Sanders hasn't told Becks he loves her since the date.

He's gotten used to saying those three little words every morning when he wakes her up. It's like a little prayer, a reminder, a thing to do before breakfast. Sanders means saying it. He does. He's put so much meaning into those words after he knew, when the mere mention of Becks's name made the butterflies in his stomach go wild.

But after the date, somehow, in some way, it felt wrong. The words felt wrong on his tongue. Love seemed like a word too scratched, too abstract—a word he used when Becks kissed him for the first time, when his fingertips came alive just by touching her skin. It was new, then.

This—whatever he feels for Becks after spending an entire night with her, after holding her hand in his pocket—seems old. Like it's been living somewhere in his brain, chest, belly, fingers—the halls of his heart. It feels like it's crawling, it feels like watching a show for the hundredth time and still getting angry at the ending—and it feels less like something Sanders dove into and more like something he's swimming in. He's been swimming. Floating on his back, head turned toward the sky.

So he doesn't say the words. He lets them rest on his tongue, lets his lips fall shut and instead turn up, his instinct to smile kicking in whenever Becks buries herself further into her pillows, her curls splayed all over her face.

He's not expecting anything. He's not expecting anything from Becks. He knows where he stands, he knows what she feels for Maxon—one date isn't going to change that.

So when she drops by the volleyball court completely unannounced, while Sanders is playing his game, he almost misses the ball going straight at him. Thankfully, his body starts moving before his brain does, and he's able to catch it, raise it to the air, before running to spike it down.

The blockers jump up, but the ball goes through their hands. The other team's players dive to catch it, but they miss.

His team claps him on the back, but Sanders's attention is on the bleachers. He tilts his head at Becks, a silent question in the raise of his eyebrows.

She's with Adan. They're both in a sports bra and leggings. Becks waves at him, like she's dismissing him, telling him to focus on his game.

Sanders tries his best. He really does. He doesn't know why Becks is here, but his palms start sweating, and his senses go into haywire—like he's more aware of his teammates, more aware of his opponents, more aware of the ball.

His team wins. Of course they do. They tap their hands with the other team's across the net, and then Sanders and Rosen are jogging to the bleachers, completely forgetting about the need for water.

"Hey," Sanders says, sitting beside Becks. He's panting, still catching his breath. He leans on his palms behind him and asks, "Your training ended early?"

"We finished on time," she says, passing him her water bottle. "You guys are ending late. We thought we'd drop by."

The volleyball court is on the opposite side of the campus's gates. When Sanders isn't done, she'd usually go ahead and eat somewhere with Adan, or go home and shower. She doesn't like wasting her energy walking to the court when the gym is nearer.

So Sanders can't fathom why exactly she's here. He's scared. He gulps down the water and asks, furrowing his eyebrows, "Did I do something wrong?"

She turns her head to look at him. "What?"

"Did I...forget to do something?" Sanders tries, blinking. "Tell me. I promise I'll do better."

She purses her lips, like she's trying not to smile, and tosses the towel slung over her shoulder in his face. "You didn't do anything wrong, idiot," Becks mutters, rolling her eyes. "What, we can't watch you play? Adan has been—oh, for fuck's sake."

The pair are making out beside them. Rosen's hand is on Adan's bottom.

Sanders uses her towel to wipe the sweat off his face. He's grinning. "You've never watched me play practice games."

Becks is looking at the court when she answers, "I felt bad for missing your game. Before. And I wanted to see you play."

Sanders's eyebrows raise. They reach his hairline. "For missing my—when you went to Maxon's?"

Becks turns her head to glare at him. "Yes," she snaps. "When I went to Maxon's. If you don't want me here, say it and I'll leave. I'm hungry."

He's laughing. Oh, how triumphant he feels. He actually made Becks feel guilty about Maxon!

His cheeks hurt from smiling. He drops his head on Becks's shoulder and whispers, "Don't leave. Of course I want you here."

Becks huffs. "You're sweaty," she whines, but she doesn't push him away. "Are you playing one more game?"

Sanders hums, nodding against her shoulder.

She huffs again. "Fine. I'll watch the rest of it. We're getting food after."

Sanders grins. "Deal."

Rosen notices—Sanders is showing off.

"Stop showing off, dick," Rosen tells him, just as the ball is being served. "You're bragging."

