Swing for the Fences

by Little Buddha

Chapter 35

My phone buzzed. It was Mom. I slipped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me.

"Hi, Mom."

"Oh, good – you picked up. I didn't want to send this in a text."

A knot twisted in my stomach. "What's going on?"

"The letter from Jack's grandmother's lawyers was officially delivered this morning. His parents have it. So, the ball is in their court now."

I exhaled hard, leaning against the wall. "Okay. That's… big."

"Now it's just a waiting game. But listen, Nick – he's going to need you. More than ever. Emotionally, legally, all of it. It's a lot for anyone, especially someone his age. And you know his history – he doesn't always bounce back the way other kids do. You've got to be steady for him. That means being more than just a boyfriend sometimes. That means being a partner."

My throat tightened. "Yeah. I know, Mom. I can do it. I'd do anything for him."

"I believe you. But I need you to promise me something: if it gets to be too much, you have to tell me. Don't just keep it inside. We'll figure something out together. I don't want your schoolwork suffering because you're carrying the whole weight of this by yourself."

I nodded even though she couldn't see me. "Yes, ma'am. I promise. I'll make it work."

There was a pause. Her voice softened. "I know you will. Because you love him."

The truth of it ached in my chest. "More than I thought was possible. He's changed me. If I could see the kid I was back in August, I don't think I'd recognize myself."

"Well, you have gotten taller and put on a few pounds," my mom chuckled. "But I know what you mean. You've grown up a lot since you've been away at school. Just don't grow up too fast. You're still a kid, and you're still my baby. And you need to be a kid, okay?"

"Yeah, mom, I promise I'll try," I said. "And I'll try to help Jack remember that, too."

When I returned to the dorm, the room was in utter chaos. Jack, Jonah, Christian, Kit, Danny, Mark, and Emery were all huddled around a "Settlers of Catan" board that looked more like a crime scene than a game. Dice bounced off the floor. Cards flew across the table. Jonah stood on his chair, gripping a sheep card above his head like he was holding the Holy Grail.

"This barbarian raid is a hate crime!" Jonah thundered, his face flushed. "Targeted harassment! I demand reparations!"

"Jonah," Christian said flatly, "sit down before you dislocate your spleen."

Jonah pointed dramatically at the board. "This isn't a game anymore. This is tyranny. And I swear, if my sheep is stolen, I will—" he dropped into a Shakespearean whisper— "haunt your descendants until the seventh generation."

Jack placed a city with surgical precision. "You can't even spell descendants."

"Excuse you," Jonah snapped, one hand on his chest. "I happen to know Geneva is in Switzerland, home of the United Nations, and I could spell 'descendants' and 'Geneva' on your back with my tongue."

Emery snorted. "That escalated."

Danny groaned. "Somebody sedate him. Or at least hide the sheep."

Mark muttered, "Honestly, if he marries the sheep, I'll support it. They seem happy together."

I laughed and settled in next to Jack, picking up a stray development card. Christian, stone-faced, announced, "In light of Jonah's emotional trauma, I propose we dedicate a brick road to his legacy."

"I'll piss on it," Jack said without hesitation.

The room erupted in laughter. Jonah collapsed back into his chair, muttering, "History will vindicate me," though his voice cracked, and I noticed his eyes blinking too fast.

"Okay, enough," I said, raising a hand.

The laughter died down.

I opened my arms, and Jonah didn't hesitate – he practically catapulted into my lap. For all his big words and overblown theatrics, he was still just a kid. Just fourteen. And sometimes, being fourteen meant you needed somewhere safe to land.

Jack chuckled and absentmindedly stroked Jonah's curls while I rubbed gentle circles on his back. Jonah's bravado melted away, and for a moment, he just sighed, small and quiet.

Danny raised an eyebrow. "So, this is like… cuddle rehab now?"

"Group hug, bro," Mark said, grinning.

