They don't talk about it after summer.

Sanders spent the rest of it in Thailand and India, with his moms' families, and then to his dad's place in the city. Becks spent her summer cooped up with her family, too, visiting her grandparents, hiking mountains, picking strawberries in a farm. They talk, send the mandatory "have a safe flight!" and "have fun, don't trip, loser," messages, but they don't talk. They said they would after the summer.

But Sanders is back in the apartment first—he lugs his heavy suitcases and food packs across the stairs, grins at Lucianna who grunts in response passing him, unpacks his things and places clean sheets over his mattress, and crashes on the couch. It's quiet without his roommates, but Sanders feels good sleeping on his bed again.

And then Maxon comes back next with Kaitlyn, and they have celebratory pizza and drinks for renewal of the contract. Sanders tries to think back to the time when he hated Maxon and shudders.

And then Becks comes back, and she hugs Maxon with one arm and a wide smile, dragging her luggage into the living room. Sanders stands from his place on the couch, a half-eaten burger in his hand, but doesn't move. She glances at him, offers him an awkward wave, and heads to her room.

Maxon looks at him. "The fuck was that?"

Sanders chews on his patty and lettuce slowly and shrugs. His roommate rolls his eyes and goes back to doing his laundry.

Sanders stares at the television for a total of fifteen seconds before he puts down his burger, sighs, and stands. Hesitantly, he knocks on Becks's door.

"Yeah?" she calls out, and Sanders's fingers shake at the doorknob.

He only sticks his head in. Becks is hovering over her luggage, piles of clothes on her bed and cluttered mess of equipment and other things on the floor. She blinks at him, and Sanders swallows thickly. "Uh, have you eaten?"

Slowly, a smile spreads over her face, and Sanders relaxes. "I was hoping you'd cook something for me."

He rolls his eyes. "What do you want?"

Becks grins. "Ramen. With eggs."

Easy enough. Sanders can't help his smile as he turns around. "Fine. Welcome back, by the way."

"Thanks, idiot."

"Loser."

"Ass!"

And then they slowly fall back into routine. On their first day back, Sanders is up first. Maxon is taking a shower, so Sanders waits for a bit before using it in turn, and then they run together around the block. Terry smiles and salutes him, and Sanders grabs almond milk after checking the fridge for some other options (he doesn't buy anything else, like always), and he salutes him back before leaving the store.

Becks is still in bed. Sanders throws the covers off of her and dumps the milk on her table. "Get up, ugly."

She grunts in irritation and pulls them back up to her face. "Go away!"

Sanders can't help but grin. Ah, good old times.

Training is as excruciating as ever during the first few weeks—all of these athletes have been slacking off during the summer, and they need to shape back up in time for the first games and matches of the season.

Rosen jogs beside Sanders with heavy pants. "Rush...I think I'm...think I'm dying." He says that last word like an exhale.

Sanders pushes him with one hand. "Get away from me," he pants, feeling the muscles of his legs burn. They're on their twenty-third lap around the oval with no breaks and he's sweating all the way through his toes. "Coach is...gonna kill..us."

They jump up the Gray Stairs thirty times. It's Rosen's fault—he doesn't get away from Sanders.

And in the gym, Becks is in the ring with her coach, and Adan's sparring with another student on the floor. She grins at them when he and Rosen walk in, not even caring about the timer or her opponent, and Rosen blows her a kiss. Sanders rolls his eyes and takes a seat on a bench.

Austin catches his eyes. Sanders offers him a sweet grin and a wave. He scowls and goes back to punching his sandbag.

Rosen sits next to him and whistles. Even without words, Sanders knows that's for Becks.

He'll never stop being amazed watching her when she's in her element. If anything, the summer hasn't shaped her down one bit—she's still as fast and as lean, and her punches are still clean and strong. Her coach is relentless with his instructions, and Becks focuses on them, full concentration on her stance and hits.

Becks's match comes first than Sanders's volleyball game. She tells him this while they're at dinner, and there's a spring onion in between her teeth. "Hey. Next week, Friday. You can come, right?"

Sanders snorts. He takes another spoonful of beef before saying, "Like I have a choice."

"You're right, you don't." She reaches over and fills his glass with water before filling her own. She's still sweaty from training, and her shirt is hanging off her shoulder where her neon green sports bra is showing, and Sanders looks away. "I'm pretty confident this time."

"Don't say that," he mutters with a scoff, stabbing his food with a fork. "You get beaten up anyway."

Becks is silent. Sanders looks at her and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

She's biting her lip and shaking her head, and then bowing to return her attention to her dinner. "Nothing. Just be there," she murmurs.

Sanders doesn't even have a choice. He never has when it comes to Becks.

And as always, his brain is on emergency mode next Friday. His leg is bouncing again, and Rosen sets his palm on his knee, amazed at how it bounces on his leg. Sanders doesn't even push him off, not even after he says, "Look, it's been jittering for two minutes now."