"And you're disgusting," Sanders counters. "I have no idea why Adan likes you."

"She's just as nasty as I am—mine!" Rosen yells that last part, receiving the ball just in time.

And then they're back in the game, and Sanders can't help but show off, and every time he looks at the bleachers, Becks's eyes are on him.

(Sanders's team wins. Of course they do.)

It's those little things at first. Visiting him at the court, watching him play practice games. Thanking him for the milk. Getting up before he comes back from his run to make a small breakfast (berry and yogurt smoothie, oatmeal with egg, cottage cheese with tomatoes and pumpkin seeds, apple cinnamon oats, a ready bowl of cereal). Becks is shit in the kitchen, but Sanders likes everything she makes, even if it's a simple, no-need-for-the-stove thing.

"How'd you learn how to make this?" he asks, shoving a spoonful of peanut butter and banana oats in his mouth. "Like, where did you get the idea to make all of these? I didn't even know we had oats."

"I researched," Becks answers, sitting across from him, blinking at him. "Is it good?"

"Hell yeah," Sanders says.

Sometimes, Maxon joins them. Becks makes him a bowl, too. It's not every day—Becks making breakfast—but it's enough days in the week and Sanders loves it. He loves it more when Maxon isn't there.

And then, Sanders is peeling egg shells from the boiled eggs, sitting on the counter, and Becks joins him, cracking an egg slightly open. "Do you think about that time you fucked me?"

Sanders chokes on his saliva. "Hell, give me a warning," he chokes out, hitting his chest. Suho is watching the television, munching on—on something he stole from their refrigerator, and he cannot believe Becks is asking him this question with a kid a few feet away from them. "Why are you asking?"

Becks shrugs. She leans across the table and focuses on the egg she's peeling. "I was just curious."

He doesn't know the correct answer to this.

Sure. He will admit—he thought about it every time his bed has those sheets on—the dark blue sheets his mattress was wearing when they had sex. It's impossible not to. Becks's hands had been fisting them. Sanders remembers thinking her skin looked good in blue. It looks good in anything—but her skin, on his bed, with dark blue sheets—Sanders remembers thinking he loved it. He remembers the feel of them on his knees, under his elbows, legs tangled with hers. He remembers bringing them to the laundry, feeling his face heat, because they had been stained.

He thought about it every time he tried to get into bed with another person. (He left before anything could go further than making out.)

He thought about it every time—sure, he's a healthy, young male—every time he was alone and his hand had sneaked down his boxers.

He thought about it every time Becks was on his bed. Not crying. Not during the Sad Days—never during the Sad Days. He'd never take advantage of her like that. But, but—when Becks has nothing to do and she just wants to annoy him, and she flops down on his bed like she owns it, laying on her stomach, her hair spread over her face. Sanders remembers threading his fingers in them. When she tackles him while he's napping, and tickles him just because, demanding for food. The memory crosses his mind briefly, like a sudden jolt, and then he shakes his head and tries to think about something else.

So, sure. More times than he would care to admit. It's not like Becks thought about it. "Sometimes," he answers quietly. Suho might hear them. "Why?"

She's still peeling the same egg. She doesn't look at him. "Have you...since then...?"

Sanders doesn't know why she's asking. He thought she'd bury the memory in a box forever and throw the key away. It's not exactly a good memory—she was crying when Sanders told her he loved her. "Have you?"

"No," she murmurs, cheeks flushing. She raises her head and looks at him, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. "You were my first."

And only. So far.

She wasn't his first, but Sanders wished she were. "Becks, why are you asking? I don't understand."

Becks finally finishes the egg. It's a little distorted, but she peeled off the shell completely. She puts it in the bowl, with the others Sanders had finished peeling. "Just curious," she says, pointing to the bowl. "Can I have one?"

Sanders nods mutely. She grabs two and feeds the other to Suho, sitting next to him on the couch.

There's that.

There's also Rosen messaging him at ten in the evening. Are you seeing someone

Sanders is playing a game on his phone. He grunts in annoyance and types his reply. As in dating or hallucinations ?

The fact that I have to specify—dating. Dating, man. Adan's making me ask you

Sanders's eyebrow raises. Why is she asking ?

Apparently, becks thinks you're dating scarlet? Or liam?

