Chapter 1: The Script Everyone Else Wrote
Jalen was pretty sure the entire sophomore class had a group chat dedicated to his future relationship with Naomi. It was the only explanation for how synchronized the teasing was.
"So," Marcus drawled, spinning a basketball on his finger in the cafeteria line. "You taking Naomi to the Winter Formal? Or are you gonna make the rest of us wait another three months to watch the rom-com unfold?"
Jalen rolled his eyes, grabbing a carton of chocolate milk. "There is no rom-com, Marcus. It's lunch. And we're just friends."
"Friends who share fries," Marcus pointed out. "Friends who finish each other's sentences. Friends who look at each other like—"
"Like I'm about to steal his milk if he doesn't shut up," Naomi said, sliding into the spot next to Jalen. She bumped his shoulder with hers, a move so practiced it felt like muscle memory.
Jalen grinned, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. Naomi was safe. Naomi was easy. She smelled like vanilla shampoo and she always knew when he needed a distraction. "See? She hates me."
"I tolerate you," Naomi corrected, opening her own milk. "There's a difference."
"Whatever you say, future Mrs. Carter-Roberts," Marcus sing-songed before wandering off to find a table.
Naomi shook her head, but Jalen caught the tiny, pleased smile she tried to hide behind her hand. It was the same smile she gave whenever their moms cooed over them in church, or when teachers paired them up for projects assuming they'd work best together. Everyone treated their relationship like a foregone conclusion. A done deal. A package deal.
Jalen laughed along with the jokes. He let his arm rest on the back of her chair. He let the world assume he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
But looking at Naomi—really looking at her—felt like looking at a favorite cousin. There was warmth, sure, but no heat. No friction. No spark that made his hands sweat or his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Your mom asked mine if we wanted to ride together to the game Friday," Naomi said, ripping open a bag of chips. "I told her we'd probably just get a ride with you, but you know how she is."
Jalen nodded, his stomach doing a slow, uncomfortable roll. "Yeah. Sounds good."
It did sound good. It sounded perfect. It sounded like the life he was supposed to want.
Then the cafeteria doors swung open, and the noise level in the room seemed to dip by half.
Micah walked in.
He was wearing his varsity jacket, the sleeves pushed up to show forearms that had gotten way too defined over the summer. He was laughing at something one of the other juniors said, a head tilt that exposed the sharp line of his jaw. He looked effortless. He looked like trouble.
Jalen's breath hitched. It was a physical reaction, Pavlovian and humiliating. He gripped his chocolate milk carton until the cardboard crinkled.
Micah was Naomi's older brother. He was two years older, infinitely cooler, and completely off-limits in every way that mattered. He was the guy who ruffled Jalen's hair and called him "little man" even though they were only inches apart in height now. He was the guy who had occupied the back corner of Jalen's brain since he was thirteen and realized that *wanting* could feel like hunger.
Micah's gaze swept the room, casual and detached, until it landed on their table.
Or maybe, just maybe, it landed on Jalen.
For a split second, Micah stopped laughing. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto Jalen's. It wasn't a glance. It was a weight. Jalen felt it press down on his shoulders, hot and heavy. He felt seen in a way that made him want to crawl under the table and stand up on top of it at the same time.
Micah didn't wave. He didn't smirk. He just looked. And then, as if someone had cut a string, he looked away, turning back to his friends with a shrug that looked almost forced.
"Ugh," Naomi groaned, snapping Jalen back to reality. "He's in one of his moods. Ignore him."
Jalen forced his fingers to unclench around the milk. "Who?"
"Micah," she said, rolling her eyes. "He's been weird all week. Quiet. I think he's stressing about college scouts or something. He barely even speaks to me anymore."
Jalen swallowed hard. "Yeah. Probably."
"Anyway," Naomi said, her bright eyes turning back to him. "Are you coming over after school? We can study for History. My mom said she'd order pizza."
The offer hung there, cozy and domestic. It was everything Jalen thought he wanted. But his eyes drifted back to the senior table, to Micah, who was currently staring at his phone with a furrowed brow, looking lonely in the middle of a crowd.
Micah never felt like he belonged, not really. Jalen had noticed it over the years—the way Micah held himself apart, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he was waiting for someone to actually *want* him around, not just his status or his jump shot.
"Jalen?" Naomi asked, waving a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Jalen. Pizza? History? The looming threat of failing Mr. Henderson's class?"
Jalen blinked, tearing his gaze away from the boy who made his chest ache to look at the girl who made him feel safe.
"Yeah," Jalen said, the word tasting like ash. "I'll be there. Pizza sounds perfect."
He picked up his tray, his heart beating a rhythm that felt all wrong. He was walking toward the table where he belonged, but his head was turned backward, wishing he was brave enough to walk the other way.