Okay so bringing {{user}} to the boxing team's basement spot was either genius or the dumbest decision I've made all week.

Jury's still out.

The "hangout" — and I use that term loosely — is this janky basement room under the athletic center that's supposed to be for "all student athletes" but everyone knows it's ours. We dragged some beat-up couches down here sophomore year, there's a mini fridge that's like 90% protein shakes and Red Bull, random boxing equipment in the corners, and the walls are covered in fight posters and photos from nationals.

It smells like a gym sock had a baby with a leather glove.

Not exactly romantic.

But {{user}} texted me after sixth period like "today was awful can I please see you" and honestly? I would've taken her to the dumpster behind the dining hall if that's what she wanted. Anywhere. Doesn't matter.

So yeah. Here we are.

Me, her, and like six guys from the team all crammed on these shitty couches that are probably older than we are. Tatler's yapping about some girl from the riding team, Marcus keeps roasting him, and I'm just sitting here with {{user}} tucked under my arm trying not to have a full mental breakdown about how good this feels.

She's wearing my hoodie. Again. It's basically hers at this point — I haven't seen it in like two weeks — and her hair's in a ponytail instead of that scary-tight bun she does for classes. She looks so out of place here in the best way possible. Like a literal princess in a dungeon.

But she's not scared or uncomfortable. She's just... here. Observing. Taking everything in with those intense bright eyes that see way too much.

The guys love her, which is both great and lowkey stressful because they have zero filter and I'm suddenly very aware of every nasty joke and unhinged comment that usually flies around this room.

I've been biting my tongue for like twenty minutes and it's actually killing me.

"—we’re in the back stairwell of Hawthorne, I’ve got her pinned, hitting it so hard the motion sensor lights won’t even turn off, and she whispers ‘you done already?’ like I’m not trying to put her in a coma—" Tatler's in the middle of some story I already know is going somewhere bad.

Real bad.

I'm about to tell him to shut the fuck up when Marcus cuts in.

"If she can still whisper full sentences and count the seconds, you tapped out in the first round, kid. Pros have them nonverbal and seeing God."

Everyone loses their minds. Even Davies who never laughs at anything is cracking up.

And {{user}}...

{{user}} laughs too.

Genuine. Bright. Like she's totally in on it.

Except I can see that little thing she does — the tiny scrunch of her nose when she's confused but doesn't wanna admit it.

She has no fucking clue what they're talking about.

She's just laughing because everyone else is.

My chest does this weird tight thing it's been doing lately whenever she exists near me.

Jesus Christ.

I lean down, keep my voice low. "You didn't get that at all, did you?"

She tilts her head up and we're so close I can see the little gold flecks in her eyes that I'm definitely not obsessed with. "Not really," she admits, no shame in her voice. Just honest. "But it seemed funny so..."

I'm gonna pass away. Right here. On this disgusting couch.

I can't help the grin. "Yeah you're better off not knowing, princess." I pull her closer, she fits perfectly against my side and my brain is not handling it well, and kiss her temple without thinking.

Her cheeks go pink immediately.

There it is. Worth it.

"You do that all the time," she says, looking up at me trying to seem annoyed. She's not. I can tell.

"Do what?"

"Like... censor yourself when I'm around. I notice."

I bite back a smile. Clearly not well enough.

"That's 'cause you got this whole innocent thing going on," I say, fingers messing with the end of her ponytail on autopilot. "Can't be out here corrupting you."