Rosen is grinning ear to ear. He and Maxon are cooking breakfast in the kitchen, and Becks is making coffee. Suho's still fucking crashed on the couch, one leg on the floor.

Sanders's head hurts.

"My dude got laid!" Rosen yells, jumping up to him, grabbing Sanders in a chokehold and ruffling his hair. "How was it, rate it from one to ten, how many times did you come—"

"Shut up," Sanders says, pushing him off, rubbing his fingers on his temple. "My head is fucking throbbing."

"Here," Becks pipes up, shooting him a small smile. She offers him his mug with coffee. "This might help. Sit down, Maxon's almost done with breakfast."

"Thanks." He takes a sip.

And then, suddenly—

Flashes. Last night. No, not last night. Early this morning. Becks calling him. Them going home together, Becks tucking him in.

Horror suddenly crashes into his body like waves. Did he say something stupid? Did he do something stupid? Did he puke on Becks?

But she's smiling at him. She's swatting Maxon away when he tries to grab the syrup out of her hold. Her face and eyes are bright, and she's still wearing the same hoodie and shorts from last night. This morning. Whichever. She gave him coffee.

His shoulders slump with relief. He sits down, and Rosen's still grilling him with questions, but Sanders doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to think about it, either.

Eventually, his friend lets it go, annoyed he's keeping his mouth shut, but lets it go nonetheless.

Becks doesn't ask, either. She dumps a pancake on his plate. "Eat up."

Sanders smiles at her. "Thank you. For last night."

"Don't mention it," she says, rolling her eyes. "You owe me. Now eat. I'll go wake the fish."

So everything's fine. Everything's fine—he's having breakfast with Becks and with his friends, and he got—well, he got laid. That's one thing. The last time he had sex was almost two years ago. Sheesh.

Even so. Why does he feel...anxious?

Sanders can feel the agitation seep into his bones like second skin. Like a blanket hovering over a cold body—casket. Whichever works.

His chest feels heavy, his tongue feels like it doesn't belong in his mouth, and weirdly enough, whenever he looks at Becks, he feels a sting—just a sting. A small, painful prick of a needle, like it's purposely trying to draw out blood.

He doesn't know what it is.

He's thinking about it as he and Becks pay for the groceries. Maxon tagged along, since he's usually doing the cooking around the house, and left to meet up with his girlfriend. (He's paying for his absurd amount of snacks and bread, so. All good.)

Sanders takes his bottom lip into his teeth as he watches the cashier scan the barcodes, rubbing his hands over his arms, feeling his skin itch. Beside him, Becks is humming, tapping her fingers on her wallet, carefully checking every item they're paying for.

Sanders doesn't know what it is. He hears her hum ring across his ears, and Sanders winces.

"Thank you!" Becks chirps, handing over their cash, gathering three of the paper bags in her arms. Sanders lurches forward to help with the last, and then they're leaving the store.

"Give me another one," he says, jogging over to fall into step beside her.

"I can handle it," she says easily. And it is. Easy. Becks doesn't have a problem with weights—she's carried him home countless times. "Just unlock the door."

They unload the groceries together, just as they always do, when it was just the two of them here. They move around the kitchen in coordination—Sanders tucking away the meat and the vegetables, the onions and garlic, while Becks handles the fruits, the drinks, the snacks. Even like this, even comfortable like this—a purposeful "thing" he and Becks used to do before Maxon came along—Sanders's skin itches.

Irritated, he forcefully drops the broccoli he was holding in his hand onto the kitchen counter, spreading his palms out, hanging his head, taking a deep breath.

He feels Becks move closer to him. "Sanders? You okay?"

"No," he bites out through gritted teeth, shutting his eyes. "Fuck, I don't know. I've been so out of it. Ever since that—that night I got drunk."

Becks hums noncommittally, taking the soda to the fridge. "I noticed. You've been quiet while we were picking out the greens. You're usually picky about the stuff you put in your salad."

Sanders exhales heavily and turns around, crossing his arms over his chest. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he raises his gaze.

Ah. Sting.

Becks is tiptoeing as she peers inside the fridge. "Huh. I didn't know we still had pineapple juice in here. I think it's expired."

"Becks."

"Mm?" She reaches inside and pulls the pineapple juice out, turning it over in her hands with a scrunch in her eyebrows. Then, she makes a face of disgust. "Oh, Jesus, it's been expired for seven months."

"Did I..." Sanders gulps, choosing his words carefully. "Did I do something? Then? I mean, aside from waking you up at the asscrack of dawn and asking you to come and pick me up. Did I do something stupid?"

"You said I was a better fuck than whoever you fucked that night. Does that count?"