Everyone laughed again, but I stayed mindful. Jonah was vulnerable, and my affection couldn't be mistaken for something else. I knew how brutal unrequited feelings could be – how easily kindness turned into hope. But I also knew what it felt like to be mocked until you wanted to disappear. I wasn't about to let Jonah live that.

So, I let him stay curled against me, safe for now, while the game swirled on around us – dice clattering, boys shouting, laughter bouncing off the walls. For once, Jonah didn't have to fight to belong.

And I figured that was worth more than any sheep card in the world.

"I hate all of you," Jonah whimpered dramatically, wrapping his skinny arms around my torso and burying his face in my hoodie like I was a human teddy bear.

"You love us," I said, patting his back. "And we love you ."

"I want to love you with a knife."

"Do you really mean that, Jonah?" I asked softly.

There was a pause. Jonah sniffled a couple of times, then muttered into my stomach, "...No."

Jack rolled his eyes but couldn't hide a smile. "You're such a drama queen."

Emery leaned toward him and stage-whispered, "Five bucks says Jonah farts while he's on Nick's lap."

"Already did," Jonah mumbled without lifting his head. "Smells like my trauma."

That did it – everyone broke down laughing. Even Jack nearly spit out his water.

When Jonah finally peeled himself off my lap, wiping his nose with the tragic dignity of Hamlet, the group halfheartedly resumed the game. It didn't last long, though, because a gentle knock came from the open doorway.

Miss Charice stood there, arms folded, smile warm but eyes sharp. "Boys," she said, "I'ma need to borrow Nick and Jack for a little check-in."

The room quieted instantly. Jonah pointed at me with mock betrayal. "Traitor. You're abandoning me to the wolves."

"You'll survive," I said, ruffling his curls and leaning down to give him a quick kiss on the head.

Jack and I followed Miss Charice down to the small counseling room on the ground floor, where she'd already set out mugs of cocoa, steam curling from the tops.

She settled into her chair, watching us over the rims of her glasses. "Now, babies, y'all been carryin' a lot on them shoulders. School, stress, all this business with Jack's folks… it's too much for two young men to be holdin' alone. So, we gon' talk – real talk. No sugarcoatin', you hear me?"

We nodded, quiet.

So, we did. We talked about late-night anxiety spirals, how school felt impossible some days, how the custody fight hovered over everything like a storm cloud. Jack sat stiffly, eyes on the floor, until he finally blurted it out:

"We, um… kind of stopped taking our meds."

I nodded, cheeks burning. "We didn't mean to. We just… lost track."

Miss Charice leaned forward, cocoa forgotten, her voice dropping into that low, motherly tone that brooked no nonsense. " Mmhmm . Lord, have mercy. That right there's serious, boys. You cain't be steady for each other if you lettin' yourselves slide like that. Y'all need stability, not chaos. So, here's what's gon' happen: we marchin' down to the infirmary tonight. And don't even try givin' me them puppy-dog eyes – I got two grown nephews and a pit bull, and all three of 'em tried that on me. Didn't work for them, won't work for you."

An hour later, we were sitting quietly in the infirmary's waiting area, legs bouncing nervously against the plastic chairs.

I was restarted on Effexor for my anxiety and depression. Jack was prescribed a new mood stabilizer, plus Xanax for panic and sleep. It felt heavy and relieving all at once – like being handed both a burden and a lifeline.

When we came back, Miss Charice stood in front of us like a general at roll call. "From now on, I'ma be handin' y'all them meds myself every evenin'. No more 'oops, I forgot.' You gon' take 'em, and you gon' take 'em right. You understand me?"

Jack smirked. "As long as you don't mind the possibility of seeing us naked in bed together."

I elbowed him but couldn't stop grinning.

Miss Charice slapped her thigh and looked up at the ceiling. "Sweet Jesus, give me strength! If I gotta walk in on y'all bare-bottom again, I swear I'm bringin' a spray bottle like y'all some misbehavin' kittens. Don't test me, now."

From across the room, Jonah immediately meowed, loud and pitiful, then hissed. "Please, Miss Charice! I'm delicate! I bruise like a peach!"

