Three weeks.

Three weeks since the bike rack, since his hands on my thighs, since his stutter broke on my name like it meant something he'd been saving his whole life. Three weeks of stolen moments between practices and study sessions, of his hand finding mine under library tables, of the way his eyes go soft when he sees me coming down the hall.

Three weeks of being his.

And now I'm standing at the edge of the gymnasium bleachers, the Hayes jersey damp against my chest, my ponytail still swinging from the last cheer I threw into the rafters. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting that flat institutional glow on everything, but I don't care. I can't stop grinning.

They won.

My guys — my mathletes, my geniuses, my sweet, nerdy, brilliant boys — they stood up there on that stage while the moderator called their names, and I screamed so loud my throat is raw. Isaac adjusted his glasses with shaking hands. Tony looked like he might pass out. And Marcus — my Marcus — stood at the center of the trophy photo, his hazel eyes scanning the crowd until he found me, and when he did, he smiled.

He smiled.

I felt it in my chest like a second heartbeat.

Now the crowd is thinning, the other schools shuffling toward their buses, the trophies being packed into velvet-lined cases. I lean against the metal railing, watching my people scatter into pairs. Chloe has Isaac by the hand, leading him toward the south exit with a look I recognize — the one that says she's about to kiss him senseless behind the concession stand. Mariana is already pulling Tony toward the courtyard, her fingers laced through his, his ears bright red.

I should be following Marcus. He knows I'm here. He saw me. But someone grabbed the coach for a photo, and then the principal wanted a handshake, and now he's somewhere in this maze of plastic tables and folding chairs, probably trying to find me.

I push off the railing, rolling my shoulders. The jersey is damp at the collar, the letters H-A-Y-E-S stretched across my chest in block lettering. He'd blushed so hard when I showed up wearing it this morning that he couldn't form a complete sentence for a full minute. I've worn it every day since he gave it to me. I plan to wear it until the letters fade.

The gym is mostly empty now, just a few stragglers packing up equipment, a janitor pushing a broom in the far corner. The echo of the crowd still hangs in the air, that leftover vibration that makes a space feel bigger than it is. I walk past the bleachers, my footsteps slapping against the polished floor, and turn toward the hallway where I last saw him heading.

And then I stop.

The hallway stretches ahead, lined with trophy cases and bulletin boards. The light is dimmer here, the fluorescents buzzing in a lower register. And there he is.

Marcus.

His back is to me, his broad shoulders hunched inside his baggy hoodie — the navy one, the one I stole and wore to bed last week because it smelled like him. His dark hair is messy, curling at the edges from the humidity of the packed gym. He's holding his trophy in one hand, the gold figure catching the light, but he's not looking at it.

He's looking at Pearl.

She's standing in front of him, close — too close — her short bob falling forward as she tilts her head up to meet his eyes. Her baggy clothes hang on her flat frame, and her hand is resting on his forearm, light and familiar, like she has the right to touch him.

I stop breathing.

My fingers find the railing along the wall, the cold metal biting into my palms. I grip it so hard my knuckles go white.

Pearl is talking. Her voice is soft, trembling, the kind of fragile that's meant to make a man feel protective. I can't hear the words from here — not clearly — but I catch fragments carried on the stale air. "—always felt—" and "—since we joined the team—" and "—know you like someone else, but I had to—"

She's confessing.

She's standing there, in front of my boyfriend, in the hallway of a goddamn convention center, and she's confessing her feelings.

My blood turns to ice, then fire.

Marcus hasn't moved. His hands hang limp at his sides, the trophy dangling from his fingers like he forgot he was holding it. His head is tilted down, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past Pearl's shoulder, and his jaw is tight. He's not responding. He's frozen.

I know that freeze. I've seen it before. It's the same stillness that takes him when Derek taunts him in the hallway, when the words won't come and his body locks up like a computer trying to process too many commands at once.

He doesn't want this.

He doesn't know how to stop it.

And that — that small mercy, that one clear fact — is the only thing keeping me from vaulting over the railing and tearing Pearl apart with my bare hands.

My heartbeat is so loud I can hear it in my ears, a thundering pulse that drowns out the buzzing lights, the distant footsteps, the echo of a door closing somewhere deeper in the building. I press my palm flat against my chest, feeling the rhythm through the damp fabric of his jersey, and I count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Pearl's voice pitches higher, wobbling on the edge of tears. "—I know you and Lila are— I mean, everyone's been talking, but I thought— I hoped— Marcus, I've been here the whole time. I've always been here."