Sanders...Sanders's mouth falls open.

Oh, fuck. Oh, oh, fuck. Jesus Christ. Fuck.

Becks throws the pineapple juice in the trash can. She picks up the newly-bought bottles, not sparing him a glance, and stacks them in the refrigerator. "Oh, you got some lychee for me!" she exclaims, grinning, turning over a can. "I'll have to blend this with milk—I think Suho will like it, too. What do you think?"

Sanders has an emergency alarm going off in his head.

When...when did he say that? Why did he say that? Did he mean that his one-night-stand was nothing but lust, but the opposite with Becks? Did she say it verbatim? No. No, he couldn't have. Even if he meant it, Sanders wouldn't have...he wouldn't have spoken so cruelly towards Becks. Becks. His best friend—fucking, did he really say—

"Your face is doing that thing again," Becks tells him, lifting her eyebrows, finishing with the juice cans. She opens up another paper bag and gestures to his face with her hand in the air, like her palm's going around in a circle. "It's doing five things at once. Don't worry about it, Sanders." She purses her lips, like she's trying to hold in a grin. Why. Why is she grinning? It's not funny, or amusing. Not in the slightest. "It's fine. It's a compliment, actually. Kind of."

"It's not fine," Sanders says. "What did I say, exactly?"

Becks shakes her head. She's putting away the chips now. "I'm sure you didn't mean it that way. It's okay, Sanders."

"What did I say?" he repeats. Slower this time.

Becks takes a deep breath. Doesn't look at him. "Verbatim. You were a better fuck."

Sanders feels his bones crush in anguish before her sentence is over.

"Becks," Sanders whispers, shutting his eyes, head hanging low in shame and guilt. It's been...it's been two weeks since then. Since that night, and—and he didn't even know, and Becks wasn't going to tell him if he didn't ask, just so he wouldn't feel this way—"Becks," he says again, choking on the word, gripping the counter. "Becks, I'm sorry. I am so sorry—I didn't...I was trying to say something else, I wasn't implying...or—or suggesting you were just a fuck I had to get out of my system, and it was your first time, and fuck." He takes a staggering breath. His thoughts are all over the fucking place. "I'm sorry, it was cruel, and demeaning, and I—"

"Wouldn't have said it if you didn't mean it," Becks finishes, finally turning to look at him, and God. God. She's not even, she's not even mad. Why isn't she mad? She should've...beat the shit out of him when he said that. She should've kicked him in the nuts, but no, her eyes are sincere, and warm—"It's okay if you meant it, Sanders. Don't apologize."

"That's not the point," Sanders chokes out, breath shaky, voice shaky, fingers shaky. "That's not—I hurt you."

A smile. "I hurt you all the time."

"Becks!" Sanders shouts, and Becks flinches.

The rare, few times Sanders has ever raised his voice...they were not as unkind as the previous, when it was cold but Becks wasn't, when she found out it was him who told Maxon, when he almost lost her—but still unkind, nonetheless.

"Becks, Jesus." Sanders is crying. There are tears on his face, and he's sinking down to the floor, eyes blurred with wetness, heart heavy with pain and guilt and shame. How could he...how could he say that? To her? "Just because you hurt me before doesn't mean...doesn't mean it's okay for me to hurt you. That's not how this...how this is. So stop saying it's fine," he chokes out, gripping his hair by the strands, and it shouldn't be a big deal. Becks said it was fine, that he didn't mean it that way. But it's not, it's not fine. It shouldn't be fine. It was her first time. It was her first time, and she trusted him, and Sanders has held that trust close to his heart. Cherished it. Treasured it, thanked the universe for it—and this is Becks. His best friend, and he—he hurt her like this. "Why didn't you...why didn't you tell me?"

Becks takes a moment. "Because I didn't want you to feel this way."

"Fucking hell," he whispers.

"I knew you'd feel guilty about it, I was hoping you weren't going to ask, but—it's been weeks, and you've been so anxious and agitated—and come on, Sanders. I know you. I know you didn't...you wouldn't have said it that way if you were sober."

"It doesn't matter if I was shitfaced or not!" he yells, shaking his head, fingers threatening to pull out the strands of his hair. "I shouldn't have said it."

"Sanders."

She's leaning in front of him, hands taking ahold of his wrists.

"You're going to hurt yourself!" Becks squeaks out in panic when his fingers try to wretch his scalp open, and finally manages to tear his hands away from his hair. "Come on, look at me. Look at me."

Sanders can't. He can't bring himself to. He's too ashamed. Too disappointed in himself.