The room erupted again, laughter spilling down the hallway.

Later that night, after prep, the whole gang crammed into our room. Blankets were draped over every available surface. Popcorn bowls were balanced dangerously on knees. Root beer floats fizzed on the nightstands. Emery had hauled in his laptop and queued up the 2024 version of Nosferatu.

"Oh my God," Christian groaned, staring at the screen. "How do you guys watch this crap?"

"Respect your elders," Jonah hissed, slicking his hair back and curling his fingers like claws. In a passable Bela Lugosi accent, he intoned, " I vant to suck your … GPA ."

I nearly choked on my soda. "Dude, Bela Lugosi isn't even in this movie."

Jonah scowled, eyes gleaming in the flicker of the screen. "I'm creating a cinematic universe. Shut up."

"Jonah, your cinematic universe is just you in black eyeliner trying to flirt with ghosts," Jack said.

"Exactly!" Jonah cried, throwing his hands up as if he'd just won the argument.

The room dissolved into laughter again. Then the movie dragged us back into silence, eerie shadows dancing across our walls. But every so often, the quiet was punctured by squeals, giggles, or Jonah's running commentary.

For the first time in weeks, it felt like life was almost normal. Messy, loud, ridiculous – but normal.

After the credits rolled, Miss Charice knocked softly on the door and stepped in just far enough to hand each of us our pill cups and water.

"Sleep well, babies," she whispered, her voice warm and low. "Y'all earned it today."

We mumbled our thanks and swallowed our meds, and then she slipped out, leaving only the hum of the heater and the faint glow from my desk lamp.

Jack and I climbed into bed, our movements instinctive, practiced. Limbs tangled without hesitation, like our bodies had already decided they were tired of distance and awkwardness.

"Hey," Jack whispered, so quiet it almost got lost in the blankets. His voice didn't sound like the Jack who made sharp, sarcastic comments at "Settlers of Catan" or the Jack who'd teased Jonah mercilessly hours earlier. It was smaller, younger somehow. Vulnerable. "Could you… hold me?"

There wasn't even a question in my mind. I slid an arm around his waist and pulled him close, spooning him from behind. He immediately pressed back against me, his spine fitting into the curve of my chest, our legs finding each other under the covers. He took a long, shaky breath, then grabbed my hand and pulled it up against his chest like it was an anchor keeping him from drifting away. I felt a little embarrassed about my boner poking his butt while we were sharing this tender moment, but at this point in our relationship, it shouldn't have mattered anyway, and it certainly wasn't the first time.

The room fell silent except for the occasional rustle of blankets and the squeak of the bedframe as we adjusted. Every few minutes, I leaned in and kissed the back of his neck or his cheek, nothing dramatic, just soft little reminders that I was there. That I wasn't going anywhere.

"Thanks," he whispered after a while.

"For what?"

"For being the one thing I don't have to second-guess." His voice cracked on the last word, and he tightened his grip on my hand. "It feels like everything else in my life is shifting all the time. But you… you don't move."

I swallowed hard, my throat thick. "I'm not planning on moving, Jack. Not now, not ever. I'm stuck with you. You're stuck with me. Sorry, no returns after 30 days, and we passed that a long time ago."

He gave a tiny laugh at that, muffled against the pillow, but I felt his shoulders relax under my arm.

After that, the words dwindled into sighs. His breathing slowed, steadied. A little hitch here and there at first, like he was fighting the tears back, then gradually smoothing out until I knew he'd slipped under.

I stayed awake, though. My eyes traced the soft glow of the lamp across his hair, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling against my arm. It felt almost unreal – this boy who once kept me at arm's length now curled against me like I was the safest place he knew.

And I couldn't help thinking: what if I screw this up? What if I let him down, just like so many people already had? That voice at the back of my mind tried to whisper that I wasn't strong enough, that I was just a fifteen-year-old kid, that maybe someday he'd regret leaning so hard on me.

But then his hand twitched against mine, even in sleep, holding on like he couldn't afford to let go. And I knew, deep in my bones, that whatever came next, I wasn't going anywhere.

