.

He smirks but doesn’t reply.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m appreciating the art and the architecture.”

“Uh-huh. Your eyes haven’t left me since we walked in.”

“I was waiting for lightning to strike you.”

“Uh-huh, like you want to get rid of my kisses.” I lean closer to him and scrunch my eyes, making a puckered face towards him, and before I can reel it in, he steals a peck from me.

I blush when I hear two gags from behind me. "Get a room!" Garrick and Bodhi walk by laughing while Liam gives me a sheepish grin. I turn hot and smirk towards Garrick, "We'll get a room, when you and Imogen hold hands." 

I laugh with my full belly when Imogen punches my arm. Quinn rubs the spot, but it doesn't hurt.

We stop at the museum's café, and when I get my drink, Xaden deliberately steals the foam off of it with his spoon.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” he says, sipping. “You always order chai.” I glare at him, but my pulse betrays me.

We wander into the gift shop, which is an entirely different beast — bright, loud, full of overpriced souvenirs. Kids dart around with stuffed dinosaurs, parents shuffle through postcards, and there’s a line for the checkout that snakes like a river.

I pause at a glass case tucked to the side, where something gleams under the fluorescent lights.

It’s a pendant. Silver, simple, elegant — shaped like a quill, tiny and delicate, but detailed enough that the feather veins are etched with precision. It rests against a velvet square, looking far too dignified to be hidden among mugs and snow globes.

I lean closer. “Wow.”

Behind me, Xaden’s voice is low. “You like it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I straighten, brushing my hair back over my shoulder. “It’s just pretty, that’s all.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he signals to the cashier. My eyes widen.

“Xaden.”

He ignores me.

“You are not—”

He hands over a card, his posture infuriatingly calm.

“Stop,” I hiss, grabbing his arm. “Seriously. That’s—”

The cashier bags the pendant neatly and slides it across the counter. Xaden takes it, then holds the small bag out to me. His expression is unreadable, but his tone is deceptively casual.

“Congratulations gift. Winning Model U.N. deserves something better than a plaque.”

My breath catches. He’s serious.

I hesitate, staring at the bag like it’s about to combust. Finally, slowly, I take it. The handles brush against my fingers, and his hand lingers just long enough to send heat rushing up my arm.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper.

“And yet you’re still holding it.” I glare at him, but the pendant’s weight is warm in my palm, and I can’t bring myself to let go.

We step back into the sunlight, the National Mall sprawling wide and endless in front of us. For a while, we walk in silence, the kind that presses rather than eases.

Finally, I blurt, “Tell me about Tyrrendor.”

His brows lift slightly, he didn’t expect that.

“The wonders of Aretia,” I clarify, teasing. “Garrick, Bodhi, Liam, hell, even Imogen make it sound like it’s mythical every time you mention it. Is it the same way for you?”

He glances at me, something soft tugging at his mouth. “It is.”

His voice slows, taking on an almost reverent cadence as he describes jagged mountain ranges that stretch for miles and miles, forests older than empires, skies so clear the stars look close enough to touch. Cities built with sharp, impossible architecture, where light refracts against black stone until the streets themselves glow.

“You make it sound like a dream,” I say quietly.

“It feels like one,” he admits. Then, softer, “I’ll take you there, if you want to go?”

My heart stutters. “Really? I’d want to go.”

He smirks, but it’s not his usual sharp-edged smirk. It’s gentler, unguarded. “Dangerous promise, Ciara.” We keep walking. Silence returns, heavier this time, but not unwelcome.

After a while, I can’t stop myself.

“Why won’t Liam or Garrick tell me why you’re all in Louisiana instead of your home?” The question hangs between us, weighty.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightens, gaze shifting ahead. I almost regret asking — until finally, he exhales.

“My mother,” he says quietly. “Talia. She was born in New Bordeaux. Her sister—my aunt—has been sick. Terminal.”

My steps falter. “I’m sorry, Xaden.”

He nods, eyes flicking down. “She's the fun aunt, always sneaking things for me, having my back when I have to explain things to my parents, she always worries if I'm not having enough fun....It’s been five years since the diagnosis. Doctors say this will be the year.” There’s no bitterness in his voice, no cracks — just steady gravity.

He exhales, gaze flicking to the buildings we pass before coming back to me. “They met in Tyrrendor. My mom was doing a semester abroad — some partner program with her university in New Bordeaux. She was studying international law. My dad attended one of the seminars she went to, and she's been in Tyrrendor ever since." 

I look at him, and I can tell there's something there stopping him, but I don't interrupt. "Anyway, my father didn’t want to be without her during this time. So we moved. Darian Tavis—Garrick’s dad—is his right hand. Liam’s mom, the Colonel. Bodhi… well, he wasn’t going to let us vanish across an ocean without him. And Imogen—” he shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Package deal when it comes ot Garrick. Her parents are in high command. It wasn’t a choice. It was… inevitable.”

Something in my chest twists.

“What a sacrifice,” I murmur.

He looks at me then, eyes unreadable. “Sometimes sacrifice is the only strategy that works.”

We fall into silence again, but this one feels different — threaded with something fragile and real. Finally, after what feels like forever, I ask, “And Catriona?”

His expression shifts—tightens—he opens his mouth, but before he can answer, his phone buzzes. He glances down.

Menace: They're doing room sweeps before we leave. Back at the hotel, packing up now.

He slips the phone back into his pocket. “We should head back.”

I'm slightly irritated that she is still a mystery to me, but I don't want to break this moment, so I smirk at him, "Who is 'Menace'?" 

He works his jaw, and his shoulders loosen, "Bodhi. For the ever-lovely headaches he gives me day in and day out."

I notice the way his fingers brush against mine, almost imperceptibly, as we walk toward the hotel. I shift my hand just enough so that my fingers curl into his. Firm, deliberate. Not an accident.

His head turns sharply, dark eyes flicking down to where our hands are joined before lifting to meet mine. He falters for half a heartbeat, and in its place is something rawer.

We just keep walking, hand in hand, down the wide sidewalk back toward the hotel. Our steps fall into rhythm, and for once, there’s no banter. No biting remarks or sharp-edged jokes.

Just the quiet weight of his palm against mine, as though letting go would be the real risk.

The drive home is quieter than I wanted it to be.

My parents left my truck in the parking lot like I asked, and after I dropped off Violet and Rhiannon, the Jeep felt too big, too empty, too full of thoughts I didn’t know how to wrangle. My head keeps bouncing between the warmth of Xaden’s hands on me this morning, the way he looks at me like I'm oxygen he can't be without, and then… Catriona. Always Catriona.

Just when I think I might go home and bury myself under blankets, I spot him as I go up the hill.

The black iron gate of the Riorson property is sliding open, its mechanical hum filling the night air, and then there's Xaden—broad shoulders under a dark shirt and hand on the keypad, rolling through the driveway

My pulse skips.

Before I can stop myself, I roll the window down and shout, “Xaden! Wait!” I stop in front of my house, not making it to the gate, foot on the brake.

His head snaps up immediately. He presses the keypad on the other side of the gate, halting its closing, and in a few strides, he's back on the other side of the bars, looking at me with those storm-dark eyes.

“You shouldn’t be out here this late,” he said, voice low, but he stepped back, holding the gate just wide enough for me to squeeze through. “But since you are....what is it?”

I park fast, heart hammering, and jog across the street before I lose my nerve. As soon as I cross the threshold into the Riorson grounds, it feels like stepping into another world. The manicured drive stretches up toward the sprawling house I’d never had the courage to really look at before.

But I wasn’t here for the house.

I whirl on him before he can take another step. “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

Xaden stills. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” I snap, heat rushing into my chest. “About you. About her.”

His jaw ticks. He shoves a hand through his hair, looking away for a beat, I know, hating that I keep asking. When his gaze returns to mine, there is just raw honesty.

“Because once I tell you,” he says softly, “I can’t take it back.”

Something in my stomach drops.

“Try me,” I whisper.

For a long moment, he just studies me. Like he's memorizing my face in case this is the last time I’d let him look at me like this. Then he exhales, long and shaky.

“Fen Riorson isn’t just my dad, Ciara.” His voice is flat, deliberate. “He’s the King of Tyrrendor. Which makes me…” He spread his hands slightly, bitter amusement twisting his mouth. “A prince.”

I freeze.

A cold laugh escapes before I can stop it, when I notice lightning dancing around the sky. Thor, no doubt, but how fitting for this moment.“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.” His gaze never wavers.

The ground tilts under me. Prince. King. Tyrrendor. My head reels. “You—you can’t just drop something like that—”

“I know.” His tone sharpens, edged with frustration—but not at me. At himself. “I didn’t want to. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be more than just the crown hanging over my head. That’s why I fight the way I do. That’s why I wanted you to see me before you knew.”

My mouth is dry, my pulse a runaway drum. “And Cat?”

His jaw clenches. “Her country—Poromiel. Her family rules it. She’s third in line after her sister, Syrena. Before either of us saw our 10th birthdays, my father and Viscount Tecarus thought it was wise to arrange a contract between our families. A marriage contract. An alliance.” He spits the last word like it burned. “So she’s been a pain in my side ever since.”

I feel like someone's kicked me in the ribs with steel-toed boots on. “So she’s not lying.”

“She’s twisting the truth like she always does.” His voice drops, fierce now. He steps closer, searching my eyes like he can shove the truth straight into me.

“Ciara, listen to me. Yes, there’s a contract, but I'll never agree to it. The only reason she clings so hard is that she thinks a title will make me hers, make her an instant queen. But you…” His breath hitches. “You see me. Not a crown. Not a contract. Me.”

I can’t breathe. The world I thought I knew is being cracked clean down the middle.

“You’re a prince,” I whisper, tasting the words like ash.

He winces, reaching for me, then stopping himself inches away. “I’m still the same me who kissed you. The same one who can’t stop wanting you. The one who spars with and studies with you. That hasn’t changed.”

My chest tightens until I think it might shatter. “But how am I supposed to compete with that? With her? With royalty? You’re asking me to stand in a world I don’t even understand. 

“Don’t you dare say compete,” he growls, eyes blazing now. “This isn’t a competition. It’s you. It’s only you. I’ll burn that contract myself if it means you believe me. You’re the only one who’s been able to go toe-to-toe with me since the moment we met. You’re not just good enough—you’re the only one who’s more than enough.

I shake my head, fighting tears. “Xaden, this—this is too much.”

“Then tell me what to do.” His voice was almost breaking, raw, and desperate. “Because I can’t lose this. Not now. So say something. Anything, Ciara. Just don’t walk away.”

The silence between us stretches, thick with everything unsaid. My throat closes around the words I didn’t know how to form. I’d never felt so small and so wanted all at once.

Still, some part of me whispers Cat’s voice—mocking, sharp: You’ll never belong in his world.

I wrap my arms around myself, staring at him, this boy who isn’t just a boy but a prince, a legacy, a crown, and all I can whisper, shaky and scared, is, “I don’t know what to do.” A tear drops.

"I'm...I was dirt poor for a long time, Xaden. Some days, I thought our house would be taken from us, with every power bill that went unpaid, or meals my parents didn't eat just so I could. My grandmothers don't want to see me because of their ignorant beliefs about race, the kids at my old school talked about me, this," I point to our new house. "Is all new to me. Where do I fit in?" The tears are really flowing now.

Xaden steps closer, slowly, as if afraid to break me. His hand hovers just shy of my cheek, not touching, waiting. He gives me a sad smile.

“I'd say you fit in pretty nicely. He doesn't know it, but Liam is my tester. If he doesn't like you, neither will the rest of us. He and Garrick, Bodhi, Imogen....Let me show you how well you belong,” he said softly, fiercely. “Day by day, moment by moment, I’ll prove you belong until you believe me. You don’t have to do anything except stay.”

My chest is still tight, my arms lock around myself like I can keep the whole world from caving in if I just hold on hard enough. 

“Stay,” he whispers again. “That’s all I want. That’s all I’ll ever ask.”

The silence pulses between us, heavy and fragile. My head screams at me to turn, to run before this crushes me, but my heart—my heart keeps pulling me forward, back toward him.

I stare at his face, at the vulnerability carved into it, and for once, it isn’t the strong, calculating leader everyone else sees. It's just Xaden. My Xaden. Beautiful. Strong. Soft. Smart. Protective. Mine.

Before I can second-guess it, I close the gap. My hands lift, threading into his shirt, tugging him down as I press my mouth to his.

The sharp inhale he drags in tells me he didn't think it would happen, but then he kisses me back, and all the tension in his frame melts into something else—something fierce, hungry, desperate in a way that matches the pounding of my heart.

I rise to my toes, pressing harder against him, and he catches my face between his palms like I'm the only thing tethering him to earth.

When we finally break apart, breathless, his forehead drops to mine. His voice low, rough, “Do you have any idea what this means to me?”

I swallow, chest trembling. “You asked me not to walk away, didn't you?....”

“...and you didn’t. I will always fight for you,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone like he can’t stop touching me now that I’ve let him.

For the first time since the words prince and marriage contract detonated my world, I don’t feel like I'm drowning. I feel like I’ve chosen something—chosen him.

“I should go,” I murmur, even though my fingers still clutch the hem of his shirt.

He lets out a shaky laugh, pressing one last kiss against the corner of my mouth. “Yeah. Before I do something really stupid and make it impossible for you to leave.”

I smile weakly, stepping back, and forcing myself toward the Jeep. Every step feels heavier, like my body wants to turn back.

When I slide behind the wheel, he's still at the gate, watching me. Not with the cool indifference everyone else gets. No—this is something else. Hope, relief, and something more.

I lift a hand in a small wave before pulling into my gate and going into the house.

Chapter Text

The ball ricochets off my racquet and smacks against the painted line with a sharp, satisfying thwack. Game. Match. Done.

I let my arm drop, breath pouring out in a rush. My ponytail clings to the back of my neck, my shirt sticking damp against my ribs, but the ache feels good. Controlled. I sling my racquet bag over my shoulder and glance toward the bleachers.

Of course, he’s still there. 

Xaden Riorson is sitting on the tennis bleachers like he has all the time in the world, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his expression somewhere between smug and… soft. A physics book rests tucked under his arm, but his eyes haven’t left me for the last half hour. Not once.

I try not to smile. I fail.

“You planning on staring until the court closes?” I call, making my way over.

His mouth curves the tiniest bit. “Just waiting for you to realize you’re showing off for an empty stadium.”

“Empty except for you.”

“Exactly.”

I roll my eyes, fighting heat in my cheeks. “Careful, Xaden. You almost sound like you enjoyed watching me.”

“Almost,” he says, and it’s unfair how his voice can sound that intoxicating. I stop in front of him, hand on my hip. “Don’t you have better things to do? Quantum mechanics to memorize? Dictatorships to overthrow?”

He pushes off the bleachers, falling into step beside me as I head toward the edge of the courts. “None of those sounds as entertaining as making sure you don’t collapse from heatstroke.”

“That’s very chivalrous of you,” I deadpan.

“Don’t get used to it.” We both laugh.

The banter slips more easily now, like we’ve both stopped pretending the ground hasn’t shifted under our feet. The rivalry is still there, yes — it always will be — but it feels more like a game now, not a war. Especially when I get to see those onyx and gold eyes the way no one else gets to.

I tug the worksheet from my bag, waving it at him. “Before you ask, no, I’m not heading back to study right now. I have to collect ferns for AP Bio. Nolon’s obsessed with us proving we can identify plants, like I want to put myself in an emergency where I need this skill.”

Xaden’s laugh is low, warm. “Who knows? Maybe I'll take you hiking one day, and you may have to save me?” His eyebrow rises.

"Please, I'm sure if I needed to make a salve for your leg, you would be screaming at me about which plant to get. So, in all actuality, you'll just tell me." I bump his hip with mine.

"So after conquering an international debate, you’re reduced to botany homework?"

“Mock all you want, but I need this credit.” I glance toward the tree line, where the shadows are thickening. “The sooner I grab a sample, the sooner I’m back to studying for the finals.”

I don’t miss how his gaze tracks the woods, sharp and calculating. “You’re not seriously about to wander into that forest alone.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

I huff. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, you only just got boyfriend status yesterday.” I move around him, leaving my bag and grabbing my phone.

“Boyfriend? Already, I'll take it," he smiles, but then stops and shakes his head, though. "Don't try to get me off track. Maybe I don't control you, don’t want to.” His tone is even, but there’s steel underneath. “But you’re not disappearing into the dark by yourself. Not happening.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no point in arguing. He’s already moving with me, steps steady on the gravel path.

The campus lawn fades into softer soil, and the cicadas drone louder the deeper we go. The air feels different under the canopy — cooler, stiller, like the woods are holding their breath. I crouch near a patch of fronds curling from the undergrowth, snapping on a glove.

I read over the worksheet in my hand, the one Mr. Nolon handed out before the trip. “Find, identify, and collect one non-flowering vascular plant native to our region.” I sigh. “Translation: Ferns, because he couldn’t just let us pull dandelions from the sidewalk.” I continue walking until I spot it.

“Oooh, see?” I say, clipping a stem into my plastic bag. “Perfectly safe.” Xaden stays a step back, arms crossed, watching me. Always watching. “All this for a leaf.”

“A leaf worth five percent of my grade.”

He leans closer, voice low. “You really don’t know how to relax, do you?” I straighten, brushing dirt from my knees. “Relaxing is for people who don’t have something to prove, maybe even lose.”

“And you still think you do?”

His eyes hold mine, steady, sharp — and softer than I want to admit. My throat goes tight. “Don’t you?”

For a beat, silence stretches. The kind that isn’t empty but humming, filled with something I don’t dare name.

Then he steps closer. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the individual strands of hair on his chin. My pulse trips, stumbles.

When his mouth finds mine, it isn’t hesitant. It’s familiar, inevitable — the kind of kiss that feels less like a beginning and more like a continuation. The rivalry, the history, all of it blurs into heat and breath and the steady press of him against me.

When he pulls back, my head is spinning.

“You’re distracting,” I whisper, because it’s the only thing I can manage.

He smirks, brushing his thumb along the strap of my bag. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I shove at his shoulder, weakly. “It is.”

He doesn’t move. His eyes are fixed deeper into the trees, his body suddenly rigid. I frown. “What is it?”

“Don’t you hear that?” His voice has dropped low, almost a whisper. I don’t move away. Not until the ground under us rumbles, deep and low, like the earth itself is warning.

The forest goes silent after. Too quiet now—no rustle, no insects, just… stillness. A heavy stillness, like the forest itself is holding its breath.

Then comes the roar.

Next, another vibration. A low hum that rattles through my sneakers, rising into my bones. The leaves quiver overhead. I straighten slowly, my plastic bag forgotten in my hand. “Xaden…” I grab his hand tightly.

The ground trembles harshly as they get closer. Once. Twice. A massive crack split the silence as a tree topples in the distance, birds exploding from the canopy, and through the opening lumbers something I should not—could not—be seeing.

