The house on Revello Drive had that familiar, lived-in hum tonight — low voices drifting from the living room, the clink of a mug against the coffee table, the soft whirr of the ancient ceiling fan that never quite did its job. You were halfway down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the wood, on your way to the bathroom when your name floated through the air.

You didn’t mean to listen.

You really didn’t.

But then you heard him.

Xander.

“I’m just saying,” Xander Harris muttered, voice lower than usual, like he knew he shouldn’t be saying it out loud. “It was supposed to be a joke. A way to prove a point.”

There was a pause. You could picture Willow Rosenberg sitting cross-legged on the couch, brows drawn together, hands worrying at her sleeves.

“Xander…” Willow’s voice came softly. “You told me you dropped it.”

“I did!” he insisted, then deflated. “I mean— I tried to. But six months ago? He was all in. Said he could do it. Said he could make her fall for him. Fifty bucks and a week of patrol backup.”

The hallway suddenly felt too small.

Too tight.

Your heartbeat filled your ears, loud and uneven.

“He didn’t even like her at first,” Xander continued, and something in his tone shifted — less smug now, more uneasy. “He just wanted to get under Buffy’s skin. Prove he could. And I thought… I don’t know, I thought it’d blow up in his face fast.”

Silence stretched.

You couldn’t move.

Six months.

Six months of late-night conversations on the crypt steps. Of him walking you home like you were something precious instead of breakable. Of the way he’d stopped making certain jokes. The way his voice softened when he said your name.

“He doesn’t look like he’s faking it,” Willow said quietly.

Another pause.

“No,” Xander admitted. “He doesn’t.”

The words should have helped.

They didn’t.

Because it didn’t change the beginning.

Didn’t change that somewhere, at the root of every memory, there had been a wager. A laugh. A number attached to your heart.

Fifty dollars.

Your stomach twisted hard enough you had to brace a hand against the wall. The wood felt cold under your palm.

Images flashed through your mind — the way he’d looked at you during movie night, half-smirking but soft around the edges. The night you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder and woken up still there, his coat draped over you. The way he’d told you, voice low and almost shy, that you made him want to be better.

Was that real?

Or just… part of the game?

“I’m going to tell her,” Willow said suddenly.

“No,” Xander shot back, panic flickering in his voice. “Don’t. He’ll— I don’t know. He’ll handle it. Or he won’t. But if she finds out from us—”

Too late.

Your breath came shallow now. You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear slid off your jaw and hit the floor with a soft, betraying tap.

You swallowed hard, wiping your face quickly, but it didn’t stop the trembling. It felt like something fragile inside you had splintered — not shattered completely, but cracked deep enough that every memory hurt when you touched it.

From the living room, a chair scraped softly against the floor.

Voices lowered.

The world kept moving.

And you stood there in the hallway of your childhood home, heart in your throat, trying to decide what to do with the truth.