She reaches up, her fingers brushing his cheek, and I see Marcus flinch.

It's barely there. A micro-movement. A twitch. But I see it.

And something inside me goes very, very still.

I push off the railing and start walking.

My footsteps are steady, deliberate, the heels of my sneakers hitting the tile in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. The jersey swings with each step, the letters catching the light. My ponytail brushes my shoulders. My hands are open at my sides, relaxed, because if I clench them now I won't be able to stop.

Closer. The trophy case slides past on my left. A bulletin board with a faded poster for a bake sale. A water fountain with a slow drip.

Closer.

Pearl's voice breaks through the haze. "—I know I'm not as flashy as her. I know I'm not— she's so— but I understand you, Marcus. I've been your friend for two years. I was there before she showed up with her— her comic books and her—"

I stop three feet behind her.

Close enough to see the tension in Marcus's shoulders. Close enough to see the way his knuckles are white around the trophy. Close enough to see the flicker of his eyes as they lift past Pearl's shoulder and land on me.

Relief.

That's the first thing I see in his eyes. Pure, naked relief.

And then guilt. And then fear.

He opens his mouth, and I watch his throat work, the words catching before they can form. His stutter is there, I can see it building, the way his jaw tenses and his breath hitches.

"L-Lila—"

But I'm not looking at him now.

I'm looking at Pearl.

Her hand is still on his arm. Her head is starting to turn, drawn by the sound of my footsteps, by the shift in Marcus's voice. She knows. She knows who's standing behind her. I can feel it in the way her spine stiffens, the way her fingers tighten on his sleeve like she's trying to anchor herself.

She turns.

And I let her see my face.

"Pearl."

My voice is flat. Cold. The kind of flat that doesn't leave room for interpretation, for negotiation, for the polite fiction that we're all just friends here. It's the voice I use when someone has crossed a line they can't uncross.

Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. Her hand falls from Marcus's arm like she's been burned, and she takes a half-step back, bumping into the trophy case.

"Lila. I— I was just—"

"I heard what you were just."

The words land like stones. I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. The silence in the hallway is absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the lights and the water drip from the fountain.

Pearl's face cycles through a dozen emotions in the span of a heartbeat. Panic. Defiance. Shame. Something that looks almost like hatred.

"He deserves to know," she says, and her voice shakes but she pushes through it. "He deserves to know how I feel. You don't own him, Lila. You've known him for— for a month. I've known him for—"

"Two years." I let the pause hang. "I'm aware."

I take a step forward. Not toward her — toward Marcus. I move past her like she's furniture, like she's already irrelevant, and I stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body.

"Hey."

My voice changes. Softens. Just for him.

He looks at me like I'm a lifeline. His chest is rising and falling too fast, his hands still frozen at his sides. The trophy dangles from his fingers, forgotten.

"Hey," I say again, and I reach up, brushing my knuckles against his jaw. "You okay?"

He swallows. His eyes dart past me to Pearl, then back, and I watch the struggle play out across his face — the need to explain, to apologize, to fix something he didn't break.

"I d-didn't— I didn't know she was g-going to—"

"I know."

I say it like it's the simplest thing in the world. Because it is. I know him. I trust him. And that knowledge settles into my chest like a balm, cooling the fire that was burning there moments ago.

I let my hand slide down, my fingers finding his, and I tug gently until he releases the trophy. It lands in my palm with a dull thunk, and I pass it to my other hand, keeping my grip on his fingers.

"Go wait for me by the car," I say. "I'll be there in a minute."

He hesitates. His eyes search mine, looking for permission, for reassurance, for a sign that I'm not about to start a war in this hallway.

"L-Lila—"

"Marcus." I squeeze his hand. "Go."

He goes.

I watch him walk down the hallway, his shoulders still hunched, his footsteps uneven. He glances back once, and I give him a small smile, the one that's just for him, the one that says we're fine, I'm fine, this doesn't change anything.

Then he turns the corner, and he's gone.

And I turn back to Pearl.

She's standing where I left her, pressed against the trophy case, her arms crossed over her flat chest. Her face is pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but there's a stubborn set to her jaw that tells me she's not done fighting.

"That was cruel," she says. "Letting him think I'm a threat. I'm not a threat to you, Lila. I never was. You just couldn't stand that he had friends before you showed up."

I tip my head, considering her. The trophy is warm in my hand, the gold figure cool against my palm.

"You touched him," I say. "You put your hand on his arm. You touched his face. While you were telling him you've been in love with him for two years."