A dragon.

Not some dainty, storybook creature. This one is massive, scales a deep, blood-red sheen that catches what little light filters through the trees. Its wings fold tight against its body, back talons gouging the soil, and when it exhales, smoke curls from its nostrils, sulfur hitting my nose. Where’s the Avengers when you need them?

I stumble back. “What the—” Xaden frozen, but I see a plan hatching in those eyes of his.

The dragon’s head swings low to us, golden eyes locking with precision on me. Its voice is not a sound but a presence, rattling through my skull like a bell.

“At last. Ciara Smith… we have found you.”

It can speak? Out loud? My chest seizes, Xaden's hand tightens. “Found me?!”

Xaden shoves me behind him instinctively, his arm tense like a barrier against a hurricane. “Stay back.”

But the dragon advances, slow, deliberate, smoke churning around its maw.

“The blood of no ancient line runs in you,” it rumbled. “Yet the fire calls. A defender must rise.”

I shake my head furiously. “I’m not— I’m not anything! I play tennis, I—”

X A D E N' S P.O.V.

The fire is everywhere.

It hits like a fist of heat, a tidal wave I can’t dodge. My body reacts before I think—I throw myself in front of her, arm out, shoulder turned, bracing for something no one can brace for.

The world explodes in white. Pain sears through my left arm, tearing a raw, blistering scream from my throat. I can’t even hear it over the roar of flame. The air tastes like ash, scorched and metallic.

And Ciara—

She’s screaming, the sound high and sharp, before it cuts off too fast. My stomach plummets. I twist, forcing my burning body toward her. Her skin—God, her skin is peeling red, blistering under the fire, her chest rising in stuttered, shallow gasps.

“Ciara!” My voice rips out, raw, useless. I grab her with my good hand, dragging her behind me, though it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

She’s not moving enough. Not breathing enough.

The dragon’s words are still rattling in my skull—We have found you, Ciara Smith—but I shove them away. They don’t matter. Not if she dies here.

“Stay with me,” I rasp, shaking her gently. My burned arm screams in protest, but I can’t stop. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

My phone—where the hell is my phone? I fumble it out with shaking fingers, the screen smeared with dirt and sweat. 911. I don’t remember hitting the button, only the operator’s voice, tiny and distant.

“Help,” I choke. “Frisco Fields High School—north side woods—she’s burned, she’s not breathing right—hurry!”

I’m on my knees, dragging her into my lap, ignoring the way her bloodied shirt sticks to her skin. All her hair is gone. She feels too light. Too fragile. I press my hand against her chest like I can force her heart to keep beating.

“Ciara, you hear me? You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine—” My voice breaks, and I don’t care.

Time dissolves. Sirens wail somewhere distant, but they might as well be across the ocean. All I know is the uneven rise of her chest and the heat blistering across my arm, skin tight and raw.

When the paramedics and firefighters finally break through the trees, I almost collapse in relief. They’re shouting, rushing forward with stretchers, kits, masks, water.

“Severe burns—second, possibly third-degree—” one barks.

“She was conscious—she screamed, but then—” My words tumble out too fast. “Her chest—it’s shallow. She needs oxygen—”

“Sir, let us—”

“I’m not letting her go!” My good arm tightens around her instinctively. I’m shaking, half-wild, the smell of burned flesh making me gag, but I won’t release her. Not until they swear she’ll live.

A paramedic meets my eyes, firm but not unkind. “We’re not taking her from you. But if you want her to survive, you need to let us work.”

My throat knots. Slowly, I loosen my grip enough for them to slide an oxygen mask over her, for another to tape down an IV. I stay pressed against her side, refusing to move.

They load us into the ambulance together. I climb in, ignoring the protest about my own arm, ignoring the sting as gauze wraps clumsily around it. I only have one focus. Ciara’s face, red and raw under the mask.

“BP dropping—get fluids in now—”

Her body jerks faintly as they push something through the line. I grab her hand that's blackened, squeeze lightly, praying for even the smallest squeeze back. Nothing.

“Come on, Smith,” I whisper, forehead pressing to hers, smoke still clinging to my skin. “You’re not allowed to give up on me. Not now.”

The sirens scream. My arm throbs with every heartbeat, but I barely feel it.

The ER is a blur of white light and motion.

They wheel her away, and I’m instinctively dragging myself with her until a nurse tries to block me. “Sir, you need treatment too—”

“She’s not—she’s not to be alone,” I snarl, half-delirious with fear. My burned arm dangles uselessly in the sling they’re trying to fix, but I shove past with my shoulder. “I stay with her.”

For some reason, maybe pity, maybe sheer stubbornness, they let me trail. I watch them cut away her shirt, see the burns—God, they cover so much of her skin. My stomach churns.

Machines beep. Nurses shout numbers I don’t understand. Rhiannon’s voice is suddenly at my shoulder, calm and grounding. “They’re stabilizing her.”

I whip toward her. “You don’t know that.”

Her eyes are steady, too steady. “I do. She’s strong.” And yet I see the tremor in her hand.

Then her parents arrive. 

Her mother collapses against the doorframe at the sight of her daughter swathed in gauze, a sound breaking from her throat that tears through me worse than the fire. Her father is stiffer, but his face—he looks gutted, as if someone ripped out his core.

“What happened?” She sobs, grabbing my unburned arm. “What happened to my baby?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. A dragon burned her alive in the woods isn’t an answer they’ll accept. My chest heaves. “There was—an accident,” I manage, the lie like ash on my tongue. The least I can do is introduce myself, hating these circumstances that we have to meet. "Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I'm Xaden Riorson."

Her father’s eyes slice into me, sharp and accusing. “What kind of accident does this?”

I flinch, unable to meet his gaze. Okay, so much for that. The truth claws at me, but I choke it back. “I don’t know. I don’t—”

And then Sorrengail is there, her face wet, her limp obvious as she rushes in, Aetos behind her. Rhiannon meets her at Ciara's side, wide-eyed and pale.

“You couldn’t wait until finals were over, huh?” Violet’s voice cracks, trying to joke, tears flowing harshly, but the pain in it breaks me. "You really couldn't wait?!"

Rhiannon touches her arm gently. “Vi.”

I can’t sit. I can’t breathe. The crying is too much for me, when I myself want to bash my head against the cement. I pace the corner of the sterile room, my fist pressed hard against my chest like I can hold myself together. Every beep of the monitor is a tether, and if it flatlines, so will I.

Hours blur. Rhiannon coaxes Mrs. Smith into a chair. Her father stands sentinel, arms crossed, though his hands shake. Violet hasn’t let go of Ciara’s wrapped hand once. 

And me—

I can’t stop staring. At her bandages, at the fragile rise and fall of her chest. I lean down, close enough that only she can hear. My voice is hoarse, breaking.

“I don’t care what it takes,” I whisper. “You come back to me. You fight. Because I’m not leaving. Not now, not ever.”

Her monitor beeps steady, steady, steady.

I anchor myself to it.

The antiseptic burn of the hospital is the only thing that cuts through the fog in my head. Bright lights. White walls. A monitor’s endless beep.

And Ciara.

Or what’s left of her.

Her entire body is swaddled in gauze, a white cocoon that erases the girl I saw hours ago, fierce on the court, cheeks flushed with victory, hair wild in the late sunlight. Lips soft and sweet. Now, the only proof she’s still fighting is the faint rises and falls of her chest beneath the bandages.

I grip the edge of the bed so tightly my burned hand shakes. It’s the only injury I walked away with—skin scorched, blistered, but laughably small compared to hers. My punishment feels shallow, unearned.

The door clicks open.

Brennan Sorrengail steps in, his face taut but calm, the way only someone trained to deliver devastating news can manage. Violet slips in after him, her eyes swollen and red. She doesn’t go to Ciara. She goes straight to him, finishing a conversation I know she was going to have with him, when she found out he was the Doctor treating her.

“Tell them.” she whispers.

Brennan exhales, glancing at her parents first before answering. His voice is low, deliberate, every word landing like a stone.

“The burns are… extensive. She inhaled smoke, but we stabilized her airway. That’s the good part.”

The good part. My stomach twists.

He continues, “But her skin—full-thickness burns in several places. She’ll need multiple grafts. And…” He hesitates, his eyes hardening with the weight of truth. “She will not look the same again. Not ever. Even if she survives.”

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Her mother crumples, her sobs muffled into Mr. Smith's chest. His arms tighten around her, but his eyes are hollow, locked on Brennan like he wants to find an escape clause in the diagnosis.

Violet wipes at her face, whispering something to Dain. I can’t hear, her body trembling. He rests a hand on her shoulder, steadying her, his gaze filled with grief too.

I can’t look away from Ciara. Wrapped and faceless, she looks like a ghost already. My chest aches until I can’t breathe. I was supposed to ask her today about Homecoming this Saturday, after I took her to dinner. I’d thought about it all last night—about her rolling her eyes when I asked, pretending to find me insufferable while her cheeks flushed pink, saying yes.

I wanted to see her in a dress, to watch her light up the gym just by walking in. To make her laugh, to maybe…maybe get to introduce her to my parents before we left.

Now, all I can see are the bandages. My future plans feel like a cruel joke.

The door bursts open. Garrick strides in, Liam close behind, their faces pale but determined. Bodhi slips in quietly, shadowing them, his usual humor gone. Then Ridoc and Sawyer, for once, without a joke between them. Imogen and Quinn next, Imogen’s fury radiating like heat, Quinn whispering to Jesinia, who signs so fast her fingers blur.

The room swells with grief.

And then — Ellis.

I don’t need to be told. The second his eyes fall on Ciara’s bed, his face breaks, his whole body shattering around the sight of her. Lincoln follows, pale, shaking, his hand gripping Ellis’s arm like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Ellis stumbles forward. His voice cracks when he speaks.

“What happened to her?”

No one answers. His eyes snap to Robert, then Dae, wild, desperate. “What happened?!”

Robert’s jaw clenches. Dae shakes her head, choking on tears.

Ellis turns on me.

“You.” His voice is a blade. “You were with her.”

I stand, my body taut. “Yeah. I was.”

His fists clench. “Then why is she—” His voice breaks. “Why is she like this?” No one answers, his eyes snap to her parents, wild and desperate. The taller, bulkier man I instantly recognize as Lincoln.

The words slice me open. I want to tell him I tried. That I would’ve burned a thousand times over if it meant she’d walked away whole. But the words stick, bitter and useless.

“I didn’t let this happen,” I grind out. Control Xaden.

“Didn’t you?” He takes a step closer, his grief boiling into rage. “You think you get to stand here like you belong? Who the hell are you?”

The room crackles, everyone stiffening, tension ready to snap. Garrick’s hand clamps my arm. Bodhi shifts closer, eyes wary. Imogen rises like a storm about to strike.

But Ellis is still staring at me, demanding an answer.

Before I can speak, her father’s voice slams through the room.

“Enough!”

It’s thunder. Absolute, commanding. The voice of a father, unsure whether to grieve or have hope.

The entire room freezes. Even Ellis falters, his chest heaving, his grief boiling just under his skin. Mr. Smith steps forward, his eyes burning into both of us. “You want to fight? Fine! Do it outside. Not in front of my daughter.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. I really need to hit something. Anything.

Ellis finally drops his gaze, shaking with fury and grief. Lincoln pulls him back a step, murmuring something low. I stand rigid, every muscle screaming with words I can’t say.

For Ciara. Always for her.

Everyone slowly settles, Jesinia’s hands trembling as she signs, Quinn’s voice whispering her words: She’s strong. She’s stubborn. She’ll fight.

But even that doesn’t feel like enough.

More Hours blur. Machines beep. Nurses come and go. Everyone filters out, one by one, obligations pulling them away. Garrick wants to stay with me, but I push him out. By nightfall, it’s just me, and her parents.

My legs hurt, I refuse to sit when she could need me at any moment. I hear her mother coming up beside me, "Xaden, was it?" Her voice croaky, low.

I nod, she gives me all the energy she can muster into a smile, "I'm Dae Smith, and that is my husband Robert. Thank you for bringing her here immediately. I brought you some food. Please eat." 

I look at the bag of greasy food, which I want to turn away from, but it's my fault I waited so long to eat. An appetite is the last thing I'm worried about. I grab it and I look to Robert, who still has his eyes on his daughter.

Dae’s eyes are raw, but her voice is steady when she looks at me again. “You’re not leaving.”

It isn’t a question.

“No.” My voice is rough.

She nods faintly. “Then get comfortable. Neither will we.” She gestures at the recliner and coach in the corner. “That pulls back. You’ll need it. We'll be over here, I informed some nurses that we'll be here no matter what.”

I nod. Grateful. I sink into it, exhaustion pressing heavily. Robert hovers, still as stone, his eyes fixed on Ciara. Dae whispers to her daughter, soft and steady, her words too quiet for me to catch.

My eyes start to close. The room hums, and the minutes slowly tick away into the night. The monitors continue beeping. Ciara breathes.

And then—

Wake her.

The voice isn’t in the room. It’s inside me. Around me. Shaking the very air.

I jerk upright, scanning the shadows. Robert and Dae don’t stir. Only me.

The voice rumbles again, deeper, sharper, a command that claws through my chest.

I am not finished with either of you yet.

Chapter Text

X A D E N' S P.O.V.

Day three.

The hospital air smells like bleach and despair. I haven’t slept more than an hour, maybe two at a time, since the explosion. My arm still throbs under gauze, though I barely feel it compared to the knot in my chest.

Ciara lies in the bed still. Wrapped in white from throat to ankles, she looks like a body waiting to be buried. And yet — her heart keeps fighting, steady, stubborn, refusing to quit. Green lines twitch. Numbers wink. The ventilator gives a soft sigh every few seconds, like the room itself is trying to breathe for her.

People have drifted in and out, like pilgrims at a shrine. Mrs. Thomas from the soup kitchen left flowers. Sammy Robinson pressed a hand to Ciara’s arm and whispered a prayer. Father James came yesterday.

Bodhi, Garrick, Liam, Imogen, Quinn — they’ve all filed through. Jesinia signed blessings I could barely translate, though the intent was clear. Ridoc cracked jokes he didn’t mean, Sawyer hovered near the wall, Rhiannon squeezed Ciara’s fingers, Violet spoke softly until Dain tugged her back. Even her tennis team showed up with Coach Emetterio towering behind them, awkward in the sterile room.

She’s loved. Too loved to be left in the hands of death.

But she hasn’t woken. Not once. Every time the screen dips half a beat, my ribs lock. Every time it climbs, I almost choke on relief.

The coffee in my hands has cooled, and the moon, so bright tonight, catches my attention. The door opens again, and this time it’s not friends.

When my father enters, it's like the air itself bows to him. He doesn’t need a crown to look like a king. The intricate black markings on his right arm are covered by his black-colored sweater. One I'll have to get when I turn 20, as per Tyrrish customs. My mother trails behind, pearls at her throat, soft southern drawl still clinging to every gesture. Her own markings circling daintily around her hand.

I straighten, shoulders heavy. My mother rushes me and holds me, holding my face, making sure everything is all right. They must've just received the news from their tour of the West African countries. I want to melt into her arms, but I know I have to stand strong for the verbal sparring I'm about to face.

“Finally,” Dad mutters, eyes fixed on Ciara. “So this is the girl.”

I stiffen when Robert stands instantly. “My daughter is not some curiosity.”

The room tightens. Dae edges closer to Ciara’s bed, protective. They don’t know who my parents are—not really. To them, my father is just another stiff-necked rich person.

My mother smiles faintly, her accent as rich as sugarcane as she looks at Ciara's parents. “She’s fightin’, sugar. A girl like that, surviven' all that fire, it's a miracle, is what it is.” She moves to rub my dad's arm, but he ignores her, gaze sharp on me. “You broke a contract. Threw away the bond with Catriona Cordella. For this girl?”

I lift my chin. “Yes.”

Robert cuts in, voice hard. “She’s not something to weigh against your politics.”

Both parents are looking at each other, no doubt my father seizing him up. He turns back to me. “Do you understand what you've risked? What you’ve cast aside?”

I don’t blink. “Everything, and I’d do it again.”

For a long moment, he studies me. Then—softer, quieter—he says, “Catriona told her uncle you’ve broken the connection. That at every attempt she has thrown at you, you have cast her aside, belittling and degrading her. I should be more than furious, Xaden.”

I grip Ciara’s bundled hand. “Then be furious. It won’t change what I feel. Catriona twists whatever lies she can grasp to make herself look favorable. Dad...please....” He is the only man who brings this out of me.

I hate it, but what child doesn't want their parents' approval? It's easy to say I don't care about others and their opinions, but the king, my father, it does something to me. He can give me every civic duty known to the crown, but I need a semblance of peace and happiness.

Something flickers in his gaze when he realizes I won't budge. Memory, maybe. Mom’s hand slips into his.

He exhales slowly. “I sacrificed for love, I did. My relationship with your grandfather is returning just a bit after 20 years. If I hadn’t done it, you're right, I wouldn’t have your mother, and I wouldn't have you, one of my greatest gifts. Perhaps… maybe...you deserve the same chance.”

It’s not a blessing outright, but it’s enough. My father leaves in a confused storm, my mother with a promise she’ll 'handle it,' before she kisses me on the cheek.

Now it’s just me, Ciara sleeping shallowly, Dae relaxing in the corner, talking to someone on the phone, Robert standing guard near her like a soldier. There are times he speaks, but words barely tumble out when his eyes get a glassy look to them.

I don’t move. I can’t. Every time I think of leaving, her words echo: I'm not anything. She is more than she'll ever know, and I'll prove it by staying at her side. That nothing else matters.

But then—

"Take her out."

The voice thunders inside my skull again. What the hell is happening! I jump a bit from my seat, looking around, anywhere but the noise is consuming my mind. I feel irritation that isn't mine.

I grit my teeth. I try to concentrate on my words. I don't know how he's done this, but it's been radio silent these past few days. "She can’t even walk."

“Then carry her. Wheel her, but bring her, or she will never heal. She will rot in these wrappings until she fades.”

A few more hours go by, and the clock on the wall strikes midnight, and my mind has never been this undecided before, torn between what's right, what I don't know, people who will be affected by this decision, and my own selfish happiness.

I look up from my phone, and Bodhi, Liam, and Garrick are constantly texting me. I may not show it, hell, I don't show it, but I am grateful for them, their texts keeping me slightly sane.

Dae and Robert have just now dozed off to sleep. My eyes return to her machines, and I keep hoping to wake up from this nightmare. 

"Wake her."

The voice doesn’t come from the doorway. Not from the hall. It blooms through my mind, deep as an earthquake—young, somehow, but old the way mountains are old.

"Enough waiting, shadow-bearer. My patience is wearing thin."

My jaw tightens. I pitch my thoughts like throwing a knife into fog. "You burned her."