I pressed one last kiss to the back of his neck, closed my eyes, and finally let sleep drag me under, too.

The next week didn't just crawl – it dragged itself forward on broken legs, face down in the mud, begging for mercy.

By Thursday, I wasn't sure I remembered what fresh air felt like. Or sunlight. Or joy. Harrison West in May wasn't so much a school as it was a federally recognized torture site. The teachers had clearly conspired in a smoke-filled faculty lounge and decided that the best way to prepare us for finals was to see who could crush our spirits first.

Algebra quizzes. Biology reviews. Vocabulary tests. Comparative lit essays. And then, just for fun, a giant poster on the fall of Constantinople that felt less like history and more like a metaphor for my mental health. Was mitosis six steps or seven? Did Emily Brontë really care that much about moors, or was she just crying on cliffs because she could?

Most boys didn't even bother going home over the weekend. The tutoring center was open until midnight, practically daring us to give up our last shreds of dignity. A couple of guys even dragged blankets to the library and slept there, like medieval monks hoping to absorb wisdom by osmosis.

Jack and I were lucky, though. Roommates. Built-in comfort. Built-in panic buddy. Even if we barely saw each other during the day, we always collapsed into the same bed at night. Too tired to talk, too wrung out for "play time," sometimes barely conscious – but still tangled together, breathing the same air. That had become our ritual. Our only constant. And God, did we need it.

Especially Jack.

He hadn't heard from his parents or their lawyers all week. No calls. No texts. Not even an angry "how dare you" forwarded from their lawyers, though we knew they'd gotten the letter. Nothing from Nana Bev either, which worried me more than I let on. She'd sounded foggy when she got back to Seattle – maybe jet lag, perhaps a few too many Moscow Mules.

Sure, his tuition for next year was technically "covered." But Jack knew as well as I did that meant nothing if his parents decided to throw their weight around again. They'd done it before. They'd do it again. It didn't matter what he wanted – or what kept him safe.

By Saturday night, everyone in the dorm looked like they were one overdue essay away from spontaneous combustion. We'd just finished a mandatory two-hour prep session, which mostly involved me trying not to cry over my derivatives worksheet. At the same time, Jack muttered half-baked conspiracy theories about the Enlightenment and Opus Dei, then picked at a scab on his leg like it was auditioning to take over his body.

When prep finally ended, most of the guys bolted for the common room. Someone had the Tigers game playing on the big television. The mystery Saturday-night pizza (rumored to be bankrolled by Emery's parents) had already been reduced to greasy cardboard. Jonah was halfway through trying to unionize the railroads in Monopoly, loudly insisting the proletariat wouldn't stand for capitalist exploitation.

I sank into a sagging sofa, happy to let my brain go slack. Jack, on the other hand, was twitching like he'd mainlined six Red Bulls. First, the bouncing knee. Then the straw chewing. Then the finger tapping. He rearranged the Scrabble tiles five times before anyone had even played a word. Every other breath was some muttered nonsense.

"This entire week feels like a Monty Python sketch about academic torture," he said.

I side-eyed him. "You want to go walk it off or—"

"I already walked it off. I walked it off three times. I walked it into the abyss."

Jonah didn't even look up from his Monopoly board. "God, Jack. You've got more drama than Christian's last three relationships."

"Excuse you," Christian sniffed. "At least I communicate and know how to use my words."

"Yeah," Jack muttered. "With passive-aggressive playlists and memes."

I nudged him gently. "Hey. You're vibrating out of your skin. Breathe ."

"I can't," he whispered, so quietly I almost missed it. His eyes were glassy, wild. "My head's too loud. It won't stop."

And just like that, I knew.

"C'mon," I said, standing. I tugged his wrist.

He blinked, startled. "What? Where?"

"Just – trust me. Doesn't your boyfriend deserve some trust every once in a while?"

I didn't give him a chance to argue. Led him down the hall, past the vending machine with its eternal flicker, past the kids who were already asleep. Into our room. Door locked. Bolt slid home.