Sanders groans out loud. Why does she think that? Im literally married. To HER

Dunno, you could b having an affair. Clear it up w her pls adan has been bugging me it's getting annoying hearing your name come out of her mouth

Sanders tosses his phone on his bed and stands. In seconds, he's knocking on Becks's door, and she yells at him to come in.

She's watching something on her phone. It's Avatar. Of course it is. Sanders flops down beside her on his stomach, and asks, "Why do you think I'm dating Scarlet or Liam?"

She shushes him. "Zuko's talking. It's a very important part."

"Every fucking scene with Zuko is important," Sanders grumbles, reaching out to toss her phone away. It lands somewhere on her sheets, Sanders doesn't care. "Answer me."

Becks huffs. She meets his gaze. "I don't know. You've been distant."

Sanders's eyebrows raise. He can't help but laugh. He's not distant. He's anything but distant. If anything, it's Becks who's—who's acting weird. She still loses on purpose to Maxon. She still combs her hair, straightens it, doesn't wear her joggers or basketball shorts when he's around, and she still watches what she eats (and makes up for it afterwards, she doesn't want a repeat of what happened), and goes with him when he wants those little donuts on a stick. It's clear she still likes him, and Sanders is trying really hard to ignore it, but it's difficult when Becks is acting weird around Sanders. Making breakfast, watching him play, asking him if he thinks about that time they fucked. "I have not been distant."

Becks clears her throat. "I don't know. Just seems like you're dating someone."

"Explain," he demands, wanting to know. "Because I don't seem like I am. I don't understand."

Becks groans loudly. She glares at him. "Figure it out."

"Don't give me that bullshit," he says. "Tell me."

She groans loudly again. Turns around. Buries her head in her pillow. "You haven't been saying it," she mutters, so quietly, so muffled against her pillow, that Sanders almost doesn't catch it. "So I thought you might be dating someone."

Oh. Oh. OH.

Sanders laughs. It's a laugh that says this is fucking unbelievable. He can't. He has tears in his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he breathes out, in between chuckles, grinning like a fool. "You—Becks. I can't believe you."

"So you are?" she snaps, sitting up and furrowing her eyebrows together. She's looking at him like—like she's mad. "You're dating Liam? Scarlet? Which one?"

Sanders's laugh becomes louder.

"Go to sleep," he says, still grinning, standing up. "We have school tomorrow."

Becks doesn't like that answer. "Sanders," she snaps.

"Night," he sings, shutting her door closed.

He's smiling when he lies down. Even when he closes his eyes. He doesn't know how he drifts off to sleep, but eventually, he does.

Becks is pestering him for an answer the very next morning. Sanders woke her up, gave her the milk, and turned around to leave, but she grasped his wrist before he can. She's glaring at him. "It's Scarlet, isn't it?"

"No," Sanders says, lips turning up slowly. She's so—she's so annoyed about this. It's refreshing. Sanders feels his chest grow warm. "S'not Liam, either. Stop asking me and come out for breakfast, okay? Maxon left already, so you don't need to comb your hair and shit."

Becks's lips press into a thin line. "Fine," she grumbles, swinging her legs over the side of her bed, putting on her glasses and pushing them up to her nose. She's taking her milk with her. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know, anyway."

Sanders barks out a laugh. "Okay, liar."

"Get out."

He snickers and leaves her room. Becks is trying her very best to ignore him.

Even when he drops by the gym with Rosen after his training. Becks doesn't acknowledge him—she's focused on a huge punching bag, and she looks absolutely murderous.

Adan lifts up on her tiptoes to kiss Rosen. "Hey, Rush," she says, smiling at him. "I think Becks is imagining the bag as you."

"Hot," Sanders says, chuckling. Becks is ruthless. It's just a bag, but she's hurting it too much. Sanders winces at every punch she pulls. "She's jealous."

"She's not jealous, she's angry."

"Tomato, toh-mato." He grins, crossing his arms over his chest. "Maybe I should ask Scarlet out again."

"Dude," Rosen says, shaking his head. "I think Becks is going to murder you. She thinks you're replacing her or something, she needs your attention back at a hundred. On her."

"She was like that when you went on dates. But less murderous."

Sanders's smile grows wider. "She's being unfair."

"Well," Adan starts, shrugging, "she's never had to fight for your attention before."