"I forged her." A beat, the barest curl of amusement. "Now it is time for healing. Three days she lay here useless, and it will only get worse. My fire will make her stronger, more formidable, ready."

"Not leaving this room. Not with her parents right there. Not with cameras and nurses and—"

"Then stop dithering and make the room come to me."

A rough bark of a laugh threatens. “Make the room—” I mutter under my breath, catching myself as Dae shifts in her sleep.

He’s been hounding me these past few hours. I’ve ignored him because I didn’t know how to answer him without betraying myself. But sitting here with the monitors humming and her chest lifting in tiny, stubborn arcs—I know I’m out of time.

“Fine,” I whisper, to the ceiling, to the shadows, to the dragon rattling my skull. “Here. Now. But if you hurt her again—”

"Then you will try to kill me, and you will fail, and we will have wasted precious time. Yes, yes. Do hurry."

"I don't know how. What am I sup—"

"Concentrate. Feel the cool of the shadows, their tethers, envision a secluded room, and bend them to your will."

I stand, careful, and move to the foot of her bed. The window’s slatted blinds cut the room into pale bands. Night presses against the glass. My bandaged hand flexes uselessly; my good hand closes around the bedrail.

The darkness in the corners feels…thicker. Since the fire, I’ve noticed weird things—how the absence of light isn’t empty. It has weight. Temperature. It listens. I can pick up conversations, though low and muffled, they're in my head as well. 

“Come on,” I murmur to nothing. To everything. “If you’re mine, then move.”

Something inside me tilts with the frustration.

The shadows answer.

They slide slow as oil, then spill, a soft rush of cool air kissing my face. The lights around Ciara’s bed dim as if someone draped velvet over the bulbs. The hum of the machines dips to a hush, the room’s edges blurring until the only sharp thing is the rectangle of her bed.

A dome of dark unfurls from my palm and settles over us, transparent from the inside like smoked glass. Outside the shell, the monitors still blink and beep as they did—my veil catches the signals and reflects them back, a loop of normal. Inside, the world is silent as snowfall.

“That’ll have to do,” I breathe heavy, equal parts shock and—yeah—fear. I glance toward the pullout. Robert hasn’t moved. Dae shifts once, sighs, sinks deeper.

"Good," His voice purrs. "Young prince. You are not completely useless."

“High praise,” I grit out.

The temperature drops another degree. Then he is simply…here.

Not full-sized. He couldn’t be. Even hunched, the red dragon would smash this floor to dust, but what stands at the far side of the bed is a compressed enormity, reality bending around him. He’s the color of deep molten lava but more translucent than the last time I saw him, edges fuzzing like heat mirage, golden eyes bright and—annoyingly—amused.

“Hello, little humans,” he says out loud, voice kept to a conversational rumble that somehow doesn’t rattle the IV poles. “At last, we are done wasting time.”

Every instinct in me wants to throw myself between them again, but there’s nowhere else to be between. I put my body where it always goes—at her side—and keep my eyes on his teeth.

“If you scorch one hair—”

“Do you see hair?” He tilts his massive head at Ciara’s bandaged scalp, impatient. “Hush.”

He draws in breath.

“Wait.” My hand is already moving, ripping the extra blanket off the visitor’s chair. I fold it once, twice, and hold it ready. “When you’re done,” I say, and my voice threatening to shake a little, “she will not be exposed.”

Golden eyes flick to me. Something like respect sparks and dies. “So noble. As you like.”

Then the fire comes.

It’s nothing like the first time. That had been a shockwave, raw and aimless. This one is a blade. Focused. It pours from his throat in a column of white-gold, not touching the rails, not singing the plastic, curling around her body with unerring precision.

Bandages blacken. They don’t just burn; they evaporate—curling to ash that never falls, riding the updraft, gone. Skin—God—skin that had been raw and ruined glows from within, seams of light knitting like lines of molten glass cooling. Her ribs rise in a full breath for the first time since the woods, and something in my chest just…breaks.

Heat rolls over my face without biting. My burned arm prickles. Beneath the wrap, skin tightens, then loosens, then cools in a slow sigh. I feel the shadows shiver, tugging for more space; I hold them steady through instinct I didn’t have yesterday.

“Easy,” I murmur—maybe to them, maybe to me.

The dragon stops as suddenly as he started.

The air snaps cool. Smoke—clean, bright, almost sweet—curls and thins. On the bed, Ciara’s body is—bare. Whole. Her skin is bronzed and flawless, a shade deeper than before, as if kissed by firelight itself. Muscle that had been lean is now carved—defined without bulk, like a sculpture that learned to move.

Her hair spills over the pillow in a glossy black sheet, longer by inches, catching the dim like lacquer. The bandage lines are gone. The cannula slips out as if her body refuses it, and so does the venilator tube.

I move fast, because she deserves dignity even at the edge of a miracle. I put the gown I snagged from a nurse over her as a covering and layered the blanket over her shoulders and down. I look at her face, at the new color in her cheeks, at the quiver of lashes.

Her eyelids flicker.

Then she inhales, a long, even pull that ends in the softest groan.

The sound nearly drops me. She's alive.

Her eyes open.

Gray. But more than gray—mercury bright, like stormlight trapped in glass. They find the ceiling, then the dragon, then me. Everything in them tightens and softens at once. The breath she takes after that is mine, too.

“Hey,” I say, and it’s useless, and it’s everything. “Stay with me, Sunshine.”

Her brow crinkles and softens, but her gaze slices back to the dragon. “You.”

C I A R A'  S P.O.V.

My voice is rough silk. Anger laces it. Good. Anger means I'm still here.

“Me,” the dragon agrees, teeth flashing. “I would bow, but the bed is in my way.”

“Why me?” The words snap out before I can breathe. No soft landing, no hesitation. My hands tug the blanket away, and my muscles feel strange but strong. Xaden looks relieved, “Why—any of this? What am I, an experiment...your pawn? I don't want this?”

He doesn’t flinch, not that I expect him to. He looks at me like I'm a child, and it's infuriating. “You never do, that is why it works. You keep asking why you,” he says, tone slipping from amused to something edged and dangerous. “A foolish question. There is no why. You were not chosen for greatness. You were not blessed by blood, nor destined by birth. You were chosen because you could endure what others could not. That is all.”

My jaw locks. My chest burns. “That’s not an answer. And excuse me, endure? I almost died—"

“Almost, Keyword.” His gaze narrows, curious, almost…fond? “The flames that scour the flesh of kings would leave nothing but ash. The gifts of immortality, darkness, and strength—” his eyes trail over me, weighing me, “—they unravel every lineage, every prophecy, every vessel…until you. You are not a hero, girl. You are a vessel that did not break as easily as the others.”

The words sink into me like iron weights.

Immortality.

Darkness.

Strength.

Hurt flashes hot, tears threaten to fall, and then rage to cover it. My fists curl in the blanket. I swallow it all down like a blade and lift my chin anyway. “Try that again without sounding like a condescending furnace.” Xaden looks at me in disbelief, but a shadow curls around both of us, protective.

Something glints in his eyes. Approval. “Your tongue survived the fire. Good. Rage at me, curse me, claw at the heavens, asking for reason. But reason does not matter. Balance does. Without you, the world burns. With you, it suffers differently. Either way, you are mine. You are the darkness that will not die.”

My mouth moves before thought can catch it. “Yeah? Try me.”

I should be terrified. Instead, something fierce in me loosens. This is who I am. Who I’ve always been. Debating a dragon like he’s some unfair exam I’m going to ace out of spite.

“Also,” I add, heat snapping behind my words, “stop calling me girl. My name is Ciara. You used it before, use it again.”

He blinks. Then—God help me—he laughs. It’s smoke and campfire, startlingly soft. “Very well, Ciara-who-does-not-break-Smith.”

The sound of my name in his mouth steadies me in a way I don’t want to admit. My gaze flicks sideways to Xaden, and something in his face eases, like a knot untying.

“I’m not dreaming, right?” I whisper, eyes locking on his. Please say yes. Please.

And then—something impossible. "No. Not dreaming. Hi."

My eyes widen. His voice in my head. Not spoken. Thought. My mouth falls open. My head swivels to the oversized lighter, then back to Xaden, because if I look away, I might lose it.

"Did you just—? "The thought leaps out of me without permission, splashing into his head like a stone hitting water. Bright. Disbelieving.

"Yeah. Apparently." His smile is crooked, gentler than I’ve ever seen. "Perks of surviving being flambéed together."

A weak snort escapes me. "You’re not funny."

"I am under extreme pressure," he says solemnly in my head. "My usual material is better."

I roll my eyes. Even that feels like coming back to life.

“Stop flirting in your heads. I can hear you both.” He says, bored, which makes heat bloom in my cheeks.

“We’re not flirting,” Xaden says out loud, lying through his teeth. “We’re learning how to communicate this way.”

The translucent dragon makes a sound that is one hundred percent dragon for, yeah right. "Lies," He cuts in, his tone ancient and amused. "You two are thrilled. Give it a week, you’ll be whispering sweet nothings mind-to-mind while everyone else vomits."

Then his attention returns to me. “Your bodies are changed. Hers vastly. Yours, shadow-bearer, enough that you will not die before boring me. You will both heal at unnatural rates, and you will be able to speak this way when you wish.” His gaze sharpens on me. “Your strength will grow whether you fight it or accept it. Both paths lead to the same cliff. Do not be reckless with this power.”

“What if I prefer reckless?” I mutter.

“Then your prince will be busy scowling at you,” He says. My stomach does something very inconvenient at that word—prince.

Before I can snap back, the dragon tilts his head, listening to something unseen. “Nurses may enter soon. Remove your veil, shadow-bearer, when you are dressed to the absurd mortal standard, seek me out again.”

Xaden flushes red and crosses his arms. “She is dressed,” he blurts.

"Half-dressed," I correct in his mind. "But I thank you for doing it, hopefully, you didn't catch a sneak peek." A thread of wicked amusement twined through the anger still burning in me.

His ears go hot. He yanks the blanket higher, muttering, “Privacy,” while dragging a rolling screen into place between us and him.

The furnace, smug bastard, only says, “Questions later. Rage later. For now, breathe. Eat. Pretend to be fragile until you leave this den. I will teach you without cooking your hospital.”

“You’re so considerate,” I deadpan.

“I know,” He replies sincerely. Before the curtain splits us, he dissolves into nothing, and the room feels lighter. The dome of shadow drops, soft and steady, and I can feel Xaden sag just a little, finally letting the weight go. His breath is quick, he's tired.

I watch him. Really watch him, and my chest aches with something I don’t have words for. "You did that," I think, flicking my eyes toward the veil. "You held it that whole time for me?"

He swallows, beads of sweat forming on his brow, throat tight, and says out loud, “I did.” I flick my finger a few times, and he comes to me.

I grab his shirt softly and crane my neck so that he lowers his to meet me. His lips caress mine, and this is what I need to ground myself further in this new reality of ours. 

As we break apart, the room hums, heavy with everything unspoken. I glance at the food tray, spot his steel water bottle. My pulse quickens. “Hand it over.”

Suspicion flashes across his face. “This feels like a very bad idea.”

“Hand it over, Your Highness.”

His blink is priceless. “We’re not—”

I raise an eyebrow and flick my hair over my shoulder. He caves. I smirk. Good.

The bottle is cool in my hand. I turn it once, curious, before tightening my grip.

Metal groans.

I freeze, panic sparking, then breathe through it and squeeze again—controlled, deliberate. The steel folds like clay. Five deep dents blossom under my fingers.

I drop it back onto the tray with trembling hands. “Oh.”

We both stare.

“Remind me not to piss you off,” Xaden says, voice thin.

“Remind me not to touch anyone without thinking.” My hands are shaking. His hand covers mine. Warm. Steady. The heat that runs between us is comforting.

"So we can do the head-voice thing," I think, desperate to stitch humor into the jagged edges. "What’s the range? Can I insult you from across campus?"

"Only if I let you in," he fires back, smug. "Which I won’t. For my own safety, but we have to find out if that's even possible. Or if we'll always be present, no matter what."

"You're a Coward."

"I'm a Strategist."

The exchange steadies me when I cover my mouth to laugh, and his eyes are full of happiness, but then they flick to my parents, still asleep. My throat tightens. “What do we tell them? When?” I whisper. “In the morning?”

“The truth would get us committed,” Xaden says, eyes furrowing, thinking of a plan to keep us both safe.

“The truth would get us both dissected.”

“Then we don’t tell it.” He draws in a careful breath. “We tell the version that’s true enough to hold for now.”

I nod, a weak laugh escaping. “They’ll hate that.”

“They’ll hate it less than dragon fire, if he finds out we told anyone.”

My gaze drops to the blanket, then lifts again with a spark. “So. Are you going to find me some fresh clothes, or are you planning to keep me naked under here until dawn?”

His ears practically combust. He scrambles for clothes that come from a black duffel and holds the screen while I wriggle into them, laughing under my breath at his panic. When he turns back, something in his expression hits me so hard I almost look away.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I murmur, sitting back in the bed, raising it so that my back is straight.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re seeing me for the first time, and I look like a freak.”

“But I am seeing you again,” his eyebrows squinching in the middle, "And however, you're quite the opposite of freak Ciara. You look like you just stepped out of a magazine shoot."

"Don't," I press a hard glare at him.

"I'm serious." He walks into the bathroom and hands me a small mirror. I almost drop it from what I'm seeing. My hair is split down the middle and voluminous, it's so shiny and perfect, and not a split end in sight. My lips are red and full, and my skin is taut and warm. My eyes are so bright, yet so much lurking behind them. Even my nails look like they've been manicured.

Something inside me buckles. “Come here, please.”

He does. Our foreheads touch. My new strength hums under my skin, terrifying and intoxicating.

"Thank you," I think, bare and raw. "Not for the power. Not to claim any glory, but for staying, for being here."

"Always Sunshine, always...." he answers, and I believe him. "...You do, however, look like a feral cat when you’re mad. Yelling at an ancient dragon. Definitely you." His smirk graces his face, and he steals a peck from me.

"Again, you're not funny." I swat at him, and of course, he blocks it, laughing. "I am so done with you." I fold my arms and look at my parents. My mind shifts to how worried they must've been. Their only child, gone.

"Hey," Xaden's soft voice breaks my train of thought, his hand on my arm. "They'll be relieved to see you like this. They were very worried, but they never left. A few times to grab food, but they stayed planted here."

My eyebrows pinch, "I didn't say that. You heard?"

He nods then shakes, "Well, technically, I felt the worry through whatever it is that links us."

“Sit with me.” I move to make room, and he sits on the edge, until I move his lower body closer to mine, afraid he'll fall off. I turn to him and tuck my hand in between us. I study his face with ridiculous intensity. One hand lifts and brushes his jaw, the gentlest touch I can muster, like I'm testing the strength of my own control, the only safe way I can. “Your arm?”

“Healed. The dragon did it at the same time,” he says, gesturing to my whole body. I flex my hand. Something fierce runs through my mind.

“Good,” I say softly. “I need you whole if I’m going to break the world.”

He huffs a laugh. “That sounds like a plan I should veto.”

“Try.”

“I plan on it.”

We stare at the ceiling for a while, not talking, talking,....kissing, talking some more.

"Sleep," He sends, when my eyes flicker heavily and his breath gets slower.

"Only if you do," I send back. Yep, my stubbornness is still there.

"Liar," He tells me, and the curve of his mouth is pure trouble.

"I will," I say with the softest voice I can muster. 

“Go to sleep, Ciara,” He murmurs aloud, and brushes a kiss to my temple—quick, reverent, a promise tucked under skin.

I do.

The morning will be ridiculous. Explanations and parents, and questions. But for now, there is only the simple, impossible fact that we are both breathing easy and warm under a blanket that smells like antiseptic and smoke.

If the shadows in the corner lean closer like they’re listening—well. Let them.

My mind is fuzzy when I wake up. The bright fluorescent light above my bed reminds me of where I am. I look at the clock across the room. 7:17 AM. My parents are still asleep on the pullout sofa, my mom curled against my dad’s chest, his arm around her shoulders. They look exhausted.

No—they look wrecked. Like they’ve lived three lifetimes in three days. I turn...

Xaden, no longer on the bed, has taken over the reclining chair. His eyes track every move I make, and in their movements, I see relief flood them.

I break the silence. “Well… this is awkward.”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk. “You’re sitting upright, wrapped in a blanket, fully healed from dragon fire, after being half-dead three days ago. And we can speak telepathically. ‘Awkward’ is an understatement.”

Last night wasn't a dream, then. I glance down at my arms. Smooth. Not a scar in sight. My fingers flex. They’re strong, controlled. Not trembling, not broken, and… not mine. Not really.

Xaden leaves to grab me tea, and when he comes back, his arms are full of food that I happily munch down. He chuckles at my hunger, but I feel like I've been in a coma for ten years.

We are talking about what our next steps should be when the door swings open, and Xaden and I both turn away from one another to see who it is. If Vi hadn't shown me a picture long ago, I wouldn't have known it was her brother. Brennan Sorrengail strides in, clipboard in hand. He stops dead past the threshold.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, sipping tea, skin smooth, hair glossy, eyes brighter than I’ve ever seen.

“What the hell,” Brennan whispers, voice hoarse. “How… how are you…?” Behind him, my mom stirs and sees Brennan first. She gives him a curt smile before looking at the bed. She stutters and then bursts into tears. She shakes my dad, gripping his hand like a lifeline. He bolts upright, rubbing his eyes in shock.

"Hey, you look...She looks—," but he can't finish, looking between me and mom.

I'm frowning when I should be smiling. I wish I had an answer. I wish I could tell them the truth.

All I can do is look at Xaden—his shadows curling faintly at the edges of the room now, like he's waiting to pull any threat away from me.

“Better than ever,” Brennan mutters, stunned. He flips through my chart. “This… isn’t possible.” They begin to demand answers. Tears and questions moving at the speed of light. My mother's hands on my face, arms, and hair. Dad stands up and groups us both in a hug, and that's when I rest in both of their arms. I feel safe.

I pull back, wiping my tears away, "I want to go home now," barely able to keep it together now that they are right in front of me.

My father nods and moves to talk to Brennan. Mom starts packing up, and Xaden stands to grab my hand. He looks at me lovingly while he squeezes, "Let's get you home."

The discharge papers crinkle in my hands, but they feel more like chains than freedom. I should be relieved—no more sterile walls, no more pitying looks from nurses who whisper “miracle” under their breath. But the truth is heavier:

I don’t feel like myself anymore.

I feel… more.

That scares me.

Mom clutches my hand tightly, while Dad keeps trying to carry the duffel even though Xaden already slung it over his shoulder. They look at me like I’ll shatter if they breathe too hard, as if me asking to be released was a mistake.

Xaden lingers close, shadow at my elbow, silent but steady. He doesn’t hover—not exactly—but he’s always there, like gravity itself.

Then there’s the one that made us like this.