When I turned, Jack looked like a glass of water perched on the edge of a table. One wrong move, and he'd shatter.

So, I didn't think. I just kissed him.

Hard.

He gasped against my mouth, but then his hands were clawing at my sweatshirt like he needed to climb inside my skin, like he needed me to hold him together. I pushed him back toward the bed, and he let me. Clothes came off fast, messy, impatient – not about romance, not about careful buildup.

It was about heat. About need. About the simple, blessed relief of knowing we weren't alone in this pressure cooker of a life.

We didn't talk. There wasn't space for words. It was urgent, hungry, like we'd both been gasping underwater and suddenly found oxygen. His hands tangled in my hair, mine gripped his waist, and we moved against each other like our bodies already knew the script.

It wasn't slow, and it wasn't careful. It was short, messy, desperate, and somehow perfect. We gave ourselves over to it completely – every raw edge, every pent-up feeling, every ounce of stress we'd been carrying. Taking our time and being romantic was wonderful, too, but sometimes the only cure was quick and dirty, and this was one of those nights.

When it was over, both of us having cum twice, we collapsed onto the bed, sweaty and dazed, breathing hard in sync. Our foreheads pressed together, his heartbeat still racing against my chest like a drum that couldn't settle. It was the first time Jack had cum hands-free, just from me rimming him. I don't know who was more surprised, he or I.

We didn't bother with words as we pulled our clothes back on. Nothing needed to be said. The silence between us wasn't awkward – it was complete, like the kind that comes after a storm when the world feels washed clean.

Back in the common room, a few heads turned. Jonah arched his eyebrow so high it practically merged with his hairline. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and announced, "And lo, the beasts return from their mating season!"

"Subtle," I muttered.

Emery saluted us with his root beer. "Congratulations. You two just raised the dorm's humidity by fifteen percent."

Christian shook his head slowly, like a disappointed father. "You know, some of us are just trying to watch the damn Tigers game without being emotionally scarred."

"Scarred?" Jonah scoffed. " Scarred is what happens when you walk back in here glowing like the sun and smelling like Axe body spray's evil twin. I had to avert my virgin eyes."

"Says the guy who's desperately trying to lose his virginity," Emery deadpanned.

"Emotionally!" Jonah shot back, clutching his chest. Then he pointed at us like a courtroom lawyer. "Did you sanitize ? Did you complete the necessary paperwork? Because I'm about to call OSHA."

Mark snorted soda through his nose. Kit nearly choked on his pizza.

Jack ignored them all, sat down on the couch, and laced his fingers through mine. I rested my head on his shoulder, content. His knee wasn't bouncing anymore. He was calm.

The Tigers were winning, praise be.

"That was… intense," Jack whispered, just for me.

I squeezed his hand. "Yeah. And necessary. Feel better now?"

He nodded, and we both stared at the screen as some pitcher we'd never heard of promptly gave up a home run that clanged off the Pepsi sign.

Later, after lights out, Miss Charice did her nightly rounds. She knocked, waited, then eased the door open. She handed us each a small paper cup of medication with a water bottle.

"You two doin' okay?" she asked – not nosy, just checking, the way she always did.

Jack glanced at me, then back at her. "A little stressed and wound up, but… we're good," he said.

"Yeah," I added, nodding. "Actually… we're terrific."

She gave us a smile, as if she knew exactly what we meant, and let herself out without another word – except, just as the door was closing, she leaned back in with a wicked little grin.

" Mmm-hmm . I don't know what y'all been doin' in here, but whew, baby… smell like teenage hormones had a fistfight. Crack a window 'fore the whole hall passes out."

Jack and I froze, blushing so hard we could've lit the room without a lamp.

Under the covers, we faced each other, limbs tangled. Jack curled into my chest, his breath warm against my collarbone. We traced each other's faces with tired fingers, barely whispering, until I felt his body slacken as the meds pulled him under.

"This week was garbage," he mumbled, already slurring.

"Total flaming dumpster fire," I agreed.

