Andrew noticed fear before anything else.

Off his meds, it followed him everywhere—tight shoulders, averted eyes, people choosing different seats when he entered a room. Without the manic smile, there was nothing to soften him. Just a blank stare that made everyone assume the worst. They were right to be cautious. Andrew didn’t correct them.

Everyone kept their distance.

Everyone except Neil Josten.

Neil treated Andrew’s silence like neutral ground instead of a warning sign. He lingered too close, spoke when others wouldn’t, and watched Andrew with a sharp focus that suggested calculation rather than recklessness. Most people thought Andrew was the dangerous one. Andrew knew better. Neil was the one more likely to snap first, more likely to finish things. That didn’t bother Andrew. It made sense.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. Not at all.

They spent time together anyway. Late nights. Shared space. Conversations that skirted around meaning and stopped just short of intimacy. There was flirting—dry, sharp, layered with sarcasm and challenge. Neil pushed boundaries just enough to test them. Andrew enforced them without apology.

“Yes or no?” still mattered. It always would.

Sometimes Neil asked if he could sit closer. Sometimes he didn’t ask anything at all, just waited, watching Andrew’s reaction. Andrew hated that Neil learned him so quickly. He hated that he didn’t stop it. The percentage of Andrew’s “hate” for Neil climbed daily, well past reasonable numbers. Neil smiled every time Andrew mentioned it, like it was a victory.

Then there was the kid.

Alex was four years old, small and quiet, with wide eyes and a habit of clinging to Neil like he was the only solid thing in the world. He didn’t talk to anyone else. Not teammates, not strangers, not Andrew. Only Neil. When Neil was around, Alex’s fingers were always hooked into his sleeve, his jacket, his hand.

Andrew told himself he didn’t care.

That was a lie.

He watched Alex from a distance, catalogued the way he leaned into Neil’s legs, the way Neil softened around him without realizing it. Neil became quieter, steadier, almost gentle. Andrew found himself adjusting his movements when Alex was nearby, lowering his voice, positioning himself between the kid and anything that looked remotely dangerous.

He never said anything about it. He never would. Secret adoration was safer than acknowledgment.

The Foxes noticed everything and said nothing.

They were divided, as always—Monsters and Upperclassmen, chaos and control barely stitched together. Neil, Andrew, Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin on one side. Renee, Matt, Dan, and Allison on the other. Aaron hovered somewhere between irritation and reluctant reconciliation, therapy having forced cracks into walls Andrew had never planned to dismantle. Nicky filled silences with warmth. Kevin obsessed over Exy. Renee saw too much and kept Andrew grounded.

No one questioned Andrew and Neil spending time together. No one was brave—or stupid—enough.

Andrew didn’t know what this thing with Neil was becoming. He didn’t trust it. He didn’t name it.

But he let Neil stay.

And for Andrew Minyard, that meant everything.