FEBRUARY 2024
THIRD POV:
The smell of grilled burgers, sunscreen, and someone's very ambitious seven-layer dip hung heavy in the air at Leah Jeffries' house.

The sun was low but still golden, stretching over the spacious backyard like a lazy cat. Leah's parents had gone all out—there were string lights along the fence, a Bluetooth speaker blasting a halftime playlist, and a massive inflatable screen set up on the lawn for later.

Jane Riordan stood at the edge of the patio, her curls slightly frizzing in the humid L.A. afternoon, watching Walker chase Charlie Bushnell across the yard with a foam football.

"I swear, they're ten-year-olds trapped in teenage bodies," Dior Goodjohn muttered beside her, sipping Sprite out of a red Solo cup.

Jane snorted. "Trapped? They're thriving."

Walker tackled Charlie into a pile of pool towels with an exaggerated battle cry. Leah, standing nearby with her phone half-raised, was clearly catching all of it for her Instagram story.

"Jane!" Walker yelled over, out of breath and grinning. "You're on our team next round."

Jane raised an eyebrow. "Is there a rule that says I can't electrocute you if you make me run?"

He smirked, brushing grass off his shorts. "Only if I get a head start."

"Ten seconds," she called, already kicking off her shoes.

The next fifteen minutes were chaotic in the best way—foam football turned into tag, tag turned into an accidental game of sprinkler dodgeball when someone (Charlie) tripped the timer by mistake. Jane was soaking wet and breathless by the end of it, flopped back in a lounge chair with Dior while Leah passed out Capri Suns like they were at summer camp.

"I forgot what it's like to have a Sunday without cameras," Leah said, collapsing beside Jane. "This? This is the life."

"Remind me to steal your backyard," Dior said, fanning herself with a paper plate.

Leah smirked. "You haven't seen the best part yet."

She stood suddenly, dramatic like she was in a movie, and pointed toward the garage. "Golf cart. Four seats. Full charge. Let's go."

Charlie perked up instantly. "Yes."

Walker was already up, grabbing Jane's hand without thinking. "C'mon. Backseat with me."

It still gave her butterflies—how casually he reached for her, like it was second nature now. She let him tug her up, fingers tangled, ignoring the way Dior and Leah exchanged quiet smirks behind them.

The golf cart was definitely not street-legal, but no one cared. Not in this neighborhood, where palm trees leaned lazy over sidewalks and the streets looped like a sleepy maze. Leah took the driver's seat, Charlie riding shotgun, and Walker slid in back with Jane, his arm dropping behind her as if he did it by accident.

"You've done this before?" Jane asked as Leah hit the gas.

Leah grinned. "Girl, I own these streets."

They took off with a screech of electric wheels—ten miles per hour of pure rebellion.

Jane laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth. Walker was grinning at her, eyes squinting from the wind as they turned a sharp corner and passed a couple of golden retrievers lounging on a porch.

They looped the cul-de-sac, passed the community tennis courts, and took the back path behind the high school where no one ever monitored anything. Leah played DJ from her phone, blasting Rihanna, then Doja Cat, then something none of them admitted they knew all the lyrics to.

Charlie started throwing goldfish crackers out the side like they were confetti.

Dior FaceTimed someone from the front yard of a stranger's house.

It was a little chaotic. A little stupid.

It felt like freedom.

Halfway through the ride, Jane leaned into Walker's side, her head resting against his shoulder. He didn't say anything, just gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"You okay?" he murmured.

She nodded. "More than okay."

He glanced down at her. "You're smiling."

"I'm aware."

"I like it."

She looked up at him, the wind brushing curls into her face. "Don't make it weird."

He grinned. "Too late."

They circled back just as the sun dipped low, casting everything in that warm, golden light that made people look like they belonged in movies. When they pulled into the driveway, Leah's dad was out front with a plate of ribs and zero questions.

"You're all lucky I like you," he called.

Leah winked. "It's the dimples. Gets 'em every time."

Back inside, the Super Bowl was starting. Someone had already made a bet on the coin toss, and the living room was filled with laughter, pillows on the floor, and people arguing over which snacks were superior (Jane: hot wings. Walker: Oreos
Leah: guac, always).

But for Jane, the best part wasn't the food or the game or even the weirdly intense trivia Charlie brought up during commercials.

It was that for the first time in a long time, her mind was quiet.

No stage lights. No anxious spirals. Just her, her friends, and the boy who made her feel like being seen wasn't so scary after all.

