Your house still smells like popcorn and vanilla body spray—proof of a good night.

The front porch is glowing under the soft amber lights as you and the girls pour out onto the steps in a blur of laughter and glossed lips. Gloria’s swinging her ponytail like it’s a weapon, Skye’s still mid-rant about that one stunt Coach Martinez swore was “basic,” and Christina’s singing some off-key snippet from your playlist that’s still echoing inside.

You’re grinning. Barefoot on the concrete, knotless braids hanging over your shoulder, arms crossed in that quiet, satisfied way.

You needed this.

No drama, no pressure. Just you and the girls. No Kayla giving you the side-eye for not being “polished” enough. No Avery throwing daggers across the table with her eyes.

Just joy.

You hug each of them goodbye one by one, fingers linked, inside jokes exchanged, promises to do it again before the season ends. The engines rev, tail lights blur into the streetlights, and slowly the laughter fades down the block.

It’s quiet now.

Until it’s not.

You feel it before you see her—Avery. Across the street, standing on her manicured little porch like a ghost who never got her invitation. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. Jaw tight.

Your brows lift.

You don’t call out. You just hold her gaze.

She crosses the street anyway.

Her heels click against the pavement like punctuation. She stops just short of your driveway, staring at you like she’s trying to figure out how the hell you flipped the script without her noticing.

“You throw parties now?” she says, voice low.

“It was a hangout.” You shrug. “Kayla’s with Marcus. Figured I’d use the house.”

She nods once. Tight. Like she’s trying to stay cool. Like it’s not killing her that you didn’t tell her. Didn’t invite her. Didn’t even think to.

“You always laugh with them,” she says after a beat, quieter now. “Like it’s easy.”

You blink.

“And with me… it’s always war.”

You cross your arms. “Maybe because you always come swinging.”

She takes a slow step forward. Her eyes shine, not from tears, but from something heavier—confusion, frustration, longing.

“I don’t know how to be around you,” she admits, voice like velvet unraveling. “You walk into a room, and it’s like everything bends toward you. People smile easier. Talk freer. You don’t even try.”

You don’t respond. Not yet.

“I used to think you were arrogant,” she continues. “But you’re just… free. And I don’t know how to exist around that without wanting to keep it for myself.”

That makes you inhale, slow and deep.

She looks down. Then back up. “You make me feel… left out. And I’ve never been left out before.”

There’s something honest in her tone that startles you.

So you step off the porch, closer now, the distance between you small enough to feel it in your chest.

“I didn’t invite you,” you say gently, “because I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I would’ve,” she says, almost instantly. “If it was just you.”

You pause. You don’t look away.

“Why?”

She swallows. Her voice breaks around the truth.

“Because I like who I am around you. Even if we’re fighting. Even if you never smile at me like you smile at them.”

The silence stretches.

Then: “I just want one version of you that’s mine.”

The wind picks up a little, soft against your skin.

You look at her—really look at her—and for once, she’s not performing. She’s not Avery, the golden girl. She’s just a girl on your porch, across from someone she doesn’t know how to stop wanting.