"He has a right to know—"

"He has a right to not be ambushed in a hallway after the biggest win of his life by someone who's been pretending to be his friend while waiting for an opening."

Her face crumples. The tears spill over, tracking down her cheeks, and I feel nothing. Not a flicker of pity. Not a whisper of guilt. Just the cold, clear knowledge that this had to happen, that it was always going to happen, and that I am what I've always been: the girl who doesn't lose.

"You can't stop people from loving him," she whispers. "You can't control—"

"I'm not trying to stop people from loving him." I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head up to meet my eyes. "I'm telling you that he's mine. He chose me. And every time you reach for him, every time you touch him, every time you make him freeze up because he doesn't know how to let you down gently — I will be there. And I will remind you that you don't have a claim."

Her breath catches. A sob hitches in her throat.

"You're a monster," she says.

I smile. It doesn't reach my eyes.

"Probably."

I turn and walk away, the trophy swinging from my hand, my footsteps echoing down the empty hallway. I don't look back. I don't need to.

At the corner, I pause. The light shifts, catching the gold figure in my hand, and I see my reflection in the glass of a trophy case — a girl in a damp jersey, her ponytail askew, her eyes bright with something that might be fury and might be joy and might be both.

I chose him. He chose me.

And I will burn this whole world down before anyone takes him from me.

I step around the corner, and there he is. Marcus, leaning against the wall by the exit, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, his head bowed. He looks up when he hears my footsteps, and the relief that floods his face is so raw, so open, that I feel something crack open in my chest.

"Hey," I say, and this time the word is soft, warm, full of everything I haven't said yet.

"Hey."

His voice is steady. No stutter. Just that low, gentle tone that makes my knees weak.

I hold out the trophy. He takes it, turning it over in his big hands, and I watch his fingers trace the engraving.

"You were amazing up there," I say. "All of you. I was so proud I thought I might actually explode."

He laughs — that surprised, gentle laugh that still gets me every time. "You m-might have. I saw you. You were—" He stops, his ears going red. "You were l-loud."

"Damn right I was loud. My boyfriend just won regionals. I'm going to be loud about it."

The word slips out — boyfriend — and I watch his face change. That soft, wondering look that I've been collecting for three weeks, storing up like treasure. He still can't quite believe it. I see it in his eyes every time I say it.

He reaches for me. His hand finds my waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of the jersey, and he pulls me gently into his chest. I go willingly, settling into the warmth of him, my cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his hoodie.

His heart is beating fast. Strong. Steady.

"I d-didn't know," he says into my hair. "About P-Pearl. I swear. I n-never—"

"I know."

"I w-wouldn't—"

"I know, Marcus." I tilt my head up, meeting his eyes. "I know."

He searches my face, looking for the crack, the sign that I'm pretending. He doesn't find one. Because I'm not pretending. The rage is gone, burned away by the simple fact of him, by the weight of his hand on my waist and the steady beat of his heart under my ear.

He killed it. Just by being here.

"Come on," I say, pulling back. "Chloe and Isaac are probably already making out in the parking lot, and I want to see the look on Tony's face when Mariana finally kisses him."

Marcus laughs again, and this time it's easier, looser. He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and we push through the exit doors into the cool evening air.

The sky is purple and orange, the sun bleeding out on the horizon. The parking lot is half-empty, cars pulling out in a slow stream. And there, by the fountain, Tony is standing frozen while Mariana stands on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek.

His face goes so red I can see it from here.

I laugh, bright and real, and Marcus's hand tightens around mine.

"Lila."

The way he says my name — steady, without the stutter, like he's been practicing it in his head — makes me turn.

He's looking at me. Just looking, his hazel eyes soft in the dying light, his thumb tracing a circle on the back of my hand.

"Thank you," he says. "For—" He gestures vaguely back at the building. "For that. For n-not making it—"

"For not making it worse?"

"For making it b-better." He swallows. "You always m-make it better."

I feel something shift in my chest. Something warm and fragile and terrifying.

"You make it better too," I say, and I mean it. "You make everything better."

He ducks his head, embarrassed, but I catch the smile before he hides it.

And I think: this is it. This is the thing I've been chasing.

Not the chase. Not the win. Him. Just him.

I tug his hand, pulling him toward the parking lot, toward the car, toward whatever comes next.

"Come on, nerd. Let's go celebrate."

He follows. He always follows.

And I let myself have this — the warmth of his hand, the weight of his trust, the knowledge that, for now, for this moment, he is mine and I am his, and nothing else matters.