Soft Lights, Sharp Truths

When I woke up, a warm weight was curled around me—steady breathing at my back, an arm slung loosely over my waist, fingers still tangled with mine.

Jordan.

My brain short-circuited for a second.

Last night came back in slow-motion flashes. The window. The quiet. The questions I hadn't meant to ask and the truths he hadn't meant to spill. The way he'd looked at me when he cried. And the way I didn't flinch, didn't run. How we'd ended up tangled like this, with my forehead pressed to his collarbone and his mouth brushing the top of my head like he'd been born knowing how to hold me.

And then—what he said. Right before he fell asleep.

"Please don't ever stop looking at me like that."

My chest tightened.

I shifted slightly, careful not to wake him. His face was soft in sleep, all the sharpness smoothed out. He looked younger, almost innocent—none of the arrogance or swagger that usually emanated from him. Just… him. The boy underneath all the pretending.

He didn't look like someone who used people. He looked like someone who'd forgotten how to believe in being wanted.

I stared for a long moment, then whispered, "Do you remember what you said last night?"

He didn't move.

Figures.

Still, I couldn't stop looking. I traced my thumb across the back of his hand—just once. Gently. Like touching something sacred.

I didn't mean to stare.

But there he was—fast asleep, his face turned slightly toward me, lips parted just barely. His hair was sticking up in five directions, and his hand was still resting in mine like he'd fallen asleep mid-reach.

Jordan Gallagher, vulnerable and quiet and not performing for anyone.

I was still staring when his eyelids fluttered open. For a second, he looked dazed. Then he caught my eyes, and his mouth tugged into the smallest, smug smile.

"Careful," he rasped, voice still low with sleep. "You keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking I'm cute."

I rolled my eyes, but the blush in my cheeks betrayed me. "You're only cute when you're unconscious."

He stretched, letting out a dramatic groan, and then let his arm fall lazily across the pillow between us. "Noted. I'll be unconscious more often."

"You do that."

A beat of silence passed. Not awkward. Just thick with the weight of everything that hadn't broken yet.

"Hey," he said, quieter now. "Thanks for… last night. For staying."

I met his eyes. "I didn't want to be anywhere else."

He looked at me for a long second, his expression unreadable—until it wasn't.

"Hey," he said quietly. "What did I say before I fell asleep?"

I looked at him for a second.

He wasn't joking. Or smirking. He was genuinely asking.

"You said," I whispered, "please don't ever stop looking at me like that."

He didn't look away. "Did you believe me?"

My heart squeezed. "Yeah," I said. "I still do."

He exhaled slowly, and then— "Okay. But also… please don't ever stop falling asleep next to me like that either."

I blinked.

"Jordan—"

"I'm serious," he said, voice low but sure. "Last night was the first time I didn't feel alone in a really long time."

I looked at him again, and this time, I saw it—the quiet ache behind his smile. The way he looked at me like maybe, finally, he could start hoping for more.

"Then don't be alone," I said. "Not if you don't want to be."

His eyes softened like I'd handed him the sun.

~~~~

Something was off with Kaylie.

She wasn't being dramatic, which was clue number one. She didn't immediately launch into a rampage when Jace cancelled their date last minute . She didn't even tease me when I mentioned anything related to Jordan.

Instead, she watched me. Like she was waiting.

Finally, when I wandered downstairs in search of food, she stood at the kitchen counter looking much like Mom had last week.

"Okay," she said, crossing her arms. "Are you going to tell me?"

I blinked. "Tell you what?"

Her brow arched dangerously. "Don't play dumb. I saw him. Jordan. Climbing out of your window this morning like some teenage raccoon escaping a crime scene."

My stomach dropped. "Oh my God."

"Mhmm. So unless you've taken up hosting sleepovers for emotionally compromised playboys as a new hobby—explain."

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then sighed.

"It's not like that."

She raised both brows. "He literally climbed out your window. At 8:30 a.m."

"We talked. That's it. It was late and—he opened up about some stuff. Real stuff. And then we both… fell asleep. Fully clothed, okay? It wasn't—"

"I didn't say it was that," she cut in, eyes narrowing. "But you didn't tell me. And you always tell me."

That one landed.

I looked down. "I was going to. I just… I didn't want to ruin it by saying it out loud too fast."

Kaylie was quiet for a moment. Then her voice softened. "You're scared." I shrugged. "Yeah. But I'm also... not. And that's maybe scarier." She sighed, slinging an arm around my shoulder. "Okay. But if he hurts you—"

"You'll ruin his life. Yeah. I know."

"No. I'll-" she made a cutting motion at her neck, "and then bury him in the backyard."

"Okay...slightly disturbing." I chuckle. "No, but seriously El, I want you to tell me these things."

I nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch between us. Kaylie leaned against the counter, her expression softening. "So... was it real? What he told you?"

"Yeah." I looked at her. "More real than I expected. He talked about his dad. And how he used to push people away before they could leave. Like he was trying to prove something."

She bit her lip. "That sounds… terrifyingly familiar."

"Yeah." I glanced at the floor. "He was just… different, Kaylie. Not in a 'he's changed' way. But... like he stopped pretending for a second, and I saw him. The real him."

"And what did you see?"

I thought about it. The way his voice cracked. The way he held onto my hand like it grounded him. The way he said, Please don't ever stop looking at me like that.

"A mess," I said finally. "But not a bad one. Just… a hurting one."

Kaylie was quiet for a moment, then she said, "You always see people that way. Like you can read between the bruises."

I snorted. "That's poetic, coming from someone who once broke up with a guy via group chat."

She grinned. "He called me by his ex's name. Twice. He deserved it"

"Okay, valid."

She nudged my shoulder. "So... you like him. Like, like-like him."

I rolled my eyes. "God, don't say it like we're in second grade."

"But you do."

I hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. I think I do. But it's terrifying."

Kaylie smiled a little. "Welcome to feelings. They suck."

"No argument here."

She looked at me for a second longer, then said, "Just promise me if he messes this up, you won't let it wreck you." I held her gaze. "I promise."

"And if it turns into something good?" I smiled. "Then you'll be the first to know. After he climbs back out of the window, of course." Kaylie rolled her eyes. "You're lucky I love you." I bumped her arm. "Back at you, psycho."

We stood in the kitchen like that for a moment—like things weren't heavy, even though they were.