"Finally," his voice drips through my mind, smug and ancient. "The healers with their scalpels and tubes bored me. At least out here, I can watch you fail at being normal in real time, while denying the power I've given you."

I grit my teeth. “Go haunt someone else.”

Mom stiffens beside me. “What was that, honey?”

“Nothing,” I mutter quickly. “Talking to myself.”

Xaden glances at me, brow arched. "You’re talking to him? Out loud, no less?"

I flush. "Maybe he should stop eavesdropping."

His chuckle curls through both our skulls. "Oh, don’t pout, it's unbecoming of what I will mold you into."

I tsk, "I'm not being molded into anything!"

"Bold of you to assume you have any say in the matter."

Outside the hospital, sunlight hits my face, and something strange hums beneath my skin—like every particle in the air is sharper, brighter, vibrating with life. My senses scream awake.

I can hear the flutter of wings three rooftops away, smell the sugar from the bakery down the block, and see the shimmer of heat rising off the asphalt like silver ribbons.

It’s mesmerizing and overwhelming. I grip Xaden's hand, knuckles white. “Too much,” I whisper.

He moves to stand in front of me. His eyes are dark storms, searching. “Breathe. Focus on my voice.” I do—and the noise dims, just a fraction. His presence grounds me like an anchor dropped in the midst of chaos. His shadows lightly curl around my waist.

He whispers, "You can sense all of this, too, right? I'm involuntarily overhearing a conversation about someone's planned date night on Saturday, 500 meters away."

I nod, not sure whether to laugh or feel even worse. "Everyone and everything seems so near and close, yet it's just the four of us."

"Trust me, I feel it. C'mon, let's get in the car and get you home. We'll sort this out, together."

Chapter Text

The drive home is quiet, too quiet. Dad keeps checking the rearview mirror. Xaden sits at my side, his hand steady on mine. The silence feels heavy, every bump in the road making it worse.

When we pull into the driveway, the porch light spills gold across the grass. Home. I should feel safe here. I don’t.

The moment we step inside, Dad’s already squared off. He plants himself in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “He’s not staying.”

Heat flares in my chest. “Please, just for tonight?”

Dad’s voice hardens. “Not under my roof.” I fold my arms, shadows prickling at the corners of my vision. “Yes, he is!”

His eyes widen like I’ve just cursed in church. “Ciara—”

I soften, "He's the reason I'm still alive, Dad. I know how you feel about boys, but you can't talk about him like he's nothing. Most importantly, I choose him. If you want me to be safe, then trust me enough to decide who I want by my side. He’s staying."

Mom’s voice cuts through the tension, smooth and warm like honey. “Robert.” She touches his arm, gentle but firm. “Let’s not do this tonight.”

Dad doesn’t move, his glare still burning through Xaden. Then he looks at me, his eyes backing down a bit until he huffs, "Fine, tonight only, you understand?" He looks to Xaden, and he nods slowly.

"Just so you know, I plan on putting up a fight."

"I had a feeling you would, just not tonight. I think that's all I can handle."

Mom glances at me, a faint sigh leaving her lips, before turning toward the stove. “I’ll make supper. Let her breathe honey, we'll all talk in the morning.” The conversation isn’t over, not by a long shot. But for now, it’s settled.

Home.

I sit on the couch, but the cushions collapse under me like I’ve gained fifty pounds. The remote cracks in my hand when I try to flip channels. I flinch away from the glass of water before I can shatter it.

Xaden watches, jaw tight. His shadows writhe at his feet like restless cats, responding every time my power spikes. Once, when my frustration boils over, a ribbon of black ink slithers up my arm, curling like it belongs there.

We both freeze.

“Was that—” I start.

“Not me,” he says quickly.

"It was you both," the dragon interrupts, smug. "You are threads of the same weave now. Shadows respond to darkness. Try not to strangle each other with it, hm?"

I look at my hands like they’re foreign to me. Checking around me to see if there are any more tendrils around me.

"Bonding," he interrupts, smug. "Your darkness sings to his shadows. Lovers in crime."

“Shut up,” I snap out loud.

Dad pokes his head in, eyebrows arching, looking between Xaden and me. “Ciara? Everything okay?”

“Fine!” I practically yell, then sink into the couch, cheeks burning.

Xaden smirks, low and soft. “You really need to work on your poker face.”

“Don’t push me, Riorson,” I mutter, looking ahead at the black TV.

“Oh? Full last name now?” His eyes gleam. “Must’ve struck a nerve.” I throw a pillow at him. He doesn’t even flinch when his shadows swat it midair. My eyes go wide when I look to the kitchen to make sure my parents didn't see, and I hate how much I want to smile.

I hurl a pillow at the ceiling. It bursts in my hands before it even flies, feathers snowing down across the room.

Xaden smirks. “Well. At least you’re consistent.”

I shoot him a glare. “You've been quite the comedian lately, Xaden.”

“It's just… impressive.”

Later, after Mom’s gentle insistence at “eating something, even if just to taste,” I push my food around my plate more than I eat it. Dad still hasn’t softened fully, his silence sharper than his words. But Xaden sits at my side, calm, offering small touches — a brush of his hand against mine, a quick kiss on my temple when no one’s looking. Each one reminds me: I’m not alone in this.

That night, when the house finally quiets, my parents have left us alone on the couch. The soft glow of the TV is on, with a show I couldn't care less about on, and the pressure inside me feels unbearable for some reason. My skin hums like it’s too tight, like the world is pressing in on all sides. I can’t sit still.

“I need air,” I whisper.

Xaden doesn’t even hesitate. “Then let’s go.”

We get up together, careful not to wake my parents.

We slip into the night, the cool air biting my skin, the stars sharp against the dark sky. The world opens around us as we take a drive in Xaden's truck to the empty field beyond the nearest horse ranch. Grass brushes my legs, damp with dew.

Finally, finally, I can breathe.

I break first. “Are you really ready for all of this? Because I'm not, but I'm going to need you. All of you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, “I asked you to stay, and I'm going to do the same. Now? Now there's nowhere in existence you could go that I wouldn't find you, Sunshine.”

I blink. The sincerity in his voice cracks something inside me, and I press a kiss to his lips. It's soft, chaste, and full of reassurance.

"Sweet," he drawls lazily. "Shall I fetch a violin? Or perhaps set the sky aflame for ambiance?"

“Go away,” I snap out loud, pulling away from him.

Xaden’s mouth curves. “Not talking to me, huh?”

The ground trembles, a low vibration building until the earth itself seems to groan. The air thickens, heat pressing against my skin. Then—fire. A blazing tear of flame rips the horizon apart.

And he arrives.

The dragon crashes into the field with a roar that shakes the sky. His wings blot out the stars, his scales ripple with molten fire, his eyes burn with ancient mockery.

This time, his voice doesn’t just curl in my mind. It shakes the air itself.

“At last. My vessel walks into the open. No walls. No guardians. Just you—and the truth.”

I clench my fists, darkness coiling up my arms. “I want nothing other than to do with you.”

He lowers his massive head, smoke curling from his nostrils. “You have no choice, Smart One. Maybe once you hear what I have to say, your mind will be persuaded.”

“I don’t want this,” I spit.

”So you've said." His grin is sharp, cruel.

Xaden steps in front of me, steady. “You don’t get to own her.”

His golden molten gaze flicks toward him. “I already do, in a sense. She bears my fire. My bond, but also magic from beyond. You—boy—you are promising but tolerated. You have bits of our world’s power and are tangled with the one I chose. Nothing more.”

My breath catches, anger crackling hot in my chest. Before I can snap, he throws his head back and roars.

The air tears open.

A rift, shimmering blue and green with fire around its edges, moving wide above us. It's beautiful. The magic vibrates so violently that the darkness at my feet recoils.

“I am Drogon of The Frontier. Beyond this veil lies our realm. We move through dimensions, through worlds. It stretches, pulls, tears. Without a hand to guard it, rifts devour it. Realms bleed into it, and then nothing remains."

He expresses and then gazes at Xaden. "Though you have some magic of dragons running through you, should you try and step into the Frontier, its magic will rip you apart.”

From the rift bursts a dragon of blue lightning and steel. It lands beside the red one with lethal grace, they're eyes gold and bright and cunning.

“This,” he says with a rumble almost fond, “is Sygael.” Her gaze sweeps over me once before locking onto Xaden. A smirk curls her mouth. “So this is the princeling.”

Xaden stiffens, jaw tight.

I gape. “Excuse me?”

Sygael laughs, sharp and teasing. “Oh, don’t pout, girl. All eyes are still on you. But this one—” her gaze flicks back to Xaden, “—he’s interesting.”

I tap my chin, "So, I'm going to be able to move through rifts and protect your world? Why does this place even need a Defender? No one can enter The Frontier—humans can’t survive it. So what’s the point?

"There have been only a handful before you, but they've all gone mad with power and in mind. My intent this time is that you listen for the greater good of yourself and dragonkind. The void and flame together — a balance dragons cannot bear, but you can."

Wait, I can use fire as well?!?

"Apparently so."

"That was meant to stay in my actual head."

Xaden is smirking at me, "We'll have to practise that."

Drogon continues, "When we enter a world without a siphon, we are all consuming, we warp reality, and do far more damage than good. However, with you there, we can enter through any realm that you are present."

Another dragon emerges from the rift—deep green, vast and deliberate, his landing shaking the ground. His eyes are thoughtful, steady, studying me like a riddle.

“Rhaegal,” the red says. “My brother. Sygael’s mate.”

Rhaegal’s golden gaze fixes on me, heavy and steady. “The Frontier is a seam. Between realms, between times, between truths. It holds all that is fractured. Without a keeper, it unravels."

Sygael tilts her head, her laughter sharp. “Worlds if left unchecked, tend to collapse. They eat one another. Do you know what happens when a seam tears unchecked? Whole realms fall into nothing. Entire histories snuffed like candles.”

The rift above flickers, and for a moment I see something—another sky, another horizon bleeding through. My breath stutters.

Rhaegal inclines his head. His voice is deep, calm. “This world is not ready for you, World Saver.”

My eyebrows pinch, and I swallow hard. “Neither am I.”

Xaden mutters, “You don’t say.” Sygael’s laugh rings out again, sharp and amused. “Princeling with teeth. I like him, Rhaegal.”

Rhaegal nods and exhales, patient, his eyes never leaving mine. “All eyes are on you, our Defender. Do not waste what was given.”

The rift pulses above us, vast and endless. Drogon lifts his head, his voice echoing like thunder.

“Every dragon within it is now at your service, in any world, we will fight beside you.” Drogon finishes, molten eyes searing into mine. Shadows coil tight around me. Xaden’s hand squeezes mine.

And all I can think is—

There’s no going back.

The field feels too small for what just happened. Three dragons stand in the night like gods disguised as fire and teeth, and somehow, I’m supposed to breathe normally.

When Drogon’s words fade, silence presses in heavily. My heart beats against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.

My fingers twitch, and a pulse of darkness bursts from my palm, slick and alive, curling into the grass like a void spilled in water.

I force one deep breath, shadows still straining at my skin but slowing. Then Xaden’s hand covers mine, grounding me the rest of the way. “Hey,” he murmurs, “you’re here. With me.”

Despite everything, a laugh breaks out of me—sharp, shaky, but real. The darkness pulses again, and this time I don’t fight it. It rolls from me, bands lapping the field like a tide.

Drogon’s eyes narrow, fire flickering in his throat. “Control it, Ciara, before it controls you.”

I snap my glare at him. “I hate this!”

“Do not,” Rhaegal cuts in, voice steady, almost gentle. “Few have been bound. Fewer survive to live a long life. That you stand here after being consumed by dragonfire means you are meant, and we are here to help you, Smart one.” His gaze lingers on me, heavy but kind. “The darkness will not consume you if you remember who you are and hone it.”

Xaden leans down then, lips brushing my temple—another grounding kiss. His shadows stir, reaching toward mine like threads weaving together. I gasp when I feel it—his thoughts brushing mine. Not words. Just presence. Warm, steady, unyielding.

The smell of bacon wakes me before my alarm. For a second, I think I’m still in the hospital — white walls, beeping monitors, gauze suffocating my body — but then I open my eyes and see the muted pink paint of my bedroom walls. Home.

Xaden is asleep on the floor beside my bed, one arm crooked under his head, the other stretched toward me like he fell asleep reaching. My heart stutters at the sight of him. He refused to leave the hospital unless I was released. He stayed in the house because I needed him close. He stayed after meeting the dragons last night, because I didn't want him to go after the shock of now being the caretaker of different worlds. 

But Dad’s not thrilled.

I hear him downstairs, voice low but sharp as a knife. “I don’t like this, Dae. A boy in her room? Under our roof?”

Mom answers, quieter, her accent lilting like a soft melody. “He saved her, Robert. You saw it yourself. Let him be close. She needs him. Don't forget you let Lincoln and Ellis in her room multiple times. They practically lived there.”

I roll my eyes and smirk. Go mom. I glance at Xaden. He stirs, long beautiful lashes fluttering. And of course, the instant he sees me awake, he smirks like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Morning, trouble,” he drawls, voice still gravelly with sleep. Whoa, new turn-on unlocked.

I regain my thoughts, “You’re the one in trouble,” I mutter, tossing the pillow at him. “My dad’s downstairs plotting your death.”

“Good. I’d rather he plot than act. At least I’ll see it coming.” He pushes up with that natural grace that shouldn’t be legal, running a hand through his messy black hair. “Besides, you’d save me.”

"Every time."

We make it downstairs together, Xaden trailing half a step behind me like he’s ready to shield me from my own father. Which, honestly, is probably wise, but it's not necessary. My father just cares for me, and I won't fault him for it.

Mom beams when she sees me walking downstairs. She presses a hand to her chest, tears in her eyes. “Look at you, baby. Like nothing ever happened.”

Dad isn’t so easy. His arms are crossed, his jaw hard. He looks at me, then at Xaden, then back at me. “You’re not supposed to be moving around so much, Ciara.”

“I’m fine, Dad, really. Better than fine.” I move to hug him. His warmth envelops me.

“Because of him?” Dad’s glare cuts straight through Xaden. “What did you do to her? What happened?”

Before I can answer, Xaden’s tone sharpens, that edge of command sliding in. No, not this morning, please. “With respect, sir, I didn’t do anything to her. I stayed by her side while a dragon nearly burned her alive. You weren’t there.”

“Xaden,” I hiss, elbowing him, but it’s too late. Dad’s face turns crimson.

“A dragon,” he repeats, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, because it probably is.

“Yeah, a dragon,” I say, embarrassed for some reason. Darkness licks at the corners of the room before I even realize it, curling up the walls like smoke. The lights flicker.

Mom gasps. “Ciara—”

Dad goes still. His gaze darts between the shadows, then back to me and Xaden. “What is this?”

I freeze, panic coiling in my stomach. Xaden steps closer, his hand brushing mine, grounding me. His shadows rise to meet mine, a lighter, fluid ink that moves with precision.

The room chills.

Mom takes a step back. Dad doesn’t. His fists clench at his sides. “You did this to her,” he growls at Xaden. “Whatever curse you carry, you put it on my daughter.”

“That’s not how this works.” Xaden’s voice is clipped, dangerous. “I don’t control what she is.”

“What I am?” I snap, louder than I intend. The darkness surges with me, rattling the dishes on the table. My body trembles, heat and cold rushing all at once. “I didn’t ask for this!”

The silence that follows is suffocating. My parents stare at me like they don’t recognize me, and maybe they don’t. I don't even recognize myself.

“I didn’t mean it to sound-“

“I know.”

Xaden’s shadows withdraw first, retreating like obedient soldiers. Mine resist, clawing to stay, until I force myself to breathe them back inside. The effort leaves me shaky, but I stand tall anyway.

Dad’s face is pale now, anger giving way to something else. Fear.

And then the ground shakes.

Not like an earthquake. No — like something landed.

We all spin toward the back door, and my stomach flips because I know that sound.

A deep, amused voice rumbles through the house, vibrating the air.

“Honestly. You humans and your dramatics. Quarreling at the breakfast table while the universe teeters on the edge of ruin. Pathetic.”

The windows rattle.

Dad shoves me behind him out of instinct, looking around for the voice, until Mom screams and drops a plate into the sink.

Drogon is there.

We all head outside. 

In all his red-scaled, wing-stretching, teeth-gleaming glory. He crouches against the tree line, eyes glowing like molten gold, his massive head lowering until it’s level with the roof.

Mom gasps and grips Dad’s arm.

Xaden exhales, low. “Well. That’s subtle.”

“Subtle?” Drogon snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils. “You want subtle, princeling? Find a fairy. I am a dragon.”

Dad stares, frozen. “This… this isn’t possible.”

“Dad,” I whisper, my voice shaking, “it is. He’s the one who—who burned me. Who healed me.”

“Details, details,” Drogon says, yawning like this is all boring. “Your daughter survived what I put her through. That binds her to me.”

Dad reaches for his phone to call for help or anything really, but he takes one more look at Drogon before his eyes furrow.

“Yours?” Dad roars, finding his voice at last. I guess I am my father's daughter, yelling at an ancient dragon like I've lost my mind.

“Oh, calm yourself, Robert,” Drogon says, drawing out his name like a joke. “I don’t want her soul. Just her time. Her strength. Her willingness to stop whining about destiny and start embracing it.” His eyes flick to me and Xaden, gleaming. “Which brings us to the point. You both must meet someone.”

I cross my arms, glaring up at him even though he could eat me whole in one bite. “Oh, sure. Just add it to my calendar. Who?”

“A man with too much arrogance and just enough skill to deserve it.” Drogon’s teeth flash in something like a grin. “Doctor Strange.”

I blink. “Doctor… Strange? As in Stephen Strange?”

“Yes, him.”

“He’s an Avenger. He’s in New York!” My voice pitches higher than I like. “You want me to just—just go meet Doctor freaking Strange?”

“Now, yes.”

I gape. “Now!?”

“You’re catching on.” Drogon huffs, smoke puffing across the yard. “Pack your things, my shadow flame. We need to hone your powers and make you formidable, not a day too late."

When Drogon retreats, Mom and Dad are both still reeling. Before we’re even fully back inside the house, is when Dad finally blurts, voice rough, “Ciara. I want the truth. All of it. No more secrets.”

“Dad—”

“No.” His eyes are red, his jaw trembling even as he forces the words out. “I almost lost you. I’m standing here watching things crawl out of my daughter’s skin and a dragon mouth off in my backyard. So you will tell me what’s happening. Now.”

I swallow hard, my pulse racing. I want to tell him everything, to cry in his arms but Drogon’s voice rumbles inside my skull like thunder.

“Not here. Not with these fragile creatures.”

I glance at Xaden, who nods once, reading me like always. “We can’t explain it here,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “But you heard him, there’s someone who can. We need to see Doctor Strange.”

Mom blinks. “Doctor… who? The Avenger?”