————————————

JANE'S POV
It was officially that weird, magical hour when the sky couldn't decide if it wanted to be night or just very dramatic about the sunset. Everything was tinted gold fading into navy, and someone—probably Charlie—had lit one of those citronella candles that smelled like burnt lemon and regret.

We'd migrated back outside with snacks and leftover Capri Suns like feral children. The Super Bowl was still going inside, but honestly, none of us cared about the score. We were flopped on patio cushions and bean bags like we'd been there our whole lives.

Leah was lying across a lounge chair like a queen in athletic shorts, and Charlie was doing some slow-motion TikTok dance with a Dorito in his mouth.

Walker sat beside me on the grass, one arm casually looped behind my back. His knee bumped mine every so often—like he was grounding me on purpose. I was pretty sure he didn't even realize he did it.

That's when Dior stood up, phone in hand, and announced:

"Okay, everyone shut up. I'm making content."

Charlie straightened up instantly. "Is this going on your close friends or full send?"

"Full send," she replied solemnly.

We all groaned.

"You should come with a warning label," I said, reaching for my root beer.

She flipped her curls dramatically. "You're all welcome for the exposure."

Then she hit record.

"This is Dior," she began in her 'influencer voice,' the one that sounded 12% more glamorous than her normal voice. "And I am here with my alleged friends. Today's challenge is: Can anyone guess my middle name?"

Walker leaned in, grinning. "Can we ask for a letter?"

"Nope," Dior said.

"Can I Google it?" Charlie asked, already pulling out his phone.

"Do it and I'll reset your screen time passcode to zero," she snapped.

He put the phone down immediately.

Leah pointed dramatically. "Okay, wait—I'm gonna guess something fancy. Like... Dior Celeste Goodjohn."

Dior made a buzzer sound. "Wrong. But low-key flattered."

"Is it French?" I asked.

"Incorrect question format. You must guess, not interrogate."

Walker tilted his head at her. "Dior... Sunshine?"

She stared at him.

He shrugged. "You have good vibes."

"I'm gonna pretend that's not the weirdest guess anyone's ever made," she said, barely holding back a laugh.

Charlie snapped his fingers. "No wait—I feel like it's something dramatic. Dior Cleopatra Goodjohn."

Dior blinked. "You think my parents looked at me and thought, 'Let's name her after a powerful monarch and a fashion house'?"

He nodded seriously. "They should've."

"Dior Beyoncé Goodjohn," Leah said, half-mocking.

"Now you're just naming icons," Dior groaned.

Walker elbowed me. "Your turn, lightning girl."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is it... Dior Bliss Goodjohn?"

She cringed. "Okay, you know what? You're done."

We went through at least fifteen more guesses. Dior laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone at Dior Lasagna Goodjohn (Charlie again, naturally), and Dior Moonbeam was an actual suggestion someone on her Instagram sent in when she posted the poll.

But then I sat up straighter. Something in the back of my brain clicked.

"Wait," I said, staring at her. "Is it... Negeen?"

Dior froze.

Everyone went silent.

Her camera was still rolling. "...What did you just say?"

"Negeen," I repeated slowly. "I think I remember you saying it once—at like, one of those table reads early on? Your mom called you Negeen and I thought it was a nickname or something."

Walker turned to me, mouth open. "Wait, that's actually it?"

Dior groaned so loudly it echoed off the back fence.

"I knew I shouldn't have let my mom pick me up that day," she muttered. Then she pointed at me like I'd betrayed national security. "How do you remember that?"

I blinked. "I remember everything when I'm anxious."

Charlie whispered to Leah, "We should test her on everyone's birthdays next."

"Don't you dare," I said quickly.

Walker leaned in close, grinning. "You just cracked the code. That's elite girlfriend behavior."

I looked over at Dior, smug. "So? Do I win?"

She stopped the recording and sighed dramatically. "Fine. You win. My middle name is Negeen. You ruined my content, but I'm proud of you."

I raised my arms like a champion. "You heard it here first, folks. Jane Riordan: anxiety-fueled trivia queen."

Dior muttered something about revenge, but her smile gave her away.

We all collapsed into laughter again, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt and your stomach cramp a little. The sun had officially dipped behind the horizon, leaving that dusky, sleepy blue behind. Someone turned on the patio lights, and they blinked to life above us like soft stars.

Walker brushed a curl behind my ear without saying anything.

And in that moment—surrounded by friends, laughter, and way too many snack wrappers—I felt like the world was holding its breath, just for us.