Sanders snorts. If only she knew how hard he's been fighting for hers. With Maxon. Who has a few inches on him—it's like kicking a puppy, too. "She's fighting with herself," he mutters fondly, shaking his head.

Becks doesn't accept the water bottle Sanders offers. He looks stupid holding it out, but he can't help but grin. She rummages inside her bag for her own towel, too. Doesn't look at him.

Sanders laughs. He follows her out the gym. "Babe."

"Don't call me that."

"Baby," he says, biting his lip. She's so—she's so mad. "Stop—you're so petty. Come on, talk to me."

Becks swivels around. She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, her boxing gloves swing wildly in her hand. "What?"

Sanders bites his lip. He closes the distance between them, leaning down to level his face with hers. She's like an angry little hamster. "Why are you so mad?" Sanders asks, bumping his forehead with hers. "Are you that mad because I'm not telling you who I'm supposedly dating?"

"And I thought we were best friends," she grumbles pettily.

"Right." Sanders rolls his eyes, standing straight and shoving his hands inside his pockets. "Right. Thing is, I'm not dating anyone. You're jumping to conclusions."

Becks looks like she doesn't believe him. "Liar."

"This is unfair, you know," he tells her, exhaling heavily. The next words that come out of his mouth are supposed to sound like a joke. Supposed to. "How are you allowed to be mad about this but I'm not allowed to be jealous of your feelings for Maxon?"

"Who said you're not allowed?" Becks snaps. "You're not jealous of Maxon, anyway."

"Who said I wasn't?"

"Are you?"

"Of course I am," Sanders answers exasperatedly, scoffing. This is fucking unbelievable. "Of course I am, Becks, how the fuck could I not be?"

Becks pauses for a second, but then she says, "There's nothing to be jealous about. He has Kaitlyn."

"That doesn't mean I enjoy you making googly eyes at him."

"I don't make googly eyes at him."

"You act different around him—for him."

"And you?" Becks says, frowning. "You went out on one date and suddenly you're with—whoever it is you're with."

"How many times—look, see." Sanders grits his teeth. "You—you want my attention on you, but I can't have the same. That's a little selfish, don't you think?"

Becks stares at him.

It's quiet for a while. Sanders doesn't know what to say.

They're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, arguing about their jealousy, when they aren't even fucking together.

"We're not even together," Sanders voices out. "We're not together, why are you angry?"

"Yeah, we're not together," Becks says angrily. "So why are you jealous?"

"Because I want us to be," Sanders snaps. "I want us to be together. What about you?"

Becks swallows the lump in her throat. And then she opens her mouth to answer, and—

"Cal?"

Becks turns around.

It's Maxon. He looks confused. He's still in his jersey and cleats, and he's sweating, and he's staring at her.

Becks is in a huge, ratty shirt with the words Bellevue Sports University Boxing Team in bold. She's in basketball shorts. She's holding her boxing gloves in one hand.

Sanders shuts his eyes. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Hey," Maxon says, walking towards them. "You—I saw you two come from the gym. I was on my way back from the badminton court..."

"We were trying out something new," Sanders says quickly, trying for a smile.

The soccer player isn't looking at him. He's looking at Becks, like he's waiting for an answer.

Becks is frozen. "I—" she starts, inhaling shakily. Her hand grips her gloves, knuckles turning white. "Maxon, I—"

"You're not a badminton player, are you?"

It's not even angry. Maxon isn't even—he doesn't look pissed. He just looks like—like he wants to hear the truth from her. He wants to know why she lied to him.

Sanders can hear Becks's heart racing.

"No," she says quietly. She bows her head. "I'm so sorry for lying. Maxon, I'm sorry."

"Hey," Maxon says, worried. He steps closer to her. "Hey, Cal, it's okay. Don't feel bad. I don't know why you felt like you needed to hide this from me, but it's no big deal. It's cool, I promise."

And this—this might be the reason why Becks likes him.

Maxon is kind. He's kind.

"No, it's not," Becks is saying, and her shoulders are shaking. She covers her face with one hand. "I've been lying to you for months," she whispers.

Maxon looks at Sanders helplessly.

Sanders sighs. "Becks."

"Cal, I promise it's okay," Maxon says softly, kneeling down so he can see her face. His eyebrows are drawn together. He's really worried. "Cal, don't—don't cry. I'm not mad, I'm not angry. I'm just a little—confused? But I promise it's okay, I think it's super cool."