Xaden answers flatly, like it’s obvious. “Yes. You’ll have to trust us. Trust your daughter to make the right decision.”

Dad’s face twists. “New York? Ciara, you can’t—”

”Daddy, please. I have to do this. Drogon is giving me no choice, and if there’s a chance to save everyone, then I’m going to do it. Please trust me? Both of you?”

For a beat, no one moves. It isn’t until I start moving my legs that my mother hugs me and strokes my hair.

”We love you, Ciara. We are your parents, and we are scared for you…but if you say that this is what you must do, then do it. It does not explain everything, and I still want answers but go and learn.”

Tears fall, and my father hugs me again. I let go and dress for flight.

“Are dragons supposed to be late?”

I ask Xaden as he leans against his truck, looking as bored as ever. We have been waiting a long time. We’re back at the field we saw the rift open.

”With what I’ve seen, they love a dramatic entrance.”

I smirk at him and tilt my head, “I know of another person who has a bit of flair for the dramatics as well.”

He rolls his eyes and that’s when the ground shakes again. A great shadow passes over the field. I don’t need to look to know who it is.

Sygael.

The sapphire-scaled dragon lands with a thunderclap of wings, her eyes like molten silver as she lowers her body toward us. Rhaegal follows, emerald and gold, his massive form coiling beside her. Both of them radiate enough power to silence us both in awe.

Drogon exits the rift next and lands beside Rhaegal.

Sygael flicks her tail. “You, boy. Up. Don’t embarrass me by clinging like a barnacle.”

Xaden’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

My head snaps toward Drogon. “And me? You’re not expecting me to just—”

“Climb,” Drogon says simply, lowering his wing like a ramp. His molten gaze burns into me. “You are mine. You will not fall.”

That…isn’t reassuring, but my pulse is wild, half terror, half something else—thrill, maybe.

Xaden and I trade a look. He mouths: We’re really doing this.

I mouth back: Apparently.

And then—I climb.

The scales are warm under my palms, alive, humming with energy that thrums up my arms. My legs tremble but hold. By the time I swing into the hollow between Drogon’s wings, my breath is gone.

Xaden mounts Sygael with considerably more grace. Of course he does. She preens under him like a smug cat.

”Princeling fits”, I send across the tether, amused despite my terror.

“Not you too,” he fires back, though the corner of his mouth tilts.

Rhaegal lifts first, wings cutting the sky. Sygael follows, agile and fierce, a streak of blue lightning. Drogon crouches, rumbling low, and then—

We launch.

The ground disappears. The world drops out beneath me. My stomach lurches, air screaming past as Drogon surges skyward.

I cling to a small horn at the base of his spine, acting as the pommel, white-knuckled. “Ohmygoshohmygosh—”

“Loosen a bit,” Drogon warns. “Clench too hard, and you fall.”

“Clench and I don’t die—”

And then, my grip slips.

“CIARA!” Xaden’s scream rips the air.

I plummet. Wind tears at me, heart exploding in my chest. The world spins, too fast, too sharp—My darkness curls around me, trying to help, grasping at anything to slow the fall...

Suddenly, Drogon’s talons snap around me, gentle as a giant hand, catching me before I can hit the earth. He swings me back, depositing me with infuriating ease onto his back again.

I can’t breathe. I can’t—

Sygael’s laughter slices through the air. “See, princeling? She does not break. Your heart, however, might.”

Xaden’s face is chalk-white, his hands fisted on Sygael’s spine so hard I can see the strain from here. His eyes lock on me, blazing.

“Don’t you ever—“

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” I shout over the wind, but my voice cracks.

Drogon rumbles beneath me. “You are mine. I will not let you fall.”

My throat aches. I nod once, fierce. Grip steadier this time.

We fly.

Hours bleed away into sky and stars. The world blurs beneath us—mountains, rivers, cities like spilled light. I lose track of time. My body aches from holding on, but my chest is raw with something I can’t name. Terror. Awe. Freedom.

When the skyline of New York rises, my breath catches. Glass and steel scraping the sky, the river a ribbon of silver, the city pulsing with light and noise.

The Sanctum Sanctorum waits just ahead. Stately brick, a round window glowing faintly like an unblinking eye. Magic hums from it, thick and alive, prickling every hair on 

The massive oak doors of the Sanctum Sanctorum creak open as Xaden and I step onto the stoop. The city noise behind us seems to hush, like even Manhattan knows not to intrude here.

Xaden keeps his hand near mine but doesn’t touch. His voice is steady, commanding as he knocks. “We’re looking for Stephen Strange.”

The doors swing wider of their own accord. The air inside pulses, threads of magic pulling at my skin, tugging at something deep in my core. My shadows ripple in response before I force them back.

We step into the grand hall. The air smells of incense and old dust. Candles flicker without flame. The staircase winds up, and at the top of it — robes flowing, expression sharp — stands Doctor Stephen Strange.

His eyes flick between us, calculating, wary. “You don’t belong here.”

I flinch, but Xaden doesn’t even blink. “We were told you could help.”

Strange tilts his head, unimpressed. “Told by who? Google? Yelp?” Gosh, moody much.

Before I can answer, the air vibrates, thick and hot. Drogon’s voice explodes through the Sanctum, rattling glass panes and making the chandeliers sway.

“Do not be so quick to dismiss them, sorcerer. This child carries the fire of The Frontier. She is bound to me, and she is yours to train.”

Strange freezes, his brows furrowing. He looks at us again — really looks — and I see it, the moment recognition sparks.

Strange’s eyes widen a fraction. He scans the room, though I know he can’t see Drogon, only hear him. “A dragon?” His tone is dry, almost mocking. “I’ve seen a lot of things in this job, gods, aliens, and wizards with ego problems, but a dragon teleconferencing into my living room? That’s new.”

Xaden smirks, just slightly. “Get used to it.”

Strange’s gaze snaps to him, sharp. “And you are?”

“Does it matter?”

Strange raises a brow, clearly amused. “Oh, I like him. Broody, dramatic, arrogant. I used to be you.”

“God forbid,” Xaden mutters.

Before I can snort, Drogon cuts back in, his voice reverberating off every surface. “Enough. They need training. She has barely scratched the surface of her potential.”

Strange exhales through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he’s already regretting this. “From what little I know of dragons and The Frontier power, it is raw power.” He mutters it more to himself, then fixes me with a piercing look. “And you both are carrying it.”

I cross my arms, defensive. “Not like we asked for it.”

“Most people don’t ask for destiny.” He descends the staircase, slow and deliberate, his presence filling the space in a way that makes me want to shrink back — except I don’t. I stand taller.

When he reaches the bottom step, he looks between us again. “You’re both dangerous.”

“Good,” Xaden says smoothly. “Dangerous is what we’ll need.”

Chapter Text

The decision to leave New York feels like swallowing glass.

The Sanctum still hums in my bones, the echo of Strange’s magic sparking against mine like static I can’t shake off. I want more—more time, more answers, more training until the darkness and fire inside me don’t feel like a storm barely leashed.

But Xaden stands at the window, arms crossed, eyes on the streetlights below like the city holds answers he refuses to share.

“We can’t stay,” he says finally.

I snap my head toward him. “Why not? For once, we’re actually in a place where we can learn. Where someone understands what’s happening to me.”

“To us,” he corrects sharply. Ouch, smooth move Ciara.“Don’t forget Drogon didn’t exactly let me walk away untouched.”

I bite back a retort. He’s right. “Then shouldn’t we stay even more? Until we can fight without stumbling? Until I don’t feel like I might blow the roof off if I breathe wrong?”

Xaden turns, shadows curling faintly at his shoulders like they’re impatient too. His voice is calm, too calm. “Because appearances matter. Graduation matters. If we disappear longer than we already have, it won’t just be our parents knocking down doors.”

I cross my arms, glaring. “You really care about graduation right now?”

“No.” The word is blunt, flat. His gaze pins me in place. “I care about what it represents. Safety. Stability. A hint of normalcy. Not drawing unnecessary suspicion. You think you’re ready to deal with every consequence of exposing what you are?”

I open my mouth—then shut it, because the truth burns too close. “You’re scared,” I say finally.

He doesn’t flinch. “I’m cautious. There’s a difference.”

The silence stretches, thick with everything neither of us wants to say. My pulse thrums too fast, my hands flex at my sides.

Then, softer, Xaden adds, “I want to stay too, Cee. You think I don’t? But wanting and needing aren’t the same. Right now, we need to go back.”

I hate him for being right. I hate that my chest softens at the endearment, that the steel in his voice isn’t born of dismissal but of fear. Fear for me. For us.

So I drop my gaze, exhaling hard. “Fine. But don’t think I won’t remind you that you dragged me away from the one person who actually made sense of this.”

His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile. “Duly noted.”

When we step through my front door hours later, jetlag clinging to our bones, I expect silence. Maybe the smell of my mom’s cooking, maybe just the quiet creak of the house settling.

Instead—

“Shit,” Xaden mutters.

The living room is packed. My parents. His parents. And every one of our friends.

The air feels like it collapses in on itself, heavy and suffocating.

A man who looks like Xaden is the first to speak. Fen. His voice is a whipcrack. “Xaden Riorson.”

Xaden stiffens beside me, but doesn’t lower his chin. “Dad.”

“Do you want to tell me why I have to find out secondhand that my son nearly died?” Fen’s voice cuts sharp enough to slice.

His mother, Talia looks worse—her eyes rimmed red, her hands clenched in front of her chest. “You could have been gone, Xaden. Both of you. And we—” Her voice breaks.

“Dead?” Xaden supplies flatly.

“Xaden!” My mom’s voice is sharper than I’ve ever heard it.

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight, shadows twitching like they want to leap free. “Fine. You want an explanation? Here it is. We survived. We’re here. That’s what matters.”

The room explodes with questions.

“How?” Violet demands, eyes flicking over me like she’s searching for the scars I don’t wear.

“Why didn’t you call?” Rhiannon’s voice wavers between anger and worry.

“You missed Homecoming,” Ridoc says, throwing his hands up like it’s a federal crime.

“You look stronger,” Liam says carefully, his gaze too perceptive.

Bodhi folds his arms. “And you disappear to New York for three days? No explanation?”

Even Garrick mutters, “Typical Riorson.”

The storm of voices crashes over me, and before I can find words, Drogon’s voice fills my skull.

“Careful, little one. Not all truths serve. Give them half, not whole. Protect them until they are ready.”

The weight of it presses me down, and I know Xaden feels it too by the way his jaw flexes.

My dad’s voice cuts through the noise, low and commanding. “Ciara. Enough silence. Explain.”

Every gaze lands on me. Demanding. Waiting.

I draw a breath, force my voice steady. “What happened in that fire—it wasn’t natural. I should have died. I know that. But something woke up inside me, and it kept me alive.”

“What do you mean?” Rhiannon asks, softer now.

“I mean…” My throat works. “There’s power in me now in both of us, and it’s dangerous. But it’s ours, and we’re learning how to control it.”

“Learning?” Sawyer echoes, skeptical.

“Yes,” Xaden cuts in, his voice steel. “Learning. Together. Which is all that matters.”

Fen steps forward, his voice sharp. “Together? Xaden, you have a lot on your plate already and you think you can carry her too?”

“I don’t need him to carry me!” The words tear out of me, hot, furious. The room freezes. “I’m not weak. I don’t need protecting from what I am.”

“Ciara—” Xaden warns, low, dangerous.

I whirl on him. “Don’t Ciara me when your dad thinks I’m just dead weight dragging you down.”

Fen’s eyes flash, but Talia grabs his arm, shaking her head, pleading.

The silence that follows is suffocating, and Drogon’s voice curls through my mind again.

“Careful. Half truths. No more, no less.”

I lift my chin, meeting every pair of eyes at once. “You want the truth? Here it is. Something changed in me that night. Something that won’t go away. And until I figure out what it means, you’ll have to accept that not everything can be explained.”

The silence after my declaration doesn’t last long.

Fen steps forward, his voice like iron dragged across stone. “Half an answer. That’s all you give? After vanishing, after putting everyone through hell worrying? You’re my son, Xaden. You don’t get to hide behind whatever this is and riddles.”

Xaden doesn’t flinch. He meets his father’s glare with cool defiance. “I didn’t ask to be dragged into this, Dad. Neither did Ciara. But here we are. And you don’t get to demand answers I don’t have.”

“You always have answers,” Fen snaps back. “You just choose who to share them with.”

Talia’s hand tightens on Fen’s sleeve, but her red-rimmed eyes stay on her son. “Xaden, please. Just tell us you’re safe.”

He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second—but I see it. The softness, the guilt. Then his mask slams back in place. “Safe is relative in this situation.”

The room erupts again—questions, protests, voices clashing like steel.

Rhiannon tries to push through. “Ciara, I just want to understand. You were gone. We thought—”

Violet cuts in, sharper. “We thought you were dead, Ciara. You can’t just stroll back in and say you’ve got ‘power’ now like it’s a new pair of shoes.”

Ridoc whistles low. “Damn, Vi. Don’t hold back or anything.”

“Not the time, Ridoc,” Bodhi mutters.

Sawyer frowns, leaning forward. “But you do look…different. Stronger. And Xaden—”

“Still broody,” Ridoc interrupts with a grin. “So at least some things never change.”

Liam smacks the back of Ridoc’s head. “Shut up.”

“Make me—”

“Enough!” My dad’s voice cracks across the room, silencing everyone. His gaze pins me, steady and unrelenting. “Ciara, you’re our daughter. We love you. But what you’re saying—what you’re not saying—it scares the hell out of us. This has never been you. We deserve to know if you’re in danger.”

I want to cry and cave in right now. The hurt that everyone is feeling is too much for me. I get it, and maybe I can just-

Sygael’s voice coils in my skull, cold this time. “Do not speak of the rift. The knowledge will break them before any enemy has the chance.”

I swallow hard. “I am in danger, we both are if we don’t learn more about what’s going on. But it’s not the kind you can fix with curfews or locked doors. You’ll just have to trust us.”

The plea sits heavy between us.

Fen growls low, frustration radiating off him. “Trust has to be earned, Ciara, and right now, both of you are doing a piss-poor job of it.”

Xaden’s hand brushes mine, a silent anchor. His voice is measured, sharp-edged. “Then trust me when I say I’ll protect her and myself. That’s the only promise I can make you.”

For a moment, no one breathes.

Then my mom steps forward, her eyes wet but her chin lifted. “That’s not enough, Xaden. But it’s a start.”

The tension doesn’t vanish, but it softens at the edges. Just enough for the storm to settle into wary silence.

Xaden leans down, murmuring against my ear. “We need air.”

I nod quickly.

We slip out the front door, the cool night air a blessed relief after the suffocating weight inside. The porch creaks beneath our steps, and for a moment we just stand there, the distant hum of crickets filling the quiet.

Xaden leans against the railing, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Well. That went about as well as I expected.”

I snort, sinking onto the porch swing. “If by well you mean catastrophic.”

“They didn’t set us on fire. That’s progress.”

“It probably wouldn’t have done anything anyway.”

His gaze flicks to me, softer now. “They’ll come around. Eventually, and if they don’t, then it’s us.” I nod and give him a kiss.

“Your dad looked ready to ground you until you’re fifty.” I move to sit on the bench.

His smirk deepens. “That’d be impressive, considering he barely grounded me when I was fifteen.” I roll my eyes, and the tension in my chest loosens a little. Out here, away from the burning stares of parents and friends, I can breathe.

Still, the questions gnaw at me. “Do you think we should have told them more?”

“No.” His voice is firm, absolute. “The less they know, the safer they are.”

I nod, but the doubt lingers. “I hate lying to them.”

“It’s not lying,” he says quietly. “It’s protecting. There’s a difference.”

“Doesn’t feel different.”

He pushes off the railing, moving to crouch in front of me, shadows brushing against my knees like they’re alive. His eyes lock on mine. “Sunshine. If they knew the truth—if they even guessed at the rift—they wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. Do you want that for them?”

I look away, throat tight. “No.”

“Then we keep this between us. For now.”

I hate it, but I nod.

His hand covers mine, rough and steady. “We’ll carry it. Together, so that they don’t have to.”

The crickets are louder than usual, like even they’re nervous about eavesdropping on us. I’m half a second away from melting into the swing cushions when the door creaks open.

Violet steps out, arms crossed tight. She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at us like she’s trying to decide whether to scream or hug me.

Xaden lifts a brow. “If you’re here to lecture, take a number. My father’s still warming up inside.”

Her glare sharpens. “You think this is funny?”

“Right now it’s what’s keeping me from setting the house on fire,” he replies smoothly.

I elbow him. “Don’t antagonize her.”

Violet’s gaze finally flicks to me. Softer, but still sharp. “I just…you were gone, Ciara, and now you’re sitting here like nothing happened.”

I swallow. “It wasn’t nothing. But I can’t—”

The door bangs open again. Ridoc strolls out like he owns the place, Bodhi on his heels. “What’d I miss? Are we crying or punching? I’m good with either.”

Bodhi rolls his eyes. “Ignore him. He’s incapable of serious conversation.”

The porch groans under all of us as everyone finds a spot—leaning against the railing, sitting on steps, cramming into the swing until I’m half buried between Rhiannon and Bodhi.

Xaden mutters, “Cozy,” under his breath.

Rhiannon leans forward, her eyes searching mine. “Ciara…we don’t need all the details. Just…something. We’re your friends. Let us in.”

I glance at Xaden. His jaw’s tight, but he gives a small nod—“Your call.”

I take a shaky breath. “Okay. Here’s what I can tell you. Yes, I have powers now. No, I didn’t ask for them. And yes, they’re dangerous, but I’m learning to control them.”

Sawyer frowns. “What kind of powers?”

“Ones that make her very good at shutting people up,” Xaden deadpans.

“Xaden,” I warn.

He looks at me. “What? Accurate.”

Ridoc perks up. “Wait, can you actually shut people up? Like, physically? Because I’ve got a list—”

Bodhi smacks the back of his head. “Focus.”

I hesitate, then let a thin tendril of darkness curl from my palm, twisting into the shape of a raven before dissolving into smoke. Everyone but Rhi and Vi recoils. The air chills around us.

The silence after is thick—half awe, half fear. Nobody speaks. Nobody breathes. Then Ridoc breaks the silence. “So…you’re basically the poster child for terrifying-and-hot rolled into one package.”

Bodhi groans. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “What? Somebody had to say it. Power couple of nightmares, right here.” He waves between me and Xaden.

Xaden smirks, shadow tendrils spilling from his fingers like ink across water. They curl around his wrist, coil over the porch railing, then snap back into him with a sound like cracking ice. “She’s not in this alone. If you’re worried about her, you worry about me too.”

Imogen’s voice is calm but cutting. She’s leaning against the railing, arms folded, like she’s been there the whole time. “So that’s why the two of you vanished? Training?”

Xaden’s gaze cuts to her. “Something like that.”