"But I love you."

"But you don't love me more than I love you," I teased.

He was asleep two minutes later, but I lay awake longer, savoring the weight of him in my arms. His warmth. His steady heartbeat. The simple, grounding fact that even when everything else spun out of control, we had this. And I knew – quiet, certain – that I wanted it forever.

Hopefully, forever came with a bigger bed, though, because if not, one of us was definitely ending up on the floor sooner or later. These twin beds in the dorms were just not doing it for us.

I must really be some kind of masochist.

Who else volunteers for this level of psychological torture? I'd clawed my way here – applications, interviews, every club and extracurricular I could wedge into my schedule – just to earn one of the few merit-based scholarships to Harrison West. It had been my dream, my ticket out, my clean start.

And right now? It felt like I'd crawled straight into a pressure cooker with the safety valve duct-taped shut.

Finals loomed like thunderclouds, and my brain was fried scrambled eggs. I'd been running on fumes, caffeine, and anxiety for weeks. The past month was an endless carousel of prep sessions, essays, projects, practice tests. Sleep was optional, sanity was on clearance, and no returns allowed.

Jack kept trying to hold me together – hand squeezes between classes, hugs in the hallway, extra-tight cuddles at night. And yeah, part of me knew he was right: it would end, I'd survive, and summer would eventually hit like a cold drink on a hot day. But knowing something logically and believing it emotionally? Those are two very different skill sets.

Jack handled it better, somehow. Not like he was stress-free, but he'd been through it before. Mr. G. even called him an "old timer." He kept saying, "It's not as bad as you think, Nicky." Easy for him to say – my brain refused to get the memo.

Even the coaches had canceled sports practices "to give us more study time." Translation: less exercise, more time trapped in dim rooms slowly unraveling.

The dorm felt like a psych ward. No shouts, no pranks, no dumb sex jokes echoing down the hall. Just zombies shuffling around with energy drinks like IV bags. You could practically smell the Red Bull seeping through the drywall.

I missed my friends. Jonah's chaos, Christian's dry sarcasm, Emery's perfect side-eye. Even one of them gone tilted the chemistry, but now? It was like trying to recreate fireworks underwater. Sure, I saw them during meal times, but most of us studied then, too. Even little Jonah was hitting the books hard. I'd never seen him so … focused. Ever.

Saturday afternoon, I was supposed to be reviewing for World History – normally my favorite subject – but I'd read the same paragraph about the War of the Roses three times and retained exactly nothing. Jack was at therapy, and the silence pressed down on me like a heavy blanket. I needed air. Or movement. Or another human.

So, I stripped down to my boxers and a wifebeater and wandered into the hallway. Not a fashion statement, not looking for a hook-up, not a power move – I just didn't care anymore. I drifted past closed doors, listening for life, for laughter, for proof that we weren't all already dead.

That's when I saw Jonah's door cracked open.

I knocked once and stepped inside.

Jonah was sprawled shirtless across his bed, arguing with his graphing calculator like it had personally wronged him. His eighth-grade roommate, Devin, was in the corner bouncing a tennis ball against the wall with inhuman consistency.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

It took ten seconds for the sound to start burrowing into my brain like a drill. I snatched the ball midair and lobbed it out the open window.

Devin's face crumpled like I'd shot his puppy. "My—my ball!"

"Time for a break," I said, flat as a judge's gavel.

He scrambled out of the room, eyes wide with betrayal.

"Dude," Jonah said, propping himself up on one elbow. "That was cruel."

I shrugged. "I'm not always the goody-two-shoes you guys think I am."

He snorted. "Yes, you are. You are the goody-two-shoes. You're kind. Smart. Reliable. You actually care about people. You love so hard it hurts to watch sometimes. You'd set yourself on fire to keep your friends warm. You're like the perfect human person."

I blinked. That was not the tone I was expecting.

"And before you say something self-deprecating and awkward," Jonah added, "that's not an insult. That's why we all love you. That's why I—"

He stopped. Looked down. Then back up at me.