Sanders doesn't know why he feels like he's going to pass out every time Becks has a match. No, no, he does know. He couldn't breathe when Becks got cornered, when her eye was injured. He couldn't look whenever a glove touches her skin, meets her jaw or her stomach or any part of her body. As much as Sanders finds Becks amazing at what she does...it hurts to see her get hurt. 

This is what's on his mind when Becks calls him. This morning, she stepped out in her lucky sports bra and boxing shorts, the gloves he gave her dangling off of her bag, and she gripped his forearm, smiled at him and said, "I'll see you later, okay?"

Like she's not going to get beat up. Sanders's throat closes up, but he nods anyway.

"Hey," she says. It's soft. "You're sitting front row, right?"

"Like Rosen would agree to any other seat. Yes, it's front row, Jesus."

Becks pauses for a second. "Okay. I need you to promise me something."

Sanders's fingers are sweating from where they're gripping his phone to his ear. He inhales a quick breath, taking a look around all the people coming to watch the match, and breathes out, "What? You want me to record you?"

Becks takes a breath, too, before answering, "No. Just watch me."

"No," Sanders says, shaking his head. "Sorry."

"Please," Becks whispers.

"No," he hisses.

She's silent.

Sanders grits his teeth. "I'll try, Jesus Christ. Don't get cornered. Don't try to get up if you're injured, and if I see fucking blood on your skin after this, I will chop off your foot. You got it?"

"Mm." She's smiling. "Okay, I gotta go. I'll try my best not to get hurt."

"That's bullshit."

Becks chuckles once. "Wish me luck."

Sanders takes another deep breath. He shuts his eyes and curls his hand into a fist. "Good luck."

When Becks steps out, Sanders grips Rosen's arm tight. Like he's about to lose his blood circulation, and honestly, that is the least of Sanders's worries if he does.

The cheers are loud, and Becks slips off her robe. Her coach presses a mouthguard in between her lips and presses their foreheads together, whispering under his breath last minute reminders.

But before she goes inside, she raises her head, meets his gaze for a split second, and ducks to stand in the ring.

When the referee signals the beginning of the match, Sanders keeps his eyes open.

Becks steps back first and allows her opponent to deliver the first punch. She's on the defensive, feet sliding backward, arms over her body. She dodges a hit aimed for her stomach, but she's not quick enough to block the fist coming for her jawline.

Sanders winces at the sound and on instinct, shuts his eyes. His fingers press into his palms, but when he opens them again, Becks is on the offense now, and her punches are swift. Clean, enough to leave her opponent dazed. Her eyes are on fire.

Sanders manages to keep his eyes open until her opponent weaves around Becks's hit, and delivers an upper-cut straight to the side of her head.

"Fuck!" Sanders winces, turning away. "Fuck, is she okay? That was loud, I heard it—"

"She's cornered," Rosen says, and Sanders's breathing hitches. Cornered—again. Once she's—once she's back up against the turnbuckle, there's no good way out, it's always been her weakness. Sanders opens his eyes, feeling his entire body shrivel in worry, and she's holding her arms up, protecting her head, and Sanders can hear every strike of her opponent's glove hitting her once, twice, thrice—

"What the fuck is she doing?" Rosen yells suddenly, angry and heated, "she's just standing there!"

"She's waiting for an opening," Sanders breathes out, curling his hands into fists. "I don't think she's—"

Sanders stops. Rosen exhales and mutters, "Shit."

Becks is on the floor.

Sanders shakes his head and closes his eyes again. "No. Nope. I'm not—" Sanders can't hear his breath. Is he even breathing? "Rosen, I..." He takes a shaky, staggering breath, and his eyes are blurry. "I can't—"

Sanders knows the referee is counting the seconds. He told her not to get up.

He told her, but this is what he hates when Becks is boxing. He knew she's not going to listen. Even injured, she's not going to stop.

"She can stand," his friend says, but it's weak. Rosen grips his shoulder firmly, but it's not—Becks is on the floor. "She's stumbling, but—"

"Bleeding? Dizzy?"

His friend pauses. "Looks like she's about to be unconscious."

He's right. The side of Becks's head is painted with blood, and she's visibly staggering on her feet, barely battling her exhaustion and pain down. Panting, she shakes her head, shutting her eyes briefly, refocusing on her opponent, and then, with all the strength left that she can muster, brings her arms up.

There's a horrifying sound Becks makes when her opponent takes advantage of her condition. Sanders shuts his eyes tight and sags against his seat. He puts his head down and buries his face in his hands, covering his ears. "Tell me when it's over, I can't watch."

This is what he hates when Becks is boxing. She's not going to stop until she's knocked out.

Sanders can only hear his own pulse. It's fast and loud and shaky. It's the only thing he hears for the rest of the match, until Rosen puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's over," he says, grinning. Becks won.

Sanders leans against his chair and sags against it. He stays there despite the cheering, doesn't even look at his best friend, trying to even out his breathing. His eyes focus on the dirt on his shoes.