Becks sighs. Her fingers smooth over his own. They're still shaking. "Sanders," she whispers. His name echoes across the walls. "Sanders, I forgive you. I forgive you, okay? Please...please, can you look at me? I'm okay. I'm okay, we're okay."

It takes a few more breaths.

His eyes meet fire—warm fire, when he opens them.

Becks tightens her hands on his. "Can you forgive me, too?"

There's nothing to forgive her for.

Becks knows what he's thinking. She smiles, gently, and brushes her thumbs across his hands. Ah. "For all the things I said, for all the things I did that hurt you," she mutters, locking him with her gaze. "I'm really sorry. For everything."

Sanders thinks this might mean she loves him.

She's waiting for an answer. And even though Sanders has forgiven her a long time ago, for not keeping his heart warm, he nods. He nods.

Becks throws her arms around him. Sanders exhales—loud, and shaky—hands coming up to her back.

"You are my safe place," Becks whispers in his hair.

You are mine, too.

*

Sanders thinks this might mean she loves him.

Because of extra training, punishment for going through his slump, he goes home late, carrying two bags of takeout with him. Becks would've waited for him in the court, but she was too tired and wanted to take a nap. "I'll have dinner with you, though," she said on the phone, earlier, and Sanders glitched. Becks? Waiting for him? Before she eats?

"Maxon's here," she said. "And bring some food for Suho, too. The kid might come over any time. He shows up unannounced."

Sanders was still buffering. "Maxon. What are you—what are you guys doing?"

A noncommittal hum. "He's watching some anime. I'm going to take a shower and nap. Kill your opponents and win, okay?"

The uninterested response, the lack of flustered stuttering, the two separate activities they were doing and planned to do—seemed so ordinary. So just-roommates-and-nothing-else.

A few months ago, Becks would've wanted to eat dinner with Maxon while Sanders wasn't there.

And he certainly did not 'kill' his opponents, but he won the game. "I, um—sure. It might take a while, though...? You guys can eat without me—"

"S'fine." Becks yawned. "Wake me up when you're here. Good luck."

So. Two full bags of takeout. Two hours after their last call, and Suho and Maxon have been texting him nonstop to hurry up we're dying of starvation we are being threatened for eggs :00

Sanders doesn't know what that means, but when he opens the door to their apartment and kicks off his shoes, Suho makes a noise, abandons the egg he's holding in his hands into a bowl, runs to Sanders, and makes grabby hands at the food. Sanders gives it without complaint.

Becks is awake already. Awake, but her eyes are half-lidded, and her curls are all over her face. She's seated at the counter, holding a half-peeled egg, and there's a bowl of boiled eggs beside her, and Sanders can tell she's wearing his shirt, one of the huge ones, the one that spells out Bellevue Sports University Volleyball Team in bold, and she's wearing basketball shorts that reach her knees.

Maxon is seated next to her. That makes Sanders's eyebrow raise—Becks clearly doesn't care about straightening her hair anymore in front of him. Or changing into different clothes. He's peeling an egg, too, but he also abandons it to help Suho with the food.

Becks finishes her egg, fingers moving swiftly. "Did you win?"

"'Course I did," comes Sanders's automatic response. Slowly, he makes his way to the kitchen and clears his throat, jutting his chin towards the boiled eggs. "Maxon boiled them...?"

"I did," she says, smiling at him. Holding the egg in one hand, she moves the bowl aside, making space for dinner. "Figured I'd do something while you were gone. Maxon was busy watching anime, and Suho was raiding our fridge, and I threatened them with no food if they didn't help me peel."

Sanders...Sanders always boils the eggs. Because they're healthy and delicious.

He blinks. "Oh. That's...nice. Thanks."

Becks stands up, moves closer to him, and before he can move, frozen on his spot, Becks shoves the egg into his mouth.

Sanders almost chokes, but thankfully doesn't, and chews it slowly.

She grins at him. "Good?"

Sanders doesn't know what's happening. He nods.

"Good," Becks breathes out, and if it's possible, her smile grows wider. "Okay, time for dinner, boys!"

*

"I said I wanted seafood," Suho says, pouting.

"Sanders doesn't like seafood, suck it up," Becks says.

(Sanders wonders—when did Becks file away that information in her head? He knows more about her than she does about him. He has a Google Sheet, for Christ's sake.)

*

Sanders thinks this might mean she loves him.

He watches Becks put on his handwraps.

"Don't kill me," Sanders says. "I said I wanted to try it for a bit, not that I wanted to die."

Becks laughs, strapping on the velcro. "You'll be fighting the pads, not me," she tells him, grinning, and she steps back, placing her hands on her hips. She gives him an approving nod. "You look like a boxer. Okay, stand up, I'll show you the upright stance."