"I just wish you could see me the same way."

"Jonah…" I started, already knowing where this was going.

"We're not that different, Nick. I just say what I feel. You hold it all in. You care what people think. I don't. That's it."

I folded my arms, shifting my weight, suddenly too aware of how little I was wearing.

"We've had this conversation before."

"And nothing's changed," he said. "I'm still in love with you."

"Jonah…" I sighed, already exhausted.

"You're still the first person I want to talk to in the morning and the last one I think about at night. You're in all my… fantasies."

I looked away. "I'm with Jack. You know that. Nothing is ever going to happen between us."

He nodded slowly. "You could still love me. Maybe just a little. I could make you feel good, do things that Jack won't do."

"No, Jonah," I said. "Not like that. You're brilliant. You're funny. You're adorable and completely insane, and I do love you – but not in the way you want. Please don't go down this road again because all it's going to do is hurt our friendship, and I couldn't stand losing you. Please!"

He gave a sad smile, and then a smirk. "You sure? We could try the throuple thing. You, me, Jack – beautiful chaos. Just think, a 'Nick Sandwich,' and Jack and I would be the bread."

"Not happening," I said, and tried to smile to soften it. "No matter how cute your little butt is."

He laughed at that – half-broken, half-flattered. "It's yours, if you want it. I'd let you do me every night."

"No way," I chortled. "I'd probably break you in half!"

And then I let my guard down.

It was a split second. Less than that. I looked down, distracted by the absurdity of it all. And in that tiny breath of vulnerability, Jonah moved.

He stepped forward, grabbed my face with both hands, and kissed me.

On the mouth.

Deeply.

Tongue and all. Lots of tongue. He'd practically forced his way inside my mouth.

I froze. My heart jumped into my throat. It was so sudden, so electric, so wrong, but – God help me – his lips were so soft. His breath was warm. He tasted like peppermint toothpaste. And it was clearly not his first kiss.

And I didn't pull away.

Not right away.

For maybe ten seconds – just ten – I kissed him back, our tongues locked in a dangerous dance in our mouths.

I didn't mean to. I wasn't even thinking. My body just… responded. And it was responding elsewhere, too.

But then I pulled away. Fast. My stomach dropped. I stumbled back like he'd shoved me.

"What the hell was that?" I whispered.

He stared at me, breathing hard. "I'm sorry. I just – I had to know."

I backed up another step, heart pounding. My face felt hot. My hands were shaking. "I told you – Jonah, I told you this could never happen. How could you do this? Was it worth ruining our friendship over?"

"You didn't stop me," he said quietly.

"I didn't start it either," I snapped. "But you're right. I didn't stop you. Not fast enough. And now I feel—"

My throat closed up. My chest was tight.

"Guilty," I managed. "I feel so fucking guilty."

He looked at me, eyes brimming, lips trembling.

Jonah's face twisted. He blinked hard, fighting the tears, but they slipped through anyway.

"So that's it?" he said, his voice rising. "You get to be Saint Nicholas, the perfect boy with the perfect boyfriend, and I'm just the dumb kid who keeps embarrassing himself? You think I don't know how this ends? You'll go off and have your happily-ever-after with Jack, and I'll be the punchline. Again."

"That's not fair—" I started, but he cut me off.

"Fair?" He laughed bitterly, shoving his hair out of his face. "Nothing about this is fair. Not me being in love with you. Not you making me believe, even for a second, that maybe—" His voice cracked. He clenched his fists. "You kissed me back, Nick. Don't you dare pretend you didn't. For those ten seconds, I wasn't crazy . For those ten seconds, you wanted it too."

My chest felt like it was caving in. "I didn't want it, Jonah. I just… I wasn't fast enough. My body reacted before my brain caught up. But my heart? My heart is with Jack. It's always been with Jack."

He shook his head, furious and broken all at once. "You say that like it's supposed to make me stop loving you. Like it's supposed to make this easier. But it doesn't. It just makes it worse. Because I know you'll never love me back, and I can't turn it off."