Violet whispers, “That…That was something else.”

I nod once. “It’s part of me, and part of what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Supposed to?” Liam presses, his gaze sharp. “By who?”

I bite my lip. The rift rings in the back of my mind like a warning bell. Carefully. Half-truths. “Let’s just say…there are bigger things at play than we realized. Things that make graduation look…small.”

Rhiannon studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “You’re scared.” I shake my head.

She tilts her head. “You’re terrified.” I glance down. Ding ding ding, we have a winner.

Xaden leans against the railing, arms crossed, shadows whispering at his heels. “She’s not alone. That’s all that matters.”

Garrick finally speaks, his voice tight. “And you didn’t think maybe your best friend should know? Instead of finding out on Ciara’s porch like everyone else?”

Xaden’s jaw works. “It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you slip into casual conversation, Garrick.”

“‘Hey man, by the way, my girlfriend and I are bonded to dragons and wielding ancient magic’—yeah, no, not casual at all.” Garrick shakes his head. “You don’t get to go dark and broody on me when this is the level of insane we’re dealing with.”

I step in before the tension can curdle. “Look—we’re sorry. We didn’t want to keep you out. But some of this…some of this is bigger than all of us. And not everything is safe to say out loud.”

Rhiannon watches me closely. “Safe for who?”

I hesitate. “For anyone who doesn’t want their entire world tilted upside down.”

Sawyer blows out a breath. “Well, newsflash—it’s already tilted. You can’t drop smoke-bird magic and shadow tricks on us and then pretend things are normal.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Imogen murmurs. “Things aren’t normal anymore. So the question is—what’s next?”

Everyone looks at us. Waiting.

I swallow. “Next…we train. We learn. We keep each other safe. That’s all I know.”

It feels like a promise, though my chest aches with how fragile it is.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Ridoc grins. “Well, as long as she doesn’t use her creepy smoke powers to melt us in our sleep, I’m good. Adds a little spice to the friend group.”

“Spice?” Bodhi groans.

“Yeah. Like chili flakes. Dangerous, but worth it.”

I laugh despite myself, tension breaking just enough for the night air to feel less suffocating.

Rhiannon squeezes my hand. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Sawyer nods. “Even if you can’t tell us everything…we’ve got your back.”

The screen door bangs open behind us. Fen steps out first, Talia just behind him, her eyes red from worry.

“Xaden,” Fen says, voice clipped. “We’re leaving.”

Xaden straightens, every line of him taut.

Robert and Dae follow, their gazes locking on me. “Ciara,” Robert says firmly, “inside. Now.”

The porch goes utterly still.

Xaden’s shadows hiss at his heels; my darkness flickers at the edges of my vision. For one suspended heartbeat, it feels like we might refuse.

But then I glance at my friends, at their wide eyes and anxious faces, and I nod. “Okay.”

The living room feels claustrophobic. My parents sit across from me like I’m some stranger who wandered into their house wearing their daughter’s skin. Mom’s eyes pin me like knives, Dad paces the rug thin, and my chest feels too tight to breathe.

“Start talking,” Dad says, sharp and clipped.

I stare at my hands, the faint movement of darkness curling under my skin. My powers want out—want to prove themselves—but showing more now would be like throwing gasoline on a fire.

“Dad…” My voice is small. “It’s not what you think.”

“What I think,” he growls, “is that I nearly buried my daughter two weeks ago. You walk in here looking—” his voice breaks, and he shoves a hand through his hair— “like nothing happened. But something happened, Ciara. And we’re owed the truth.”

My throat closes. I glance at Mom. Her hands are folded, knuckles white, but her voice is steady when she says, “He’s right. If you can’t trust us, who can you trust?”

The guilt is a weight I can’t shake. I take a deep breath. “I’ve always been…different. I thought it was just quirks—strength, speed. But it’s more. Things woke up in me that I didn’t ask for.”

Dae leans in. “Woke up? How?”

Her eyes feel like searchlights. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “It’s like when I woke up…Darkness answered to me when I call. Fire that shouldn’t be mine to wield but is. It’s not normal.”

Robert stops pacing. “And the boy?”

I stiffen. “Xaden?”

He nods, jaw tight. “He’s in this, too?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, anger and affection tangling in my chest. “Yes. He’s part of it. He’s…more than part of it. We’re tied to this together. I haven’t told you, but he’s my… boyfriend now.”

Dad crouches in front of me, fierce. “You’re seventeen, Ciara. That boy—”

“That boy kept me alive!” My voice cracks. The darkness thrums under my skin, answering my spike of anger. Easy Ciara.

I huff, “Please, don’t talk about him like he’s reckless or careless. You and Mom got together and had a baby at 18. I care about him.”

Silence. Heavy. Mom’s lips press thin. Dad exhales, long and slow.

“So he isn’t trouble?” Robert mutters.

“He’s mine, never trouble.” I shoot back, softer this time, but unyielding.

Mom looks at me with dried tears down her face. “We don’t want to lose you. Not to fire, not to shadows, and not to someone who might pull you further into danger.”

I lean forward, clutching her hand. “Mom—you’re not losing me. You’re gaining the truth. Or at least the part of it I can give you right now.”

Her fingers squeeze mine, trembling. Robert stays crouched in front of me, eyes haunted. “We’re a family that stays together, Ciara. This is hard on all of us. One day at a time, huh?”

I swallow hard. “One day at a time.”

X A D E N’ S P.O.V.

The kitchen feels colder than the living room ever did. My father stands stiff as a blade, arms crossed, eyes blazing. My mother sits on the counter, back straight, her accent thick when she finally speaks.

“You got us sick with worry, baby,” Mom says, her voice soft but sharp as glass. “Not a word. Not a letter. I had to hear from Garrick you were runnin’ around with shadows at your heels. What was I supposed to think?”

Her words cut deeper than Dad’s silence. He finally explodes, slamming his palm against the table. “You’ve been gone for weeks. Not one damned explanation. We thought—” his voice cracks, rare and raw— “we thought we lost you.”

I drag a hand down my face. Shadows curl at my boots, restless, I push them away. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I’m trying to protect you.”

“Protect us from what?” Dad growls. “From the truth?”

His fury is fire; mine simmers darker. “From things you can’t fight. Things bigger than all of us. If you knew the details, you’d walk straight into danger—and I couldn’t live with that.”

Dad takes a step forward, jaw tight. “You don’t get to decide how much of our son we get to keep.”

My chest tightens, but I force my voice steady. “I didn’t decide that. Life did. I’m just trying to make sure you’re still here at the end of it.”

Silence. Then Mom cuts in, her drawl softer now. “Shadows don’t scare me near as much as silence does, sugar. You don’t gotta carry all of it alone. Not with us.”

My throat works, but nothing comes out.

Dad glares, but I catch the grief behind it. “And that girl—Ciara.” His tone sharpens. “She’s worth all of this danger and secrecy to you?”

I tense. “Yes.”

“Is she dangerous?”

I meet his eyes, unflinching. “She’s powerful. There’s a difference. And she’s learning to control it. I trust her with my life. My heart.”

He studies me, long and hard. His fists clench, then loosen. Finally, he exhales, shaking his head. “You sound just like your mother when she used to defend me.”

She swats his arm, her lips twitching. “Don’t go layin’ that at his feet. He’s got his own stubborn streak.”

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches.

Dad sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You could’ve told us sooner. We might not understand all this shadow and fire business, but we understand you. We’re your parents. You shut us out, you shut out the one place you don’t have to fight.”

The guilt lands heavily. My voice comes out rough. “I’ll do better, but for now…half-truths are all I can give. It’s the only way I know to keep you breathing.”

She slides off the counter, crossing to me. She pulls me into her arms, her voice muffled in my shoulder. “Just don’t forget—protectin’ people ain’t the same as pushin’ ‘em away, son.” Dad hovers over us and places a hand on my shoulder.

For the first time in days, I let myself breathe into their embrace. Just for a moment.

Chapter Text

The first time I lit my fire, it wasn’t in training.

It wasn’t even safe.

It was in the middle of New York, standing shoulder to shoulder with Doctor Strange, Wong, and Xaden, watching a sky split open with a burning, alien light. A Chitauri-like swarm—though Wong insisted it wasn’t actually Chitauri—poured through a rip above the skyline. Buildings shook. People screamed. And I—I burned.

Literally.

The heat had been clawing at me for weeks, building, burning, begging for release. Drogon said the fire would come when it was ready. Strange said I needed to stop forcing it. Wong just shook his head like the annoying uncle who knows the answer but won’t tell you. And then, in that moment, with alien weapons pointed at Xaden, something inside me snapped loose.

Flames poured from my hands, spiraled around my body, and roared outward like a living thing. Red, gold, molten bright. For once, the shadows didn’t come. Only the fire.

I burned a circle of enemies to ash before my lungs even realized they were screaming.

When the smoke cleared, Xaden’s smirk was downright infuriating. “Took you long enough.”

That was November.

The months blur together after that.

Weekend after weekend, Strange pushes us harder. Wong’s more patient—he actually explains things—but he’s merciless with practice. One slip in control, one spark too strong, and you’re starting over. My fire and Darkness take shape slowly. At first, it’s just a flame in my palm. Then it’s a whip. By January, I can project them both in controlled arcs, coat Drogon’s scales in fire like armor, and even combine it with Xaden’s shadows when we absolutely need to.

Our parents have adjusted, too—well, mostly. They’re cautious, watchful, like every glance might uncover a new secret. But the constant interrogation has faded into wary acceptance. They don’t ask about rifts or dragons anymore, and we don’t offer. Half-truths keep the peace. For now.

School doesn’t change. Not really.

On Mondays, I’m Ciara Smith again—walking the halls of Frisco High, dodging homework, sitting in class with Xaden, Garrick, Bodhi, Liam, and the rest of our crew. On the outside, we’re normal teenagers. On the inside, we’re… well, a girl who can create voids and a boy who commands shadows.

Our friends pretend not to notice the dark circles under our eyes when we come back on Mondays after weekends of training. They don’t ask about why my hands sometimes smell faintly like smoke or why Xaden always looks like he just walked out of a war council. That’s the thing about everyone in our circle—they’re loyal, they’re protective, and they know when not to push.

Still, the banter doesn’t stop.

“Late night?” Garrick asks one morning, tossing a pencil at Xaden.

Xaden catches it without looking up from his book. “Studying.”

Bodhi snorts. “Studying her, maybe.”

I roll my eyes so hard they might stick. “You’re hilarious.”

“Thank you,” Bodhi says with a grin.

It’s normal. Comforting. Like if I just hold on tightly enough, nothing has to change.

February sneaks up on me.

And then, suddenly, it’s here.

Friday, February 14th. My eighteenth birthday. Valentine’s Day.

I don’t expect much. Dad always gets me a cake from the little bakery downtown. Mom insists on cooking something embarrassing, like heart-shaped pancakes.

The day feels almost normal. Balloons taped to my locker courtesy of Rhiannon, a cupcake shoved into my hands by Bodhi (already half-melted in the wrapper), Ridoc loudly declaring I owe him “birthday sparring rights” because apparently that’s a thing now.

Xaden’s at my side as always, a dark counterpoint to my chaos, smirking when I threaten to set Ridoc’s shoelaces on fire in the middle of the hallway. Vi, Liam, and Dain sing horribly off-key. Garrick smushes me into a big hug, and Imogen slides a card into my lock, thinking I wouldn't notice.

By the final bell, my arms ache from carrying gifts I didn’t ask for, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. I expect Xaden to walk me to my car like always. Instead, he stops Garrick and Bodhi by the doors, murmurs something too quick for me to catch. They grin like idiots and clap him on the shoulder, both of them very obviously in on something.

Suspicion prickles down my spine.

“Okay,” I drawl, narrowing my eyes as Xaden takes my hand and steers me toward the back field instead of the parking lot. “You’re acting shifty. Shadier than usual. Spill.”

His smirk only deepens. “Patience, love.”

“Mm, that’s not ominous at all. Am I about to be murdered in the woods behind school? Because I’d like to point out, very inefficient choice. Lots of witnesses.”

“Dramatic as always,” he mutters, but I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth—the one that means he’s fighting laughter. We go to drop off the gifts in my car and—

The suspicion hardens into certainty when I see her.

Sygael waits in the open field, sapphire scales catching the winter sun, wings folded neatly at her sides. She dips her massive head as we approach, eyes glowing like twin stars.

I stop dead. “Oh, no. No way. You’re planning something.”

“Of course I am,” Xaden says, voice maddeningly calm. “It’s your birthday.”

“Define ‘something,’” I demand, pointing at him, then at Sygael. “Because the last time you surprised me, we ended up fighting aliens on a rooftop in Queens.”

He just offers his hand, shadows flickering faintly at his shoulders. “Trust me?”

My heart thuds, traitorous and warm. I roll my eyes, but my fingers curl into his anyway. “Fine, but if this ends with me dangling off a cliff, I’m haunting you.”

His smirk turns downright wicked as he helps me climb onto Sygael’s back, and just like that, the world falls away in a rush of wings and sky.

X A D E N' S P.O.V.

We've been in the air for a while, and I can tell Ciara is getting antsy the way she shifts in front of me. Sygael's fast, I'll give her that since we're already coming past Italy. She shifts again.

"Keep moving like that, love, and I may have to get Sygael to land us early."

She whips her head to look at me, damn that hair and those eyes. "Haha, Riorson, we both know you have to put a ring on this finger before that happens."

"Let's not delay this trip longer than it needs to be." Sygael huffs.

I laugh it off and get more excited as I see the city lights.

I'm surprised, but I can hear her gasp when she sees the city skyline. "Is this...Xaden...Are we in Tyrrendor? Is this Aretia?"

I send every ounce of love and warmth down the bond, and she leans back into me. I wrap one arm around her waist. "It is. Do you like it?"

She takes a minute before twisting in her seat and putting both legs on either side of me, laying her head on my chest. She grabs my neck and brings her lips to my ear, "It is beautiful, thank you for bringing me."

I kiss her, "You're welcome, but there's more."

Sygael lands with a clean sweep of her wings, claws gripping the stone courtyard like she owns it. Which she does. In a way, she's a part of me now. She bows her head low, and I slide off, boots hitting stone that feels more like memory than ground.

Ciara dismounts, laughing breathlessly, cheeks flushed, hair windblown. She looks… radiant. Strong. Alive. Like she belongs here.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the fortress. The walls rise high, carved from black stone and scarred by time, yet solid as the cliffs themselves. Towers jut up like watchful sentinels, windows glowing with firelight against the dusk. The sea crashes far below, wild and untamed.

“Xaden…” she breathes, voice half awe, half suspicion. “What is this place?”

I smirk, crossing the courtyard to stand beside her. “Welcome to Riorson House. Tyrrendor. Near the Cliffs of Dralor.”

She spins toward me, hands on her hips, smiling. “Your home?!”

“Yep”

“On my Birthday?”

I shrug. “I thought it would be romantic.”

"It is."

Relief floods me, and the massive oak doors creak open. Warmth spills out in the cold night—golden light, the scent of roasted meats, bread, spices, and then they appear.

My parents.

“Ciara,” Mom says warmly, opening her arms. “Finally, sugar, you made it. Xaden, get this girl out of the cold.”

Ciara blinks, caught off guard. “Oh wow...Mr. and Mrs. Riorson, nice to see—"

She turns to mug me, "You could have told me your parents were gonna be here. I would have worn something better!"

I snort and look her over, my girl. "You look beautiful, Cee, in anything, never doubt that."

"Now, honey," my Mom drawls, her accent wrapping around like velvet, "none of that formal business. You can call me Talia, or mom if you're feelin' bold." She sweeps Ciara into a hug before she can react.

Ciara blinks when my mother lets her go, "I—okay."

“Nice of you to join us for dinner, Ciara.” Fen rumbles, his voice like distant thunder. His gaze slides to me. “Finally, a proper sit-down.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t make me sound pathetic, Dad.”

Ciara laughs at me, and again lets my mother embrace her. My mother squeezes her tightly, then holds her at arm’s length to inspect her like she’s already family. Which—if I get my way—she will be.

“Come come, Ciara. It’s freezing out here.”

Inside, the fortress feels different. Less like a fortress, more like a home. Tapestries line the stone walls. Fireplaces roar with heat. The long hall smells of pine and baking bread.

Ciara’s eyes dart everywhere, wide with curiosity. I let her drink it in. Slowing down so that she doesn't feel rushed, as her hands run across the stone walls.

“See?” I murmur, leaning close. “Not just a fortress.”

Her lips curve, soft. “Feels… alive.”

Exactly.

Predictably, Mom wastes no time stealing her away when we get to the main hall.

“Come with me, sugar. I've got somethin' to show you that'll make you grin.”

Ciara glances at me, suspicious with a slick smile, but follows. "Okay, this sounds good."

I groan inwardly. I know exactly where this is going. My mother and her obsession with old memories. Which means…

Great.

I groan inwardly. "Mother, don't—," but it's too late. They're both already down the corridor, my mother tugging her by the wrist.

Somehow perfect.

I take the opportunity to slip into my father’s study. Dad sits behind a massive desk carved from blackwood, papers and maps strewn across it. Firelight flickering across the shelves. He doesn’t look up when I enter, just gestures for me to sit.

I drop into the chair opposite. For a moment, silence stretches between us, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.

Finally, he speaks, putting the fountain pen down and meeting my gaze. “You’re going to ask her.”

It’s not a question.

“Yes,” I answer anyway. “Tonight.”

His eyes lift, searching. “You already asked her father?”

“Back in November.”

Dan leans back, studying me. “And Robert said?”

“That he trusted me not to hurt her.” My throat tightens slightly. “That he could see I already loved her.”

He studies me, "Do you?"

I smile, "I told you in the hospital, she's worth it. More than my own life."

Men like my father are great dads, tough, but they're there for you. A slight tug at his mouth and a flicker of something in his eyes show me his approval. He folds his arms, "Then you have my blessing."

The tension in my body leaves, and it's now replaced with excitement. He nods once, then adds, "You do realize, which I hope I've done enough other prepare you, that once you are married, you take over as king? I've lived through enough as Tyrrendor's King, and retirement sounds nice right about now."

I've known about this law all my life. The betrothal to Catriona sneaks into my mind. How worse off I felt just a year ago, knowing this and being with a woman I didn't love. The feeling of drowning in responsibilities is its own personal hell. With Ciara, everything feels lighter, the burden shared.

"Xaden," father looks at me softly. "She is not a Tyr, just like your mother. She is stronger, in ways. Softer, in others. You'll need to protect that balance. Be the husband and friend that she needs. Every day, you must choose each other, above even your own children. Never forget it. You and Ciara come first, and then everything will fall into place."

"Yes, sir."

Dinner is a bit chaotic, in the best way.

