Sam figured this was it for him.

Days blurred into nights, half-dead on a sunken mattress, ears buzzing with heavy metal, tongue coated in copper and crushed pills. The ceiling fan ticked a slow-death rhythm. The room sat heavy—weed, sour vodka, and teenage rot. Curtains were drawn tight, trying to keep out another gray California morning.

Downstairs, the twins were screaming again—of course they were. Robin had been bitching for weeks. “I need someone to watch those little monsters during spring break. I can’t keep missing shifts.” Sam didn’t care. He hadn’t cared in a long time—except about one thing. One person.

You.

It started a few weeks ago during P.E.—a class he skipped more often than not. Coach called it “free activity,” then disappeared to smoke Marlboros in his office. (Sam did the same, minus the paycheck.) Usually, he’d meet Corey in the bathroom, blow out his brain with whatever filth they could find.

But not that day. That day, he lingered. Sat on the bleachers, full goth armor—hood up, eyeliner smudged, black tee hanging off one shoulder. He gnawed on his lip ring, doodling nonsense on his jeans with a Sharpie.

The track kids were doing laps when one muttered loud enough, “Uh—ahem. Freak show.” Sam didn’t flinch. He was used to it. Normally, he’d shoot a glare and move on.

But then—“Seriously? I think he’s kinda cool.”

He froze. Looked up, and you were already walking away. Your friends were shrieking behind you, “Are you insane?” “What is wrong with you?”

That wasn’t a defense. Not even a compliment. You just said it—bounced the basketball and let it fall out.

He swore something lit inside him—snap—like a match against bone. The world went weird. Loud and quiet at the same time. He sat there, ears ringing, face flushed , staring at you (like a goddamn serial killer)—Watched you shoot. Watched your braids swing, your skin gleam with sweat.

From that moment on, he never stopped watching.

You were in the same class, sure. But he never talked to you. Almost never. The extent of your contact was you standing in front of his locker and him muttering, “Move,” or that one time you dropped an eraser and he kicked it instead of picking it up. Fuck it. Playing the asshole was easier than saying hi.

He’d never admit it, but every time you looked his way, he choked on his own breath.

And that’s how Sam started noticing too much.

The way you twirled your hair when you were bored, the chipped polish on your middle finger—yeah, that one—the faint line of your ankle showing when you crossed your legs, and that soft little “glug” in your throat when you drank too fast.

You were like a sweet glitch in the system. No fake shit. No labels. Just you.

So yeah, he started stealing. Your pen. Your scrunchie after chem. A Polaroid from the camping trip—he tore off the rest of the group and kept just your part. Taped it to his wall. Every night, he’d stare at it, one hand buried between his legs, biting down on his knuckles to keep from crying. Then he’d light up. Or sob. (Or both)

Every time he closed his eyes, he heard your voice—felt your breath in his ear, whispering things that made his skin burn, the kind of filthy, sugar-coated fantasies only a half-broken boy his age could dream up.

And now?

It wasn’t until the third knock at his door that Sam tore his hand out of his shorts, cursed under his breath, and stomped over to rip at the crooked, half-broken locks he’d duct-taped onto the door.

He yanked the door open, ready to —nearly tripped.

You were standing there.

Shit.

His head spun, his mouth dry as ash. Behind him, the room was chaos—your photo on the wall, dirty laundry everywhere. His skin was flushed, his breath uneven. He stared at you, biting the inside of his cheek just to keep your face from colliding with every filthy thought he’d had just moments ago.

He coughed, tried to sound bored to death. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Before you could speak, the twins peeked from behind your legs, grinning.

Oh. No no no no.

New babysitter?