————————————

The Super Bowl ended in fireworks and food coma.

I don't even remember who won, to be honest. One minute we were all screaming at a ridiculous interception, and the next everyone was half-asleep on different surfaces of Leah's massive living room—Leah draped across an armchair like royalty in exile, Dior buried in a weighted blanket, and Charlie arguing (in his sleep) about chicken wings.

Eventually, the parents started gently herding us like sleepy sheep to the guest rooms upstairs. Leah's house was big enough to host a small army. Every hallway looked like it had been designed for a magazine. Her mom even had name tags on the guest room doors—like we were royalty instead of a bunch of teens still covered in Cheeto dust.

Mine had a basket of mini toiletries and a handwritten note:
"Jane: hope you like lavender."
(I did.)

I took my time getting ready. Took a long shower that smelled like eucalyptus and hotel luxury, slipped into my favorite oversized pajama shirt (navy blue with a faded Camp Half-Blood logo, obviously), and packed a little overnight bag for the morning. Toothbrush, phone charger, socks. The essentials.

My curls were still damp when I crawled into the bed, which felt way too big and way too cold. The sheets were ridiculously soft, like clouds made of silk. And still, I just... stared at the ceiling.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

My phone buzzed.

WALKER
I miss you.

I blinked. And then immediately texted back.

ME
We're literally in the same house.

His reply came five seconds later.

WALKER
Yeah, but like... two bedrooms away.

I rolled my eyes, but the smile tugging at my lips ruined any chance of faking annoyance.

ME
You're so dramatic.
You can come here if you want.

I didn't even have time to hit send on a follow-up before there was a quiet knock on the door.

Two soft taps.

I padded across the floor, still holding my phone, and opened it.

There he was. Hoodie, flannel pajama pants, sleepy eyes, and that stupid boyish grin that made my chest tighten in a way I was still not fully prepared for.

Before I could say anything, he leaned forward and pecked my lips—just a soft, quick kiss that made me giggle before I could stop myself.

I stepped aside, letting him in.

"You didn't waste any time," I said, closing the door behind him.

"I was already halfway down the hall when I texted you," he admitted, flopping onto the bed like he owned the place.

He laid on his back, arms crossed behind his head, looking up at the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe.

I climbed back in beside him, tugging the blankets up. "Good thing you're here."

"Why's that?"

"Because I have a crisis," I said seriously, grabbing my phone and shoving it in front of his face. "I can't pick a new wallpaper."

He looked at me like I'd just said the world was ending. "That's your crisis?"

"Yes," I said dramatically. "I've had the same lock screen for four months. I need change. Growth. Vibes."

"Let me guess," he said, taking the phone from me. "Is it the photo of us at In-N-Out?"

"Maybe."

He tapped through my album titled 'Wallpapers Maybe??' (yes, with the question marks). It was full of aesthetic sunsets, quotes, blurry concert photos, and about eight thousand soft-focus pictures of clouds.

Walker paused at a photo of the two of us on set, his arm around my shoulder, both of us grinning stupidly. "This one," he said. "It's me. I vote me."

I raised an eyebrow. "You want my lock screen to be your face?"

He smirked. "I think it would improve your phone."

"You're so humble."

He turned to face me, still holding the phone. "Okay, serious answer? Pick the one that makes you feel calm when you open your phone. Or happy. Or like... yourself."

I stared at him.

Sometimes I forgot how smart he was under all the sarcasm.

"I guess that rules out the one of Charlie eating a taco with sunglasses on," I mumbled.

Walker laughed quietly, then passed my phone back to me. I picked the cloud photo from a road trip last summer—soft blue and white, calm. Still. Real.

We lay there after that, tangled in silence and warm blankets, scrolling through nonsense and occasionally bumping shoulders.

At some point, I rested my head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady and slow, and I matched my breathing to it without realizing.

"You falling asleep on me?" he asked softly.

"Not yet."

He brushed his fingers down my arm, featherlight. "You can. I don't mind."

And I did.

Sometime between talking about taco wallpapers and laughing into the covers, my eyes drifted shut. I fell asleep with Walker beside me, his arm around me, and the soft hum of safety curling around us like a blanket.

In the quiet, in that big house full of noise and people and leftover guac, I didn't feel anxious. Not once.

Just full.

Just home.

I AM STILL IN 2024 WITH THIS FIC. Want me to time jump or write more throughout the year?🤗🎀