Mom gave her the dress I bought for her. A black dress that drapes beautifully across her shoulders and tightens at her waist, all of her curves on display. Her shoulders are shimmery from the perfume I saw her look at in the display window of a store in New York. The simple gold earrings go well with her updo.

Mom and Ciara sit side-by-side, giggling over an album of-God help me-baby pictures. Ciara is absolutely too delighted, pointing to one where my hair is sticking up like a wild animal.

"Aww, look at you! Your wittle legs look so chunky." She gasps, and I immediately want to throw that book in the farthest corners of this house.

I groan. "Mom..."

"Don't pout, darlin'," she says sweetly. "She deserves to see every bit of you, plus I made chocolate cake to make it up to you." My ears perk, and I quickly sit up straight in my chair. 

"Hmph, fine. She's never going to let me live this down."

"Correct," Ciara says, grinning wickedly.

Father hides a chuckle behind his glass. Traitor.

The food is brought out, and it's exactly what I wanted, filling the table. Roasted lamb, garlic potatoes, honeyed carrots, and fresh bread. Ciara dives in eagerly, humming and dancing in her seat with approval.

"You planned this," she accuses, pointing her fork across the table at me.

"...Or maybe I just noticed things."

Her eyes soften, bright and inviting. "You always notice."

My mother's chocolate cake is brought out, and neither of us can resist. When she takes her first bite, my mother watches as joy crosses her face and she goes in for another bite. Father catches my gaze across the table and gives the smallest nod.

My signal.

I stand, palms ready, heartbeat solid. Not nerves. Just certainty.

"Ciara," I say, voice carrying across the hall. "There's one more thing."

She frowns, confused. "Wha—"

The doors open.

Her parents walk in. Robert and Dae Smith.

Ciara gasps, tears springing instantly as she lifts her dress up to run to them. "Mom! Dad!"

They crush her in their arms, and it's messy, loud, emotional, but it's right. She slings to them. She's still their little girl.

When she finally turns back around toward me, eyes wet, I'm already on one knee. Her breath stutters.

"Ciara Smith I—"

"Yes!" She goes to grab my hand but stops herself by covering her mouth with both hands, "Wait! Finish, finish." I actually laugh out loud. This is the woman I want.

"Tyrrendor, Aretia, or the edge of this universe. Valedictorian or Salutatorian—none of it matters if you aren't there with me. If it's just us, that's all I want, and I'll be okay with that."

Tears are spilling from her now, as I open the box holding out a gold band crowned with rubies on it. I can't get these words out of my mouth quickly enough. "Ciara Sunhee Smith. Will you marry me?

"Yes!" she blurts, laughing through her tears. "God, yes. Hurry up and put it on!" I slip it on her finger, and she launches herself into my arms, kissing me fiercely as cheers erupt around us.

Mom and Dae dab their eyes, crying with each other. Robert clasps me on the shoulder, telling me to take good care of her. His own tear threatening to fall. Father nods, pride written all over his face.

And for me? For the first time in my life, the sky doesn't look so grey.

S E V E N  Y E A R S  L A T E R

The halls of Riorson House echo with laughter. My laughter. My kids’ laughter. Sometimes even Drogon’s deep, rumbling huffs that shake the windows when he thinks something is funny—which, for a dragon, is terrifying and hilarious at the same time.

Xaden and I are 25 now. Which feels impossible. Because in my head, I’m still the girl sneaking out of Frisco High, dragging Xaden into trouble, and pretending my life wasn’t about to change forever. But now… now I’m Ciara Sunhee Riorson. Rider. Wife. Queen. Mother.

Fen and Luna came first—our oldest twins, born when we were twenty-one. Fen carries himself with quiet authority, already shadowing Xaden's every move. Luna? She has my fire, her mother’s daughter through and through. My princess.

A year later, Nyx and Apollo arrived. Nyx makes everyone laugh, even Garrick. Apollo barely speaks, but when he does, he's just like his twin.

“Mom!”

The voice comes barreling toward me before I even see him. Fen—my firstborn son, my heir—slams into my legs with the force of a hurricane. At six, he’s all sharp edges and calm energy, already obsessed with learning how to spar. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and he has Xaden’s scowl down to perfection, but also his smile.

“Yes, Fen?” I smooth his hair back, even as he squirms.

“Nyx stole my sword again!”

From across the hall, Nyx sticks his tongue out. “It’s not your sword. Dad said we have to share until we get real ones!” His laugh is mischievous, the kind of laugh that promises chaos. He’s got my smile—poor kid—and the confidence of someone who knows he’s too charming to get in real trouble.

“I was just borrowing it. Sharing, remember?”

“You mean stealing!” Fen lunges toward him, but I catch him by the collar with practiced ease.

“Enough.” I give him a look that makes Drogon himself back off sometimes. “Both of you—no more fighting. Or I swear the only sword in this house will belong to me.”

Before either can argue again, Luna, my shadowy princess, sweeps in like a storm, her flowy black hair bouncing. My daughter has a gaze like her father’s—piercing, molten, unyielding. She plants her fists on her hips and declares, “Both of you are too loud. Apollo’s sleeping.”

As if on cue, Apollo shuffles in from the other room, rubbing his eyes. He’s the quiet one, soft-spoken but intense when he does speak. “I wasn’t sleeping.” He yawns. “Just resting my eyes.” My little old man.

“About what?” I ask, smoothing down his long hair that I have to keep in a bun, which he refuses to let me cut.

He shrugs. “Dragons.”

I laugh, gathering them all in with my arms. My four dragons in human form. “Okay, okay, enough fighting. No one gets swords until Daddy says so.”

Fen groans. “That’s never.”

“That’s smart parenting,” I shoot back.

I barely get them settled when the air shifts—familiar, smoky, smug. Drogon’s laugh rumbles through the walls, shaking the floor beneath our feet.

“You call this a battle? Pathetic,” he drawls, his molten eyes peering in through the massive open windows in the kitchen. “I’ve seen hatchlings with more ferocity.”

“Drogon,” I warn, hands on my hips. “You’re not helping.”

The great red beast snorts, smoke curling like a smirk. “Correction. I’m always helping. You just lack appreciation.”

The kids squeal and rush to the window, pressing against the glass to wave at him. Sygael’s sleek navy form swoops in behind, wings folding with elegance. The contrast is perfect—fire and shadow, chaos and calm.

The door creaks open, and with it comes the steady rhythm I’ve waited for all day. Xaden steps in, shadows trailing at his boots before melting into nothing. His gaze sweeps over the chaos, then finds me. Always me. He takes one look at the chaos, one look at me, and smirks. Gods, after all these years, that smirk still undoes me.

“You’re letting them gang up on you again,” he drawls, stepping closer.

“I’m letting them be kids,” I counter, raising a brow. “Not everything needs your military training.”

Nyx grins up at him. “Daddy, tell Fen it’s not his sword!”

“Fen,” Xaden says without hesitation, “it’s not your sword.”

Fen gasps in betrayal. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Dad!”

“I’m always on your side.” Xaden ruffles his hair, and Fen melts, even as he tries to scowl. “But Nyx is right.”

Nyx fist-pumps in victory.

I lean against the wall, watching them with my heart so full it aches. Seven years ago, I was terrified of the darkness curling out of my own skin. Of even starting a new school. Now… I wouldn't trade all of it in for the world.

Behind us, Drogon, Sygael, Viserion, and Rhaegal shift outside, their massive forms casting shadows over the Cliffs of Dralor. My parents are here too, and so are Xaden’s. Family dinners are loud, messy, and full of love. Exactly the kind of normal I thought I’d never get again.

Xaden glances at me over our children’s heads, and his smile softens. That private smile, the one only I get. He crosses the room, brushing a kiss across my temple like it’s second nature, then lowering his voice for me alone. “You look beautiful.”

I flush, even after all these years. “You’re biased.”

“Always.”

Because we’re in it together.

Before I can reply, the sound of more footsteps fills the hall. My parents. His parents. Our friends are here, a mix of accents, laughter, and bickering that only means one thing: family dinner.

Talia Riorson sweeps in first, her southern drawl as honeyed as ever. “Well, look at y’all, runnin’ around like wild things.” She bends to scoop Luna up into her arms. “Sweet pea, come give Nana a kiss.”

Fen Riorson follows, dignified as always, but I catch the way his eyes soften when Nyx latches onto his leg. “Up you get, boy,” he says gruffly, lifting him with ease, even though more grays have been catching up with him as well a a slight limp.

Behind them, Robert and Dae trail in, my mom already armed with snacks for the kids. My dad mutters something about spoiling them, but he’s smiling. He always is when he thinks no one’s looking.

Dinner is a storm of voices, clattering dishes, and enough food to feed a battalion. Xaden insisted on cooking tonight—a recipe he’s perfected since discovering my weakness for roasted chicken with lemon and thyme.

“Gods,” I murmur around a mouthful, “I could marry you all over again for this chicken.”

Xaden smirks, eyes dark with satisfaction. “That’s the idea.”

Across the table, Talia fans herself dramatically. “Lord have mercy, y’all are worse than when you were teenagers.” Mom looks at her, "Tell me about it. Robert and I were never this lovey-dovey."

"Hey!"

Laughter bubbles up, light and easy. For a moment, I let it all sink in—the clatter, the warmth, the sense of home.

After the chocolate cake that I baked this time, receiving several kisses from Xaden as approval, the kids are off with their grandparents, and the dragons are snoozing protectively around the house. Xaden draws me into the courtyard. The sea air is sharp, the stars endless.

“Seven years ago,” he says quietly, “I asked you if you’d be ready for this. For Tyrrendor. For me.”

I smile, soft and sure. “And I told you I wasn’t in it for the crown.”

His hand slides into mine, strong and steady. “Do you regret it?”

“Not for a single heartbeat, my love.” I press closer. “The crown, the chaos, the dragons. I’ll take it all. Because it comes with you.”

The shadows shift around us, protective, loving. He lowers his forehead to mine, and for a moment, it’s just us again.

“Happy ending?” he whispers.

I grin. “Happy beginning.”

Chapter Text

I wake up to the smell of burnt toast and the sound of someone humming off-key in my kitchen.

That someone, unfortunately, is my husband.

I groan, stretching across our ridiculously soft bed — a luxury perk of being the Queen of Tyrrendor — and blink blearily at the sunlight spilling through our penthouse windows.

The city outside hums low and alive, and the orange and red glow from the fall skyline makes it feel like the whole of New York decided to cosplay autumn.

“Xaden?” I call out, voice still thick with sleep. “Why do I smell... failure and a hint of regret?”

“Good morning to you, too love,” comes from his smooth, maddeningly smug voice. “And for the record, I was just doing a bit of experimenting.”

“With bread?” I slide out of bed, wrapping the blanket around me like armor. “What did you do, toast it with your shadows?”

There’s silence — the kind that means yes, he tried exactly that.

I shuffle into the kitchen and stop dead.

Shadows ripple lazily through the air like wisps of smoke, wrapping around the cabinets and curling over the breakfast bar. A tray of charcoal that used to be toast sits in the middle of the counter.

Xaden Riorson — King of Tyrrendor, black-haired menace, Harvard student, and love of my life — stands shirtless in the orange plaid pajama pants I bought him, arms crossed and wholly unbothered.

“It was going fine until you distracted me,” he says, his mouth quirking.

I blink. “You mean by not being in the room?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

I want to keep going back and forth, I really do, but then he leans one shoulder against the counter — all bare chest and low, sleepy eyes — and my brain short-circuits for half a second. His shadows darken just enough to highlight the definition of his chest and shoulders. His hair’s tousled, his eyes still heavy from sleep, and I can feel my dignity slowly melting off me like butter on a skillet.

The blanket slips down an inch. He notices. Of course he does.

“You look cozy,” he murmurs.

“Don’t.” I pick up and point a wooden spoon at him, half serious, half not. “We have a lot of people coming over for Thanksgiving—” I glance at the clock, “—in six hours. I don’t have time to be seduced.”

His grin deepens. “Pretty sure it doesn’t take that much time, Mrs. Riorson.”

“Xaden,” I warn, voice rising. “I swear, one day—”

He laughs under his breath — that low, teasing sound that used to get him punched in the shoulder back in high school and now just makes me want to kiss him.

The thought alone sends my stomach flipping, but I shove it aside. Because today? Today is chaos incarnate.

I continue to look at him as he pets Celeste on our couch, our new black cat we found a year ago. She came right up to our outside table in the city as we ate lunch and wouldn't leave my side. And after Stella passed, I was craving a pet companion.

The domesticity of it almost feels absurd. Two royalty-level disasters, currently enrolled at Harvard, are somehow in charge of hosting a Thanksgiving dinner for a mix of humans and Tyrrendor-born nobles who have zero concept of what the holiday even is.

"Are you at least excited that today is your first true Thanksgiving dinner? I'm surprised your mom never celebrated it in Tyrrendor." I move to the stove to grab a pan and make some eggs and bacon. 

He throws his arm over the back of the couch to face me, "No, I believe she always felt that since she lived there, she had to abide by our culture. We were always able to make it to her family's Christmases, but never Thanksgiving. And as much as you've been hyping it up for the past few weeks and doing a bunch of shopping, it has to be important?"

The bacon sizzles in front of me, "Yep! Every craving you've ever had food-wise will be on that table. It's a time to talk and catch up, and one of gratitude. It gets everyone in one place, and each person has the right to wear their fat pants."

He raises a beautiful, thick brow, "Fat pants?"

"Yes, fat pants. It could be sweats or anything that has an elastic waistband because you're gonna need it. There is no one-plate-and-done. If I don't see second helpings on everyone's plate, I'll take personal offense."

He reels his head back as I give him a plate with some added real toast to it. "So, that's why we've got two trays of Mac and Cheese in there?"

I nod my head profusely and smile, they won't know what hit them.

I pull open the fridge after I'm done with the dishes, scanning through the trays of prepped ingredients. Collard greens washed and chopped. Mac and cheese base ready to bake. Yams assembled but not cooked yet. Turkey in the oven. Wait—

My blood runs cold.

“Where’s the turkey?”

He glances at me innocently. “Handled.”

My hand freezes on the oven door. “Handled how?”

He doesn’t answer.

I whip around so fast I nearly decapitate myself on the fridge door. “XADEN!”

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“It’s gone! The turkey is gone!”

He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, then calmly points to the kitchen table — where a perfectly roasted turkey now sits, steaming, golden, and... way too early.

My eyes widen. “You teleported it out?”

“You said the timer was up,” he says, shadows coiling lazily around his wrist. “You didn’t say when it needed to be ready.”

“It’s nine a.m.!” I throw my hands in the air. “Do you know what happens to turkey if it sits for five hours, Xaden?”

He tilts his head, amused. Amused of all things. “Still looks like turkey to me.”

I inhale through my nose, count to three, and exhale slowly. “I swear to every ancestor in Tyrrendor, you’re testing my soul.”

He chuckles. “You said you wanted it done on time. Gotta be more specific love.”

“And I want a lot of things, Xaden, but that doesn’t mean I need them this minute! You're being worse than Wong and his exactness.”

The man has the audacity to grin. “You sound like your mother.”

I freeze mid-glare. “That's uncalled for.”

“Accurate, though.” Before I can throw a potholder at the man I'm sure will eventually lead me to being a mom, the elevator dings.

The doors slide open, revealing two people I both love and dread seeing before I’ve had coffee.

“Good morning, sweetheart! The plane ride was smooth sailing,” my mom chirps, stepping out with the confidence of someone who already knows she runs the show. She takes off her shoes as she practically bounces in from the hall. "I see why celebrities have their own private jet now. Xaden does Tyrrendor have one, because if not, you should. No lines to wait through and heated seats."

Xaden chuckles and quickly throws on a black shirt, getting up to greet them. "Yes, Mrs. Smith, we do. That's the one the Queen and I took for our holiday in Hawaii this summer."

Behind her, my dad carries two aluminum trays and a mischievous grin.

Robert Smith. The legend. The chaos. My dad. The man who once burned a casserole at a church picnic and blamed it on 'spiritual warfare'. He sets the trays down with a thud and kisses my cheek. “Dressing and Cobbler," he takes a second to sniff around, "...smells like stress in here.”

“It’s him,” I mutter, jabbing a finger at Xaden. “He burned toast with his powers.”

My dad glances at the counter and bursts out laughing. “Boy, you tried to shadow-toast something? I didn't even know you could do that with shadows? Oh, I’ve got to tell your father that one.”

“Please don’t,” Xaden says, tone half-amused, half-resigned. "I've learned that if the shadows can move quickly enough, they can cause some intense friction."

“Hmm, I definitely am now,” my dad promises. “He’ll love it.”

I roll my eyes and hear mom sigh, patting my shoulder. “Baby, you need to breathe. We’re gonna handle this together. You’ve got your greens, your dad's dressing—”

“Turkey’s already done,” Xaden offers helpfully.

Her head snaps toward him. “It’s what?”

I wince. “He got... creative eomma.”

My mom closes her eyes and whispers a prayer in Korean that sounds like Lord, give me strength before I disown my son-in-law. Then she smiles sweetly and heads for the oven like the commander she is.

By eleven, our kitchen looks like a Food Network battlefield. Steam, laughter, shouting — and my husband lounging against the counter like a decorative extra, sampling everything my father forcibly throws his way.

“Daddy, I think Xaden is done sampling. Babe, can you please hang the fake leaves like I asked?” I say, juggling three pots at once.

"Well, who else is going to try the food out with unbiased taste buds, huh?" Dad looks at me like he really expects an answer. I sigh, "I will do it and judge it fairly, okay? Xaden?"

He looks over lazily, shadows coiling up his arm. “Done.”

The entire ceiling goes dark.

I whip around. “No! Not actual darkness!”

His eyes go to his hairline. “Now I'm confused, you said fall atmosphere.”

“I said autumn aesthetic, not the demonic dimension! Turn it to something a little more red and golden, a little brown and green here and there.”

My dad's head pops up from the oven door, "Who said something about demons? I'll go get the good book." He walks over to mom's purse. I rub both my temples as the steam from the greens billows into my face, soothing me just a bit.

With a low chuckle, he flicks his wrist and the shadows vanish, replaced by warm light and... fake leaves raining from the ceiling.

I freeze, watching a crimson one land in the pot of mac and cheese. “You are a menace.”

He shrugs. “Decorative menace.”

I groan, half laughing, half ready to cry. “Why did I marry you?”

“Because you love me,” he says without missing a beat. “And because no one else could handle you, plus we're bonded, remember. Or did you forget?"

"You're having way too much fun with this, being your first real Thanksgiving."

"I am."

“You aren't gonna make this easy, huh?”

“Correct.”

I throw a kitchen towel at him. He catches it easily, eyes glinting. “You’re lucky you’re hot.” His grin widens as he walks over to me and pecks me on the lips. “You’ve told me.”