~~~~

Harper groaned as the printer jammed for the third time. "This thing hates us."

I balanced a stack of history books on my lap while simultaneously trying to highlight a paragraph without smudging the ink. "Maybe it knows we're not actually ready for the Civil War presentation."

Across the table, Mason and Lizzy, the other two members of our group, were deep in debate. Mason insisted the North's economy was the most important factor in winning the war, while Lizzy argued it was all about leadership and strategy.

"Guys, can we agree it was probably a mess of everything?" I said, glancing between them. "Or this presentation is going to be a disaster."

Harper smirked and flopped her head onto the table. "Speak for yourself. I'm ready to charm Mrs. Caldwell into giving us an A just for effort."

Mason rolled his eyes. "Good luck with that. I'm just here to make sure you don't short circuit the whole system with all your 'charm.'"

Lizzy laughed quietly. "Don't jinx it."

Elyse let out a breath and smiled despite herself. For a few minutes, the stress of everything else — Jordan, school, life — faded away into the chaos of a group project and the endless debate over who really won the Civil War.

~~~~

Jordan Gallagher.

The sun was too damn bright.

Or maybe it was just my brain running at a million miles an hour.

Either way, I didn't see the ball coming until it smacked me clean across the face.

"Jesus, Gallagher!"

I stumbled back a step, blinking stars out of my vision as Coach Fulton blew his whistle and the scrimmage ground to a halt.

"You good?" Theo jogged over, half-worried, half-laughing.

"Yeah," I muttered, waving him off. "Just zoned out."

Zoned out was an understatement. I'd been thinking about Elyse again. Or—more accurately—still.

She was in my head like a song you couldn't stop humming, even after you forgot the words. The way she'd looked at me this morning, like I wasn't just some walking cliché. Like maybe I could actually be worth something if I stopped running from the parts of me that hurt.

And her voice, soft in the dark: Then don't be alone. It was echoing now, louder than the drills, the shouting, the thud of cleats on turf.

"You sure you're okay?" Theo asked again, handing me the ball. I nodded. "Yeah. Just tired." He shrugged and jogged back into position. I stayed behind for a second, pressing the ball to my chest like it might keep me grounded. Tired wasn't the right word. I was wrecked. And not from soccer.

From her.

From the way she held my hand like it was something steady. From the way she didn't pull away when I cracked open. From the way she looked at me—like maybe I wasn't broken beyond repair.

And the thing was… I didn't want to stop thinking about her.

That was the part that scared me most.

After practice, I peeled off my cleats and sat on the edge of the bench, shirt sticking to my back, hair still damp. My head was fine—minus the bruise to my pride—but the ache behind my ribs hadn't gone away. If anything, it had gotten worse.

I checked my phone.

No messages.

Not that I expected one. Elyse wasn't the type to send a "you up?" text, and I wasn't the type to admit I wanted her to.

I hovered over her name anyway.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Me:

you doing okay?

Pause.

Three dots. Then nothing.

I stared at the screen for a beat longer than I should've. I threw my phone in my gym bag like it offended me.

What was I doing?

This wasn't me. I didn't wait around hoping some girl liked me back. I didn't wake up next to people and feel like my chest might split open because it felt real. I didn't tell anyone about my dad. Except I had.

To her.

And she hadn't looked at me like I was broken. She'd just held my hand and let me breathe. No one had ever done that.

I tug my hoodie over my head and walk toward the locker room.

The truth is, I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to feel things and not screw them up. I don't know how to want someone and not ruin it just by wanting too much. I don't know how to trust that she meant it when she said I didn't have to be alone.

But I want to try. For the first time in a long time, I wanted something more.

And her name was Elyse.

The locker room was its usual mess of sweat, Axe body spray, and half-shouted banter. I was lacing up my sneakers when I caught a conversation across the bench.

"Bro, you see that Ava at the party Friday? Tight shirt, zero shame.""Yeah, she looked like she came ready to get ruined."Laughter. Loud. Gross.

I rolled my eyes, kept tying.

But then Nate—because of course it was Nate—kept going. "Not that Gallagher would notice. He's been busy playing nursemaid to Little Miss Honors English."

My jaw tightened.

Zeke snorted. "Oh yeah, what's her name? Elyse? The one who blushes when you say the word thrust?"

A few of them cracked up. I didn't.

Then Nate, the walking definition of 'too much testosterone, not enough brain cells,' said, "You tapping that yet, Gallagher? Or is she still saving herself for marriage? Might need a little encouragement. What do you say, man—you gonna fix that or should I?"

My vision blurred.

I stood up.

"What did you just say?"

Nate raised a brow. "Calm down, lover boy. Didn't think you got feelings."

"Talk about her like that again," I said, voice low, "and I swear to God—"

He smirked. "What, you gonna fight me over a girl you haven't even—"

My fist connected with his face before he finished the sentence.

The locker room exploded. People yelling, hands grabbing at shirts, coaches screaming. I didn't care. All I saw was red.

He didn't get to talk about her like that.

No one did.