It's way past school hours. Sanders has been watching Becks's extra training with the punching bag, keeping her punches and hits quick. Clean. Strong. He wanted to try and see what it felt like.

Becks kicks Sanders's feet apart and stands behind him, adjusting his body by his waist. "Keep your feet parallel at all times, okay? Rear foot in front."

Then she comes up beside him, touching his arms, raising them in the air. "You fight with your knuckles," she mutters, closing her hand over his, "keep your left fist here, and your elbows here—they protect your ribs and body—okay, good."

"This is a lot of work," Sanders comments, feeling the stance out.

"It's the same with volleyball," she counters, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. Today, she's in a black sports bra and gym shorts, and her hair's in braids. She looks cute. "You just don't notice because you're used to it. Anyway, I'll show you how to punch. This is a jab, yeah—this is a straight. Okay, do it a couple more times."

Sanders has never punched anyone in his life. Doing it across the air feels awkward. Weird. Somehow, standing next to Becks, he feels weak.

"I know it's new," she says quietly, like she knows what he's thinking. "You're doing it right."

When Becks raises the pads in front of him, it's a lot easier—having his knuckles push back against a force. It's a little weak, but it's definitely not bad. At least, he hopes so.

He does it a couple more times to get used to it. Becks is smiling behind the pads, spewing instruction after instruction under her breath. "Jab. Jab, straight. Jab, jab, straight. Jab, straight, jab, straight—"

"Jesus." Sanders drops his arms. They're already sore, and he's panting already, and he looks at his best friend incredulously. "Is it always this tiring?"

The laugh Becks lets out is loud. She throws her head back, letting her arms fall. "It's nothing compared to an actual sparring round, Sanders."

"Holy shit. And you don't get a break for three minutes."

Becks smiles. "You wanna stop?"

Sanders shakes his head, breathing heavily. "No. S'just. I don't know, you're amazing. You do this for five, six rounds all the time. I don't think I can do it."

"Maybe you're just a wimp," a new voice quips, and Sanders turns around, raising an eyebrow.

Becks lets out an annoyed sigh. "Very funny, Austin. So mature. Wow. Must've taken you hours to think of that one."

Austin, in Becks's team, is tall. As tall as Sanders is, but he's bulkier. Definitely spent time in the gym building those muscles up. He has black hair, and a pretty average face, and his eyes stay on Becks's naked torso, dripping with sweat, longer than necessary, and then he sneers at Sanders from head to toe.

Ah. He likes her. Great.

"Training hours are over," he says, walking up to them, his bag slung over his shoulder. "You can't use the gym without Coach's permission."

"We were just leaving," Becks tells him, an edge to her tone, and she rolls her eyes and tosses the pads in the ring. Stepping forward, she snatches Sanders's hand and starts to take off his handwraps. "You're still here, too."

"I was waiting for you to finish your shower and ask you if you were free to get dinner with me."

Oh. Sanders's eyebrows lift at his bluntness. Well.

"Not for you," Becks answers immediately, eyes focused on Sanders's hands. She takes the last of the velcro off, and Sanders's arm falls limp by his side, but Becks doesn't let go of his wrist. She raises her head and looks at her teammate, offering him a sickly sweet smile. Sanders is mesmerized. "Full offense, Austin, but maybe you should hammer the word 'no' in your brain. Ask me again and I won't be as nice. That's the fifth time this week."

Fifth—Sanders's eyes are wide.

Why didn't she—why didn't she say yes? Before, she said yes to that swimmer—and...granted, he was an asshole, but, well, he assumed she'd give it another go. The dating thing. Is he not her type? What is Becks's type? Austin asked her out five times? Sanders doesn't know about this.

Maybe Becks felt it wasn't important to share. The thought makes his stomach churn.

Austin's face doesn't change. Huh. Maybe he's used to rejection. "If you weren't single you could've just said so."

"Who said I wasn't single?" Becks asks, blinking. She asks this while holding Sanders's hand.

Austin's jaw clenches. He sighs, gesturing to their linked hands. "I'm not an idiot, Becks."

Becks tilts her head to the side. "No?"

Sanders opens his mouth. Jesus. Becks doesn't hold back. "I'm not her—"

She doesn't let go. "Sanders Rush, Austin. Austin, Rush. Sorry for making you wait, but we're going to get dinner now."

"What about one round of sparring?" Austin suggests suddenly, smiling at them. "Me and him. You've been teaching him, right?"

Sanders barks out a laugh. He shakes his head. "Nah, dude. I was just trying it out. I'm a volleyball player."

"Ah, come on." Austin grabs Sanders. "I'll go easy on you."