I took a step toward him, then stopped when I saw the way he flinched, like I was holding a knife instead of my own open hands.

"Jonah," I said softly, my throat raw. "I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted this. But if we keep going down this road, we're both going to break. And I can't lose you as a friend. I won't. "

He let out a shaky laugh, bitter around the edges. "You already have. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you kissed me back. That's the part I'll remember when I'm lying awake at night. And it'll kill me."

I swallowed hard, guilt crawling through me like poison.

"Was it worth it?" I whispered.

His lips trembled. His voice cracked on the answer. "For ten seconds? Yeah. It was worth it."

Then he brushed past me, fast and sharp, his shoulder catching mine like a slap.

I just stood there, shaking, my heart hammering against my ribs, the taste of peppermint still on my lips – and guilt flooding me so heavy I could barely breathe.

And I was livid. My whole face burned hot, sweat prickled across my forehead, and my voice came out rough, trembling with rage.

"This never happens again. Ever, " I snapped. "I love Jack. He's my soulmate. And if you can't respect that, then we're done – like, not even friends anymore. You know I couldn't give you everything you wanted, and I told you why. But I was a damn good friend to you. Better than anyone else. I made sure you were included in everything. I gave you time, attention, and affection. I stood up for you when the other guys gave you crap. I defended you. And this – this is how you repay me? By breaking my trust like it was nothing?"

Jonah nodded slowly, blinking fast, his eyes shining wet. "You're the only person I've ever felt safe with."

My stomach twisted. For a split second, I wanted to soften, to hug him, to tell him I understood. But the betrayal burned too hot.

"Unfortunately," I said coldly, "I can't say the same about you anymore. And when you're lying in bed tonight, thinking about how miserable you are, take a second to think about me for a change. Think about how miserable I'm going to be, because I lost my best friend too."

Silence. His lip trembled. He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but nothing came out.

I wanted to say something kind. Something forgiving. Something that would put the shattered pieces back together. But I couldn't. Not right then. Not with the taste of him still on my lips and the guilt pulsing behind my ribs like a bruise.

I turned and walked out. I didn't look back.

By the time I made it back to my room, I felt hollowed out. Like I'd betrayed something sacred. Like my insides had been scraped clean with a dull knife. I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to breathe, trying not to shake apart. Should I tell Jack? Could I? Would it destroy him if I did – or destroy me if I didn't?

The kiss replayed in my head like a looping video I couldn't shut off. The heat of Jonah's mouth. The peppermint taste. The way I hadn't pulled away fast enough. The way, God help me, I had liked it. Ten seconds. That's all it was. Ten seconds that felt like lightning tearing through me, leaving nothing but smoke and guilt in its wake.

The door creaked open sometime later.

Jack stepped in quietly, his movements slow, heavy. He looked wrecked – eyes rimmed dark, hoodie crooked like he'd lost a fight with it, hair falling into his face. His whole body sagged, like therapy hadn't lifted the weight he carried but doubled it by dragging it into daylight.

I sat up a little straighter and forced a smile. Gentle. Reassuring. The kind of smile you give when you're not sure you can speak without breaking. My heart was still thundering with guilt, and I couldn't look him in the eye for more than a heartbeat before it seared through me like I was lying to him just by existing.

He let his bag drop to the floor with a dull thud. He didn't sit. He just stood there, hands braced on his hips, staring at the ground and taking a few long, deliberate breaths, like he had to steady himself before he could speak.

"You okay?" I asked softly, my voice barely audible.

For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then he turned, slow as if it physically hurt, and met my eyes.

"I got a letter," he said.

Something pinched hard in my chest.

He blinked, his throat working. "From my parents. It came while I was gone."

My stomach flipped. My breath caught. The haze of guilt I'd been drowning in suddenly collided with a sharper, colder fear.

"What did it say?" I asked carefully, though my voice cracked at the edges.

He didn't answer. He just looked at me.

And I knew – we were about to find out whether this chapter of his life was about to close… or crack wide open.

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