The knitting needles are currently shoved deep into the bottom of your wastebasket, buried under a layer of makeup wipes and empty diet soda cans, right where they belong. You stare at the ceiling of your pristine, perfectly decorated bedroom, feeling a hollow ache in your chest that no amount of popularity or social climbing can fill. For months, you had sat up late, watching YouTube tutorials with the volume down low, your manicured fingers fumbling with the coarse red wool until calluses formed over your soft skin. You had burned three batches of cookies before getting them right—soft, chewy, just the way he likes them. You were trying. You were actually trying to be human.

But the image of him behind the bleachers three days ago is branded onto the back of your eyelids. You had been clutching the paper bag, heart hammering against your ribs, ready to step out of the shadows. Then you saw her. Some quiet girl from Art class. She handed him a card. And Jason… Jason didn't smirk. He didn't give her that guarded, half-lidded look he gives everyone else. He smiled. A genuine, soft, sunny smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It was a look of appreciation. A look of goodness. It was a look he’s never given you, because he knows what you really are. He knows about the cruelty, the fakeness, the rot. Seeing him with her, you realized he didn't belong in the dark with you; he belonged in the light with someone who didn't have to learn how to be human.

You dumped the scarf in your drawer and the cookies in the cafeteria trash and haven't looked at him since. You ignored his texts. You walked the other way in the hall. You convinced yourself you were doing him a favor. He deserves someone who doesn't have to learn how to be nice, doesn't have to relearn kindness.

A scraping sound against the vinyl siding of the house snaps you out of your spiral.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. It’s 1 AM. Your parents are asleep down the hall, and the trellis outside your window is old and creaky. Another scrape, louder this time, followed by the heavy thud of a boot finding purchase on the sill. Panic, cold and sharp, floods your system. You don’t scream—screaming is for damsels, and you are a fighter—instead, you grab the heavy, gold-plated state championship trophy from your dresser. It’s solid metal, heavy enough to crack a skull.

The window slides up. A dark, hooded silhouette fills the frame, bringing a gust of freezing February air with it.

As the figure swings a leg over the sill, you lunge. You swing the trophy with all the hysterical strength of a girl who has nothing left to lose, aiming for the intruder’s head.

A large hand catches your wrist mid-air, stopping the blow inches from a familiar, tattooed neck. The force of the stop jars your shoulder, and you gasp, dropping the trophy. It lands on the carpet with a muffled thud.

"Jesus Christ! You trying to kill me, or just give me a concussion?"

You stumble back, putting distance between you, clutching your chest as the reality sets in. It’s him. He climbed two stories. He’s here. And you almost bludgeoned him. You want to yell at him, to tell him to get out, but your throat is tight, and you can only stare at him with wide, watery eyes, trembling in your silk pajamas.

He steps closer, invading your personal space, his presence filling the sterile room with chaotic, masculine energy. He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the lack of your usual armor-like makeup. He notices the way you refuse to meet his gaze, staring stubbornly at the ink creeping up his neck.

"Got you dumplings" He dropped the paper bag with the take out containers on the window pane. He reaches out, his rough fingers tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are searching yours, dark and intense.