By the time 1 o'clock hits, the table’s set. Gold runners, orange candles, tiny pumpkins lined up like a harvest parade. My mom’s cobbler warms in the oven, as she bastes the turkey again (because obviously she didn’t trust Xaden’s magic bird), and my dad’s taste-testing everything like a food critic, humming off-key again, and I’m finally starting to believe this might work.

I finally collapse against the counter, in the chair, flour on my cheek, hair in a messy bun, feeling like I survived a war.

Until the doorbell rings.

I freeze mid-step.

“First guests,” I breathe.

“And this early...brace yourself,” Xaden mutters, because he knows exactly who it’ll be.

The door swings open.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Garrick announces, stepping inside like he owns the place, carrying gift bags and bottles of wine. Sarah’s beside him — gorgeous, put-together, Connecticut native and way too normal for his chaos — balancing pies.

“Smells good in here—oh, hey, you’re already sweating, Legs. Good sign, right?” Garrick says, putting the wine in the fridge. Sarah's been good for Garrick, they met during his college tour of Columbia, and the brunette has been on his arm ever since. She even wears an engagement ring now. 

“Hi, Garrick,” I say sweetly. “You CAN leave.”

He laughs, hugging me anyway. “Relax, Queen. We come bearing carbs.”

Behind him, Sarah smiles warmly. “We brought a couple apple pies. Homemade.”

“Thank you,” I exhale, taking it from her. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Xaden claps Garrick on the shoulder. “You’re early.”

“It’s 1:05. Is that too early for Thanksgiving?”

"I told you, babe, in America, Thanksgiving happens at 3:00, but we don't eat until 6:00, really." Sarah comes over to the island to place the pies down.

“Six?” Garrick frowns. “Then what’s everyone doing for the next five hours?”

“Regretting their life choices by not preparing sooner,” I deadpan.

He snorts. “Sounds like every meeting with the Tyrrendor council.”

“Careful,” Xaden warns, smirking. “You’re talking about your king.”

“Oh, please,” Garrick shoots back. “You once fell asleep during a diplomatic address.”

“I was meditating,” Xaden says smoothly.

“Sure you were.”

Their banter carries effortlessly into the kitchen — all easy friendship and the kind of teasing that only comes from years of loyalty.

The next two hours are a blur of noise, laughter, and existential panic.

By the time the clock strikes three, our penthouse is filled with the hum of conversation and the faint scent of cinnamon, sage, and stress.

The elevator dings again, and this time, the crowd that spills out looks like the start of a royal parade.

Fen Riorson enters first — tall, broad-shouldered, radiating authority like he’s still commanding a kingdom instead of attending a family dinner. His gaze sweeps the room, sharp as ever, before landing on the turkey.

“You cooked this?” he asks Xaden.

My husband looks far too pleased. “Yes.”

Fen arches an eyebrow. “Using magic or manual labor?”

“.......”

“Lord help us,” I mutter.

Behind him, Talia Riorson steps out — a Southern belle through and through. Dark hair in perfect curls, crimson lipstick, pearls gleaming. Her accent practically dances through the air as she says, “Well, if this ain’t the most darling thing I’ve ever seen. Ciara, sweetheart, the place looks divine.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Riorson,” I say warmly, giving her a hug that smells faintly of vanilla and magnolias.

“Oh, honey, I told you to call me Talia. We’re family now.”

From the corner of my eye, my dad gives Fen a familiar nod — one that Fen returns more easily as time has gone on. It’s small progress, but progress all the same.

“Robert,” Fen says with a tone that feels almost like welcoming an old friend.

“Fen,” my dad replies, voice a little too high. “How’s retirement?”

“Loud,” Fen deadpans, glancing pointedly at Talia, who’s already chatting with my mom about sweet potato casserole.

Dad grins. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Be nice,” Mom warns, elbowing him in the ribs.

The elevator dings again — and noise levels spike immediately.

Liam strolls in, grinning, his arm slung casually around a statuesque blonde in a scarlet sweater dress.

“Hey, everyone!” he calls, waving. “This is Morrigan!”

Morrigan smiles — confident, charming, and drop-dead gorgeous. “Happy Thanksgiving! We brought Green Bean Casserole. I had to teach this one here all about Thanksgiving.”

I grin, giving Liam a hug. “Same with my own. So you’re the infamous Morrigan. The comic con girl!” Her rich brown eyes glinting as she looks at him.

She laughs. “That’s me, call me Mor. But, yes, he still owes me a lightsaber rematch.”

“Oh, please,” Liam groans. “You cheated!”

“By being better?”

“By distracting me with that outfit!”

Their playful bickering earns a snort from Garrick. “Careful, Liam. Don’t insult the woman who could clearly crush you in hand-to-hand combat.”

Mor smirks. “I could.”

“Good,” I say approvingly. “You’ll fit right in.”

Behind them, Bodhi and Quinn arrive, both balancing trays and arguing about whether pie or cobbler reigns supreme.

“Pie,” Quinn insists.

“Cobbler,” Bodhi counters.

“Pie.”

“Cobbler.”

I slide between them before the pastry debate turns violent. “You’re both wrong. It’s mac and cheese supremacy today.”

"True, that's all I've wanted since the start of this week," Bodhi says, smacking his lips. "Rhiannon met us as soon as we parked, she and Imogen are bringing up the last of the food."

I nod, looking for another behind them, but I don't see her. I look to Bodhi, "Victoria isn't coming today?"

He gives me a sad look as he passes the threshold and nods to his uncle, "No, she had to visit her family in Cali she said. Didn't give me a reason." I rub his back, "It'll be fine, you're with us now."

They join the growing crowd, and I barely have a second to breathe before another pair appears.

Imogen and Rhiannon step in, arms full of food and bottles. Rhiannon waves cheerfully, while Imogen looks like she’s already regretting leaving her dorm. I hug Rhi and quickly release her so that she can put everything down.

Imogen's eyes, however, flick briefly toward Garrick — just long enough for me to notice. Her expression doesn’t change, but something tightens behind it.

“Imogen!” I greet, pulling her into a hug. “You made it!”

“Of course,” she says, smiling thinly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Her gaze drifts again — to Garrick laughing with Sarah, hand on her waist as they joke with Bodhi and Xaden.

For a moment, something flickers in Imogen’s eyes — not quite anger, not quite sadness. Just... ache.

I catch it. I file it away, and I decide that today, of all days, I’m not touching it with a ten-foot spatula.

“Quinn made you sit in traffic again, didn’t she?” I tease.

Quinn gasps. “Excuse me?”

Imogen’s lips curve faintly. “She thought Fifth Avenue would be faster. On Thanksgiving week.”

Quinn mutters, “The GPS said—”

“Uh-huh.”

Before I can laugh, the elevator opens once more, and in walk Violet and Dain — hand-in-hand, glowing in that just-engaged, rule-bending way that makes my heart warm. Violet's mom and Dain's dad were not pleased with how the engagement happened. Her dad, on the other hand, was more than excited for them.

Vi’s smile is bright as she hugs me. “Ciara, everything smells amazing from the hallway!”

“Thanks! Just don’t ask how much therapy it took to get here.”

Dain chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We brought wine. It’s... approved.”

“Approved?” I echo, amused.

Violet smirks. “He means it was good enough to smuggle across state lines this time.”

I glance between them. “You've smuggled wine before?”

“Technically,” Dain says, “she smuggled it. I... carried it.”

I cackle. “You’re corrupting him, Vi.”

“I’m improving him,” she says proudly. "Can you blame me? It’s a 1964 Tenuta di San Girolamo Riserva Imperiale. The estate’s cellars were sealed after the owner’s son fled during the protests of ’68. I had to promise the curator of the Turin archives a whole lecture series for a month for this bottle."

Moments later, Ridoc, Sawyer, and Jesinia arrive, hand-in-hand, perfectly coordinated as always. He’s in a cozy sweater; she’s in soft autumnal tones. Couple goals, really.

Rhiannon cheers when she sees them. “Finally, people who look like they came from a lifestyle magazine!”

Ridoc yells from the kitchen, “Speak for yourself! I look fantastic!” He gestures his hand down his brown sweater that says, 'Gooble Gooble'.

Laughter ripples through the room, and for a second, I just watch.

This is what I love — the way people from two worlds can blend over food and laughter. The way my dad chats easily with Talia about cornbread stuffing while Fen and Xaden argue quietly about leadership philosophies near the wine rack.

It’s beautiful. Big and beautiful.

And then comes the inevitable question.

“So...” Garrick says loudly, raising a glass. “Someone explain again what exactly this holiday is?”

The entire room turns toward him — a dozen Tyrrendor-born faces equally curious.

“Oh, boy,” I mutter. “Here we go.”

Mom clears her throat, switching into a teaching mode. “Thanksgiving is an American holiday. To give thanks for a harvest and the blessings of the past year. A time when families gather, share food, and are grateful for what they have. We talk, drink wine, play games, and eat even more.”

“Ah,” Fen says gravely. “A gratitude ritual.”

“Exactly,” Mom nods. “And a feast.”

Xaden glances at me. “So it’s like the annual Banquet of Bounty back home.”

“Except no one gets drunk and challenges each other to duels,” I say.

He tilts his head. “...That’s subjective.”

"No, that was traumatic last year. I had to repair Garrick's arm after you nearly ripped it off." 

Before he can reply, Bodhi pipes up. “So it’s just... eating?”

“Eating, drinking, laughing,” I say. “And sometimes arguing over Uno.”

“Oh, perfect,” Garrick says dryly. “An excuse to yell at Bodhi.”

Laughter erupts.

Talia, ever the belle, lifts her glass. “Well, at my parents' house, we always said Thanksgiving’s about three things: good food, good company, and pretending you didn’t notice your cousin’s third divorce.”

Dad snorts wine through his nose. “You’re alright, Talia.”

Fen looks horrified. “People... announce divorce during feasts? You never told me that.”

“Oh, hun,” Talia says, patting his arm and giving him. “Sorry on my part for never taking you to the west side of New Bordeaux.”

That sends everyone laughing again — and for a glorious few hours, the tension melts away. Plates are passed, wine flows, and laughter fills the room like light.

Imogen relaxes eventually, even laughing at Bodhi’s dramatic retelling of how he nearly caught their dorm microwave on fire. Garrick keeps sneaking glances her way — small, soft ones — though Sarah seems blissfully unaware.

Violet makes Dain dance in the middle of the living room when jazz comes on, while Sawyer and Jesinia share a quiet moment near the window, watching snowflakes drift outside.

This is our home. Our family.

By the time the mashed potatoes make their second lap around the table, everyone’s loosened up. The air smells like butter and cinnamon, laughter bouncing off the penthouse’s glass walls overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

Talia has her hands folded neatly in her lap, her delicate pearls catching the warm lighting. “Now, y’all,” she drawls, her voice honey-sweet and unmistakably Southern, “this right here feels like home. Mac and cheese, collard greens, cornbread… Ciara, baby, you outdid yourself.”

“To our gracious host,” Xaden stands and announces, “who somehow managed to turn a royal feast into an American food festival.”

He looks at me, and I roll my eyes, though my lips twitch and I happen to give him a big smile. “That’s called Thanksgiving, Your Majesty.”

“Right,” he says, bending down closer to me so only I could hear. “Or as I like to call it—The Night You Almost Burned the Turkey and Threatened to Divorce Me.”

I elbow him, hissing a laugh. “You’re so so lucky you’re pretty.”

“Pretty?” he repeats, mock offended. “I’m the King of Tyrrendor. I’ll accept devastatingly handsome at minimum.”

“Devastatingly insufferable,” I correct.

“Close enough,” he says, brushing his thumb over my knee under the table, kissing my cheek that I happily lean into.

I place a stack of board games on the coffee table. “Okay! So tonight’s lineup: Monopoly, Uno, or Pictionary.”

Xaden eyes the colorful boxes like they’re weapons. “Which one’s the least likely to cause violence?”

“None,” Garrick says cheerfully. “That’s the point.”

I clasp my hands. “We’re starting with Pictionary.”

Bodhi groans. “You just want an excuse to show off your drawing skills.”

“Yes,” I say sweetly. “And to humble my husband. Who thinks he's great at everything.”

Xaden stretches lazily. “Good luck with that, darling.”

“Famous last words,” Liam murmurs.

Twenty minutes later, chaos reigns.

Fen has accidentally drawn what looks like a dragon instead of “airplane,” Bodhi and Ridoc are arguing about whether Ridoc’s drawing of a “chicken” was actually a blob with legs, and Garrick is halfway through crying laughing after Sarah guessed “banana war” for “fruit salad.”

Meanwhile, Xaden and I are in a dead tie. The tension between us is electric and ridiculous.

“Okay,” I say, handing him the marker, “your turn. Make it count.”

He smirks and starts drawing with precision, his lines eerily neat. “You have ten seconds.”

I squint. “Is that… a cat? A bat? No—Batman!”

He pauses, eyes narrowing, face scrunching. “You got that too fast.”

“Because we’ve been together too long,” I say smugly. “Also, you once tried to name our Wi-Fi BoundBySignal.”

Everyone bursts into laughter. Xaden groans. “You promised never to tell anyone that.”

“Oh, I lied,” I say, positively glowing with triumph.

Later, the fire crackles low, and soft music hums from the speaker. Most everyone is chatting in small groups—Bodhi telling an exaggerated story about his sophomore Biology project, Liam and Violet comparing parenting theories for their nonexistent future kids, and Talia teaching Rhiannon how to make sweet tea “the proper way.”

Imogen lingers near the balcony, her gaze soft and faraway as she watches Garrick laughing with Sarah as they nestle in on the couch. I notice, my chest tightening slightly. I don’t interrupt—just walk past, setting a piece of cobbler beside her.

“Thanks,” Imogen says quietly, forcing a smile.

“He’s happy,” I say gently. “And you deserve that too, you know.”

Imogen exhales, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I know. Just… takes time. Like what you thought would happen, now painfully isn't anywhere close to your expectation.”

I nod in understanding. “You’ll get there. You always do, and if it takes time to get to a good place, you have all of here to help you with that.”

Later still, as the night winds down, Strange quite literally appears in a shimmer of gold sparks, looking utterly unamused.

“Really?” he says, stepping into the living room. “You gave me the wrong invite time.”

I jump up, delighted, also looking at my watch, but noticing his grin. “Stephen! You’re late, but you’re right on time.” I go to the kitchen and fix him a plate. I thrust it into his hands. “Turkey. Dressing. Mac and cheese. Take one for Wong too.”

Strange stares at the plate, then at me. “You teleported a turkey but still cooked this much food?”

“Welcome to Thanksgiving,” Xaden says from the couch, shadows flickering lazily. “Apparently it’s about overachieving.”

Strange gives a faint smile. “Fitting.”

He turns to go, but I callout, “You’re family too, you know. Even if you pretend to be too busy.”

He pauses, then nods once. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Riorson.”

As he vanishes in another golden swirl, Xaden wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. The laughter still echoes behind us, warm and bright.

The party doesn’t die — it drifts.

Plates are scraped clean, glasses abandoned in cozy clusters, laughter dissolving into that post-dinner hum where everyone’s too full to move but too content to stop talking. The fire’s still crackling. Someone — probably Ridoc — turned on a jazz playlist that doesn’t quite fit the vibe but somehow works.

I'm currently on my knees in front of the dishwasher, muttering to myself. “How do we have this many dishes when half of them ate twice?”

“Because,” says Xaden from behind me, leaning against the counter, “you decided to feed two nations.”

I huff and shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “Excuse me for making sure everyone from Tyrrendor didn’t starve on their first Thanksgiving.”

“I didn’t say I was complaining.” He tilts his head, voice low and teasing. “Just pointing out the… excess.”

I narrow my eyes. “Say ‘excess’ one more time and you’re washing the pans.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. You’re right. My brilliant, gorgeous, culinary goddess of a wife—”

“—keep going,” I say, rinsing a plate.

“—who terrifies me on the battlefield and in an apron—”

“—that’s better.”

“—that has single-handedly introduced an entire kingdom to the concept of overeating and not dueling.”

I smirk. “And yet, you still went back for thirds. The greens especially, that doesn't sound like an unfamiliar topic.”

“I was being polite,” he says, deadpan. “To the food and to my Queen.” He pulls me from the sink and spins me around to face him as he plants a long kiss on my lips. We break apart, and I reach back out for more.

Across the room, Liam’s arm is draped around Morrigan, who’s laughing into her glass of spiced cider. “You people act like you’ve never seen a feast before,” she teases, her voice smooth and lilting, her northern accent on full display.

Violet eyes her curiously. “I still can’t believe you met Liam at Comic Con. Was it with matching costumes?”

Liam groans, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t start.”

Morrigan beams. “We somehow matched up as Iron Man and Pepper Potts. It was adorable seeing him in his wig.”

Ridoc perks up instantly. “Wait, wait, you wore the arc reactor?”

“She did,” Liam admits miserably. “And then she kept calling me ‘Mr. Stark’ all day.”

Rhiannon chokes on her drink, laughing. “Oh my god, that’s incredible.”

“I still have the helmet,” Morrigan adds proudly. “It’s on our bookshelf next to the drone schematics.”

Sawyer shakes his head. “You two are disgustingly wholesome.”

Violet leans into Dain, smirking. “Don’t be jealous. Some of us can mix a little science and romance together.”

Ridoc waves his glass dramatically. “I mix science and romance all the time. I call it chemistry.”

Rhiannon groans. “Please stop before I shove that wine glass up your—”

“Language,” Fen says mildly from his seat by the fireplace, where he’s nursing a glass of bourbon and pretending not to be amused.

Ridoc coughs into his drink. “Yes, Your Majesty, apologies.”

Fen smirks. “You can call me Fen. I'm not in the Tyrrish court anymore.”

Ridoc nods solemnly. “Yes, sir, Fen, sir.”

When the last guest finally disappears through the elevator doors, silence settles over the penthouse — soft and golden. The city glitters below them like a living constellation.

I sigh, hands on my hips, surveying all the mess. “We survived.”

Xaden wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Barely.”

“Barely?” I echo, smirking. “I think we pulled off a miracle.”

“You did,” he says quietly. “You always do.” I tilt my head back against him, letting the warmth of his voice and the faint hum of the city sink in. “You think everyone enjoyed themselves, love?”

“Dain laughed, Garrick didn’t start a fight, Talia and my mom are continuing to get along, and your father complimented someone. That’s a statistical miracle. So yes, I think we can call it a success.”

I chuckle, closing my eyes and adding, “Maybe next year we’ll host Christmas too. In Tyrrendor.”

He groans against my ear. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll mean it,” he says. “And I’ll end up hanging fake snowflakes while you lecture me about tinsel symmetry.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I warn, "I can see it now."

He brushes a hand along my jaw, thumb grazing my cheek. “Next year,” he murmurs, “we’ll start a new tradition.”

“Which is?”

“Hosting Thanksgiving…” His smirk returns. “…with fewer guests.”

I laugh into his chest, and the sound echoes off the walls of our emptied apartment, the beginning of forever.