Becks doesn't say anything. Maxon stands up and hugs her, patting her back and ruffling her hair.

Sanders feels like he shouldn't be here. This is for them to talk about. "I'll meet you guys at home," Sanders says, turning around. He starts running.

Becks and Maxon come home a few hours later. She's smiling. They have ice cream in their hands.

"She told me it was because she was afraid I'd laugh at her," Maxon says later, while Becks is in the shower, and he winces. "Or that I'd see her differently. Which is—really kind of funny, I think boxing suits her. It makes sense. I don't know why she'd think I'd see her differently."

Because she likes you, you fucking dumbass, Sanders's brain supplies, but he says instead, "So what now?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're good with it?"

Maxon blinks. Tilts his head. "Why wouldn't I be? It's her life. It's her sport. I shouldn't have a say in it."

Sanders takes a deep breath. He nods. "Okay. Um. Thanks, I guess."

"I care about her," Maxon mutters, bowing his head. "She must think I'm really mean if she thought I'd—I don't know, laugh at her over this. See her differently. She's still the shy, goofy, always half-asleep Cal I know. Who apparently is great at boxing."

Becks comes to his room later that night. Sanders knew she would. He scoots over and makes space, and Becks slips inside the covers, easily going to his arms.

"How do you feel?" Sanders asks quietly, brushing her hair with his hand.

"Great," Becks says. And then a sob comes out of her mouth, and then she's crying in his shirt.

"Maxon said he's not mad," Sanders mutters, sighing. He shuts his eyes at the sound of her sobbing. Hurting. "Why're you crying, Becks?"

It takes a few moments for her to answer. "Because he's too nice," she whispers. "Because he's too sweet. Because—because he knows now, and there's no way he's going to see me as a girl."

Sanders is—Sanders feels those words tug at his chest, slither around his ribs, wrap themselves around his heart. He's stupid. He's fucking stupid for hoping.

Still. This is Becks. And before anything else, before Sanders's unwanted feelings—he's her best friend first.

So he swallows down his hurt and says, "Boxing doesn't make you any less of a girl, Becks."

"A woman who does boxing is impressive," she says against his shirt, burying her head further in his chest. The bedsheets feel rough. "But she's not...she's not beautiful. Well, at least, I think I'm not."

Sanders is her best friend first. And who is Sanders Rush, her best friend, if not flirty and annoying? "You are. It turns me on. What are you talking about?"

She huffs out a laugh. It's a tired laugh, a laugh that takes most of her energy to muster up, exhausted from the crying and the hurting and everything today—but it's a laugh, nonetheless. "I don't," she starts, taking a deep breath, inhaling shakily, "I don't want a guy I like to come to any of my matches. We punch people. We get aggressive. That can be scary for some guys, they might not find it attractive that—that a girl is stronger than them. It's not exactly...something guys would want to watch. You don't like watching me."

"Not because I'm scared of you," Sanders bites out, annoyed. "Not because I hate that you're stronger than me, not because I don't think you're attractive—but because I don't like seeing you getting hurt. I can't stand it. Come on, Becks. You—you know me better than that."

"You're not most guys."

"You mean I'm not Maxon."

Becks lifts her head. There are no flames in her eyes. "No," she mutters, staring at him. "No, I mean, you're different. From everyone else."

What good is that if you're looking at Maxon, Becks?

Sanders stares back at her. She's close. She's too close. His fingers are itching. The little Sanders are holding their breaths, like they're waiting for him to make a move.

He doesn't. Becks came to him because she's sad. Because she needs him, his comfort, his warmth. She doesn't need his feelings, his unwanted advances, his—whatever it is he wants to give her. Becks doesn't want it.

So he sighs and pulls her to his chest. Becks wraps an arm around his waist. "Go to sleep."

"Sanders," she whispers, fisting his shirt with one hand.

Sanders hums. Closes his eyes.

"I love you."

It's not the same kind of love. It's not the love Sanders feels for her.

He says, despite the ache in his bones, the quietness in his lungs, the sinking feeling of his heart to the pit of his stomach, "You should."

Becks is smiling when she says, "Dumbass."

Sanders waits for her breathing to slow. He waits until she's asleep, and then he cries.

His moms never said loving someone was this painful.

*

thoughts in the comments pls :c thank you sm for reading ! <3