"I'll be outside," Rosen tells him, clapping him on the back once, and then he stands and leaves. The arena is slowly emptying, too.

Sanders stays unmoving in his seat. The chair in front of him is kicked aside by a Nike shoe, and then a huge sports bag drops on the floor beside him, and then Becks kneels at his level, placing her hands on his knees. "Hey," she says, trying for a smile.

One eye is swollen, and her jaw has a cut. Her head and her right hand are bandaged.

Sanders feels his chest crack. He stares at her. "Hi."

Her smile freezes on her face dripping with sweat. "Did I scare you? I'm sorry. I know I said I was going to try my best not to get hurt—"

"I told you not to get cornered," Sanders says. "I told you not to get up when you're injured. You were on the floor, you were almost knocked out—"

"I know," Becks says, exhaling heavily. "I know, I'm sorry. But I'm okay, everything's fine. My nose bled a little, and my head is kind of fucked up right now, but other than that—"

"Becks," Sanders says. "Becks."

She stills. "Sanders."

He's fucking crying. He's not the one injured, he's not the one who fought for his life in that ring, he's not the one who's bleeding, but somehow, his heart and body hurts like he is. "I think you asking me to watch you was too cruel this time," he says. "I couldn't do it. I can't. You don't fucking listen."

"Sanders—"

"Sorry," he sniffs, raising his head. There are tears in his lashes, and Becks's face is blurry, but her eyes are wide and unblinking, staring back at him. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is sticking to her face, and Sanders can't handle it. "But I can't date you. If we date, this is going to be so much worse whenever you box, and I'm too weak for that shit, Becks, I also cried the first time you went out on a date with someone else—"

He doesn't know how it happens, but Becks's shaking hands move from his knees, then to his jaw, thumbs on his cheekbones, cradling his face.

If Becks kisses him right now, it's over. That's it, he'll be—he'll be ruined. He'll be ruined for anyone else, he won't want to kiss anyone for the rest of his stupid, miserable life, and God. Becks will know. She'll know his desperation. She'll know his hurt, his yearning. She'll know the wedding colors he planned for every goddamn season there is and it's over.

Sanders will call it self-preservation if he doesn't let this happen.

But she's too close, and his heartbeat has stopped, and Becks's lips curve upward. "You don't want to date me?"

"No."

"That's too bad. I want to date you, though."

"That's too bad," he agrees quietly, keeping his eyes on hers.

"I love you," Becks whispers.

He'll unpack that statement later. "If you kiss me," Sanders warns, backing up when she leans close, "I will never want to kiss anyone else for the rest of my fucking life. So be sure about it because there's no going back."

Becks throws her head back and laughs. She laughs out loud, the wheezing, hairball one—rough palms still cradling his face gently. Like they weren't hands that were strong and punching and relentless a few minutes ago. Hands that are bleeding and bandaged, possibly fractured. Warm, and shaking, and gentle, like they love him.

Like they love him.

"Noted," Becks says, grinning, and then she leans forward and kisses him.

Sanders kisses her back with three years of longing behind it, and Becks knows. She smiles into his mouth and curls one hand into his neck, pulls him closer.

Sanders makes a weak little noise, like a whimper, remembers her taste years ago when they were both desperate, curious, laughing. Unhurried and trustful. He scrunches his eyebrows together, eyes tightly shut, curling his fingers over her cheek, and fuck, in his hazy, hazy mind that leaves little room to even think at this moment, he thinks it's great he's sitting down because if he weren't, he'd fall over from his whole body buckling, and it feels like it's too much and not enough. He presses in deeper, grabs her waist and hopes he doesn't touch any of her bruises, changes the angle—kisses her upper lip, sucking the bottom one into his mouth, kisses her again and again and again.

Sanders pulls back. Just the slightest of spaces, just to catch his breath, keeps his eyes closed—and Becks chases his mouth again, kisses him hard.

"You're gonna break my soul if you keep kissing me," Sanders grunts, pulling back once more, keeping his eyes closed. He presses his forehead against Becks's, grips her hip with his fingers.

"Good," Becks says, equally breathless.

Sanders buries his head on her shoulder. Presses his lips on her beautiful skin. "You might have a concussion. I don't think we should make you even more dizzy than you already are." But it's him who's dizzy. It's him who's gonna fall over without the chair, it's him who sharply intakes a breath, feels his mouth miss hers again, when she threads her fingers in his hair.

Sanders clears his throat. Doesn't raise his head. "Just so we're clear..."

"Hm?" Becks's hands, bandaged and rough and loving, rub over his neck and shoulders. Oh, God, he's going to die.

He sighs into her skin. "I warned you. There's no going back."

She pulls his head back with her fingers in his hair. Sanders's eyes flick up to her large ones, and she's grinning. "I love you, Sanders Rush. I am in love with you, I'm so, so in love with you, you fucking loser."

"Shut up, idiot," he says. He's crying. "You can't just say—you can't just—"

Becks kisses him again. Sanders's soul finally settles.