"Austin," Becks says, and Sanders winces at the firmness of it. "Let him go. He's not going to fight you."

Austin, reluctantly, does. He sighs. "Okay. Sorry."

Becks rolls her eyes. She stalks off to the bench, where their bags are, and Sanders follows. Austin falls into step beside him, nudging him with his elbow. "Hey," he whispers. "How's the fuck?"

That. That makes him stop. Sanders stares at him. "What?"

Austin shrugs. "I mean. There's not much going on there." He gestures to Becks's body with his hand. Becks is zipping up her bag, unaware of their conversation, and Sanders feels his body vibrate with anger. "So maybe she makes up for it in bed. How is it?"

"Dude," Sanders says, grinning. He claps him on the back, and digs his nails onto the boxer's shoulder. "You better shut your fucking mouth."

Austin raises his palms in defense, laughing. "Sorry, man. I was just curious. But, ah, it must be an A+ performance, then, even without the assets. What do you say about letting me have a go sometime? Let's have fun."

Sanders feels his body go livid. His grin freezes on his face. "Fun. Yeah. Hey, can I tell you something?"

Austin comes close.

Sanders feels his fingers itch. He'll sew this fucker's mouth closed, and he'll take his sweet, sweet time with it. "I think the world," Sanders starts, nodding thoughtfully, "would be a better place, if only closed brains came with closed mouths, don't you think?"

The boxer stares at him. "What?"

"You're a worthless piece of shit, Austin," Sanders whispers, like he's telling him a secret. "I don't think you're worth the oxygen you breathe. What do you think? I'd like to hear your opinion about it."

He takes a few seconds to get it. His stare turns hard. "You don't want to fight me, man."

"Apologize to me for saying that shit about Becks and we won't," Sanders says, raising his chin. "Man," he adds, lifting an eyebrow.

"I'm not apologizing to you."

"Ah. You're right, sorry." Sanders sighs sympathetically. "I forgot. I don't think your intellect has reached that capacity yet."

Sanders doesn't flinch when he sees Austin's fist flying. He's expecting it—he's not a boxer, but damn if Becks didn't teach him what a fucking jab is just ten minutes ago.

But Becks moves in front of him, lightning fast, raising her arm to block her teammate's incoming hit. It's one of the dodges, the defense moves Becks makes in the ring, and, stunned, Sanders watches her push Austin with a strong hit of her palm to his chest, and he stumbles back dazedly.

"You don't touch him," Becks says. Quiet. Icy cold. It makes Sanders shiver. "You don't fucking touch him, you hear me?"

Becks is shorter than him.

She's shorter, and less broad than he is, but somehow, standing in front of Sanders like this—she looks like she's going to take on the entire fucking world.

It makes him dizzy.

Austin drops his bag on the floor. Sanders recognizes his posture, his stance. "Fuck you."

"Disgusting, no thanks," Becks says, scoffing. Rolling her eyes. Even with her back to him, Sanders knows she's rolling her eyes. "I'll kill you the next time you think about touching him, 'kay? I can and I will. I'll shove my glove down your throat and you'll shit it out of your ass. How's that sound?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's crazy. He's crazy for thinking that's so hot.

Sanders doesn't know how they get out of the gym, but Becks does it calmly, pulling him along, taking both of their bags with her. Her gloves swing against her calf, and looking at them, the pink and the white—well. He really doesn't want to imagine it being shoved into Austin's throat.

Little Sanders in his head are dancing. Sanders doesn't know what song it is, but it's a happy one, and he doesn't particularly care.

Becks lets go of him. Gives him a smile, like she didn't just—she didn't just threaten to kill someone five minutes ago. (She can.) "Sorry 'bout that. Where do you want to eat? I'm starving."

Sanders stares at her. Does that thing where his brain doesn't coordinate with his mouth, and he says, "He, um, wasn't your type...?"

Becks drops the smile. "Boys are stupid."

"Yes."

Her lips twitch. "You know, if he actually punched you, you would've bled. Whatever he said, you should've let it go."

"I couldn't."

Becks searches his eyes. "You remember that time when I broke the side mirrors of that swimmer's car...when we went out on that 'date'. Whatever the fuck that was."

"Yes."

She pauses for a moment, pursing her lips. "I didn't punch them."

Because she's not allowed to use her strength on other people outside of the ring.

Sanders's pea-sized brain catches up. His breath gets stuck in his throat, fingers numb. Heart alive and fast. "But you would've," he mutters, staring at her. "You would've punched Austin. If he had touched me."

"Mm." Becks smiles at him again. "Where do you want to eat? I'm starving."

(Sanders thinks this might mean she loves him.)

(Might.)

*

thoughts pls :>